CHAPTER VII.

THE SEARCH RENEWED.

Everybody was late next day at the Court; everybody except Clide de Winton, whose waking dreams being brighter than any that his pillow could suggest, had deserted it at a comparatively early hour, and had been for a stroll in the park before breakfast. He re-entered the house whistling an air from _Don Giovanni_, and went into the library, where he expected to find Sir Simon. The baronet generally came in there to read his letters when there were people staying in the house. The library was a noble room with its six high pointed windows set in deep mullions, and its walls wainscoted with books on the east and west--rich-clad volumes of crimson and brown, with the gold letters of their names relieving the sombre hues like thin streaks of light, while at intervals great old florentines in folios “garmented in white” made a break in the general solemnity. The end opposite the windows was left clear for a group of family portraits; and beneath these, as Clide burst into the room, there stood a living group, conversing together in low tones, and with anxious, harassed faces. Mrs. de Winton, contrary to her custom, had on a gray cashmere dressing-gown, whose soft, clinging drapery gave her tall figure some resemblance to a classical statue; she was leaning her arm on the high mantel-piece, with an open letter in her hand, which she was apparently discussing with deep annoyance, and with a cloud of incredulity on her handsome, cold features; the admiral was striking the marble with his clenched hand, and looking steadily at the bronze clock, as if vehemently remonstrating with it for marking ten minutes to eleven; Sir Simon was standing with his hands in his pockets, his back against the base of Cicero’s bust, very nearly as white as the Roman orator himself.

The three figures started when Clide opened the door. He felt instantaneously that something was amiss, but there was a momentary pause before he said:

“Has anything happened?”

Mrs. de Winton, seeing that no one else spoke, came forward: “Nothing that we are certain of; but your uncle has received a letter that has shocked and startled us a good deal, although it seems on the face of it quite impossible that the thing can be true. But you will be brave, Clide, and meet it as becomes a Christian.” She spoke calmly, but her voice trembled a little.

“For heaven’s sake what is it?” said Clide, a horrible thought darting through him like a sting. Why did his uncle keep looking away from him? “Uncle, what is it?”

“It is a letter from Ralph Cromer--you remember your uncle’s old valet?--he is in London now; he was at Glanworth on that dreadful night.… My dear boy,” laying her hand kindly on his arm, “it may be a mere fancy of his; in fact, it seems impossible for a moment to admit of its being anything else; but Cromer says he has seen her.…”

“Seen whom? My dead wife … Isabel! The man is mad!”

“It must be a delusion; we are certain it is; but still it has given us a shock,” said his stepmother.

“What does the man say? Show me his letter!”

She handed it to him.

“HONORED MASTER: I am hard set to believe it; but if it an’t her, it’s her ghost as I seen this mornin’ comin’ out of a house in Wimpole Street, and though I ran after her as hard as my bad leg ’ud let me, she jumped into a cab and was off before I could get another look of her. It was the young missis, Master Clide’s wife, as you buried eight year ago, Sir, as I’m a live man; unless I went blind of a sudden and saw wrong, which an’t likely, as you know to the last my eyes was strong and far-seein’. I went back to the house, but the man could tell me nothin’ except as all sorts of people keep comin’ and goin’ with the toothache, in and out, his employer bein’ a dentist, and too busy to be disturbed with questions as didn’t pay. I lose no time in acquaintin’ you of, honored master, and remain yours dutifully to command,

RALPH CROMER.”

There was a dead silence in the room while Clide read the letter. Every one of the six eyes was fixed on him eagerly. He crushed the paper in his hand, and sat down without uttering a word.

“Don’t let yourself be scared too quickly, De Winton,” said Sir Simon; “it is perfectly clear to my mind that the thing is a mere imagination of Cromer’s; he’s nearly in his dotage; he sees somebody who bears a strong likeness to a person he knew nearly eight years ago, and he jumps at the conclusion that it is that person.”

Clide made no answer to this, but turned round and faced his uncle, who still stood with his hand clenched stolidly on the mantel-piece.

“Uncle, what do you think of it?” he said hoarsely.

The admiral walked deliberately towards the sofa and sat down beside his nephew. Before he spoke he held out his horny palm, and grasped Clide’s hand tightly. The action was too significant not to convey to Clide all it was meant--perhaps unconsciously--to express.

The admiral did not believe the story to be the phantom of dotage; he believed Cromer had seen Isabel.

“My boy,” he said, speaking in a harsh, abrupt tone, as if the words were being dragged out of him, “I can say nothing until we have investigated the matter. An hour ago I would have sworn it was absurd, impossible. I would have said, with an oath, it cannot be true. I saw her laid in her coffin and buried at St. Valéry. But I might have sworn falsely. Several days had elapsed between the death and the burial; the features were swollen, scarcely recognizable. I took it perhaps too readily for granted that they were hers; I ought to have looked closer and longer; but I shrank from looking at all; I only glanced; they showed me the hair; it was the same length and apparently the same color, deep jet black; the height too corresponded. This, as well as all the collateral evidence, satisfied me at once as to the identity. It may be that I was too rash, too anxious to be convinced.”

Clide was silent for a few moments. Then he said:

“Where did the dentist live that gave us the clew before?”

“In Wimpole Street.”

Clide drew away his hand quickly from his uncle’s with a visible shudder. The coincidence had done its work with the others before he came in. An inarticulate exclamation, full of passionate emotion of some sort, broke from him.

“Come, come,” said Sir Simon, striding towards the window, “it’s sheer nonsense to take for granted that the house is burnt down because there’s a smell of fire. The coincidences are strange, very singular certainly; but such things happen every day. I stick to my first impression that it’s nothing but a delusion of Cromer’s in the first instance, to which the chance similarity of the dentist’s address gives a color of reality too faint to be worth more than it actually is. You must go up to town at once, and clear away the mistake; it’s too monstrous to be anything else.”

He spoke in a very determined manner, as if he were too thoroughly convinced himself to doubt of convincing others. Clide made a resolute effort to be convinced.

“Yes, you say truly; it’s unreasonable to accept the story without further evidence. I will go in search of it without an hour’s delay. Uncle, you will come with me?”

“Yes, my boy, yes; we will go together; we must start in about an hour from this”--pulling out his watch--“meantime, come in and have your breakfast; it wont help matters to travel on an empty stomach.”

Mrs. de Vinton left the room hurriedly; the others were following; but Clide had weightier things on his mind than breakfast; he closed the door after his uncle and turned round, facing Sir Simon.

The latter was the first to speak.

“Has anything definite passed between you and Franceline?”

It was precisely to speak about this that he had detained Sir Simon, yet when the baronet broached the subject in this frank, straight-to-the-point way, he answered him almost savagely: “What’s the use of reminding me of her now! As if the thought were not already driving me mad!”

“I must speak of it. Whatever misery may be in store for the rest of us, I am responsible for her share in it. I insist upon knowing how far things have gone between you. Have you distinctly committed yourself?”

“If following a woman like her shadow, and hanging on every word she says, and telling her by every look and tone that he worships the ground she walks on--if you call that distinctly committing myself, I shouldn’t think you needed to ask.”

“Have you asked her to be your wife?”

“Not in so many words.”

“Does she care for you? De Winton, be honest with me. This is no time for squeamishness. Speak out to me as man to man. I feel towards this young girl as if she were my own child. I have known all along how it was with you. But how about her? Have I guessed right--does she love you?”

“God help me! God help us both!” And with this passionate cry Clide turned away and, hiding his face in his hands, let himself fall into a chair.

“God help you, my poor lad! And God forgive me!” muttered Sir Simon.

The accent of self-reproach in which the prayer was uttered smote Clide to the heart; it stirred all that was noble and unselfish within him, and in the midst of his overwhelming anguish bade him forget himself to comfort his friend.

“You have nothing to reproach yourself with; you acted like a true friend, like a father to me. You meant to make me the happiest of men, to give me a treasure that I never could be worthy of. God bless you for it!” He held out his hand, and grasped Sir Simon’s. “No, nobody is to blame; it is my own destiny that pursues me. I thought I had lived it down; but I was mistaken. I am never to live it down. I could bear it if it fell upon myself alone. I had grown used to it. But that it should fall upon her! What has she done to deserve it?… What do I not deserve for bringing this curse upon her?” He rose up with flashing eye, his whole frame quivering with passion--he struck out against the air with both arms, as if striving to burst some invisible, unendurable bond.

Sir Simon started back affrighted. Kind-hearted, easy-going Sir Simon had never experienced the overmastering force of passion, whether of anger or grief, love or joy; his was one of those natures that when the storm comes lie down and let it sweep over them. He was brought now for the first time in his life in contact with the spectacle of one who did not bend under the tempest, but rose up in frantic defiance, breasting and resisting it. He quailed before the sight; he could not make a sign or find a word to say. But the transient paroxysm of madness spent itself, and after a few minutes Clide said, hopelessly yet fiercely:

“Speak to me, why don’t you, Harness?” Emotion swept away his habitual tone of respect towards the man who might have been his father. “Help me to help her! What can I do to stand between her and this misery? I must see her before I go, and what in Heaven’s name shall I say to her?”

“You shall not see her,” said Sir Simon; “you would not think of such a thing if you were in your right mind; but you are mad, De Winton. Say to her, indeed! That you find you are a married man--I don’t believe it, mind--but what else could you say if you were to see her? While there is the shadow of a doubt on this head you must not see her, must not directly or indirectly hold any communication with her.”

“And I am to sneak off without a word of explanation, and leave her to think of me as a heartless, dishonorable scoundrel!”

“A bitter alternative; but it is better to seem a scoundrel than to be one,” answered Sir Simon. “What could you say to her if you saw her?”

“I would tell her the truth and ask her to forgive me,” said the young man, his face kindling with tenderness and passion of a softer kind than that which had just convulsed its fine lineaments. “I would bless her for what the memory of her love must be to me while I live. Harness, if it is only to say ‘God bless you and forgive me!’ I must see her.”

“I’ll shoot you first!” said the baronet, clutching his arm and arresting his steps toward the door. “You call that love? I call it the basest selfishness. You would see the woman who loves you for the sole purpose of planting yourself so firmly in the ruins of her broken heart that nothing could ever uproot it; but then she would worship you as a victim--a victim of her own making, and this would be compensation to you for a great deal. I thought better of you, De Winton, than to suppose you capable of such heartless foppery.”

It was Clide’s turn to quail. But he answered quickly:

“You are right. It would be selfish and cruel. I was mad to think of it.”

“Of course you were. I knew you would see it in a moment.”

“But there is no reason why I should not see her father,” said Clide; “it is only fit that I should speak to him. Shall I go there, or will you bring him up here?”

“You shall not see him, here or anywhere else,” was the peremptory reply. “Have you spoken to him already?”

“No. I went down this morning for the purpose, but he was not up.”

“That was providential. And about Franceline, am I to understand there is a distinct engagement between you?”

“As distinct as need be for a man of honor.”

“Since when?”

“Last night.”

Sir Simon winced. This at any rate was his doing. He had taken every pains to precipitate what now he would have given almost anything he possessed to undo.

“I’ll tell you what it is, you must leave the matter in my hands. I will see the count as soon as you are gone. I will tell him that your uncle has been called off suddenly on important business that required your presence, and that you have gone with him. For the present it is not necessary to say more; it would be cruel to do so.”

“I will abide by your advice,” said Clide submissively; “but afterwards--what if this terrible news turns out to be true?”

“It has yet to be proved.”

“If it is proved it will kill her!” exclaimed Clide, speaking rather to himself than to his companion.

“Pooh! nonsense! All fancy that. Lovers’ dead are easily buried,” said Sir Simon, affecting a cheerfulness he was very far from feeling. He knew better than Clide how ill-fitted Franceline was, both by the sensitive delicacy of her own nature and the inherited delicacy of a consumptive mother, to bear up against such a blow as that which threatened her; but he would not lacerate the poor fellow’s heart by letting him share these gloomy forebodings that were based on surer ground than the sentimental fears of a lover. Perhaps the expression of his undisciplined features--the brow that could frown but knew not how to dissemble; the lip that could smile so kindly, or curl in contempt, but knew not how to lie; the eye that was the faithful, even when the unconscious, interpreter of the mind--may have said more to Clide than was intended.

“I trust you to watch over her,” he said; and then added in a tone that went to Sir Simon’s very heart, “don’t spare me if it can help you to spare her. Tell her I am a blackguard--it’s true by comparison; compared to her snow-white purity and angelic innocence of heart, I am no better than a false and selfish brute. Blacken me as much as you like--make her hate me--anything rather than that she should suffer, or guess what I am suffering. God knows I would bear it and ten times worse to shield her from one pang!”

“That is spoken like yourself,” said the baronet. “I recognize your father’s son now.”

They grasped each other’s hands in silence. Clide was opening the door when suddenly he turned round and said with a smile of touching pathos:

“You will not begin the blackening process at once? You will wait till we know if it is necessary?”

“All right--you may trust me,” was the rejoinder, and they went together into the breakfast-room.

* * * * *

They had the carriage to themselves. Clide was glad of it. It was a strange fatality that drew these two men, alike only in name, so closely together in the most trying crises of the younger man’s life. He spoke of it gratefully, but bitterly.

“Yes, your support is the one drop of comfort granted me in this trouble, as it was in the other,” he said, as the train carried them through the green fields and past many a spot made dear and beautiful by memory; “it is abominably selfish of me to use it as I do, but where should I be without it! I should have been in a mad-house before this if it were not for you, uncle, hunted as I am like a mad-dog. What have I done so much worse than other men to be cursed like this!”

The admiral had hitherto been as gentle towards his nephew as a fond but awkward nurse handling a sick child; but he turned on him now with a severe countenance.

“What right have you to turn round on your Maker and upbraid him for the consequences of your own folly? You talk of being cursed; we make our own curses. We commit follies and sins, and we have to pay for it, and then we call it destiny! It is your own misdoing that is hunting you. You thought to make life into a holiday; to shirk every duty, everything that was the least irksome or distasteful; you flew in the face of common-sense, and family dignity, and all the responsibilities of life in your marriage; you rushed into the most solemn act of a man’s life with about as much decency and reverence as a masquerader at a fancy ball. Instead of acting openly in the matter and taking counsel with your relatives, you fall in love with a pretty face and marry it without even as much prudence as a man exercises in hiring a groom. You pay the penalty of this, and then, forsooth, you turn round on Providence and complain of being cursed! I don’t want to be hard on you, and I’m not fond of playing Job’s comforter; but I can’t sit here and listen to you blaspheming without protesting against it.”

When the admiral had finished this harangue, the longest he ever made in his life, he took out his snuff-box and gave it a sharp tap preparatory to taking a pinch.

“You are quite right, sir; you are perfectly right,” said Clide; “I have no one to blame but myself for that misfortune.”

“Well, if you see it and own it like a man that’s a great point,” said the admiral, mollified at once. “The first step towards getting on the right tack is to see that we have been going on the wrong one.”

“I was very young too,” pleaded Clide; “barely of age. That ought to count for something in my favor.”

“So it does; of course it does, my boy,” assented his uncle warmly.

“I came to see the folly and the sinfulness of it all--of shirking my duties, as you say--and I was resolved to turn over a new leaf and make up for what I had left undone too long. M. de la Bourbonais said to me, ‘We most of us are asleep until the sting of sorrow wakes us up.’ It had taken a long time to do it, but it did wake me up at last; and just as I was thoroughly stung into activity, into a desire to be of use to somebody, to make my life what it ought to be, there comes down this thunderclap upon me, and dashes it all to pieces again. That is what I complain of. That is what is hard. This has been no doing of mine.”

“Whose doing is it? It is the old mistake sticking to you still. It is the day of reckoning that comes sooner or later after every man’s guilt or folly. We bury it out of sight, but it rises up like a day of judgment on us when we least expect it.”

“I was not kept long waiting for the day of reckoning to my first folly--call it sin, if you like--” said Clide bitterly. “I should have thought it was expiated by this. Eight of the best years of my life wasted in wretchedness.”

“You wasted them because you liked it; because it was pleasanter to you to go mooning about the world than to come back to your post at home, and do your duty to God and yourself and your fellow-men,” retorted the admiral gruffly. “If we swallow poison, are its gripings to be reckoned merit to us? You spent eight years eating the fruit of your own act, and you expect the bitterness to count as an atonement. My boy, I have no right to preach to you, or to any one; I have too many holes in my own coat; but I have this advantage over you--that I see where the holes are and what made them. We need never expect things to go right with us unless we do the right thing; and if we do right and things seem to go wrong, they are sure to be right all the same, though we can’t see it. It is not all over here; the real reckoning is on the other side. But we have not come to that yet,” he added, in an encouraging tone; “this threat may turn out to be a vain one, and if so you will be none the worse for it--probably all the better. We want to be reminded every now and then that we don’t command either waves or wind; that when we are brought through smooth seas safe into port, a Hand mightier than ours has been guiding the helm for us. We are not quite such independent, fine fellows as we like to think. But come what may, fine weather or foul, you will meet it like a Christian, you will bow your head and submit.”

The admiral tapped his snuff-box again at this climax, took another pinch, and then fell back on the cushions and opened his paper.

Clide was glad to be left to himself, although his thoughts were not cheerful.

Sir Simon had said truly, he was or ought to have been a Catholic. At almost the very outset of his acquaintance with Franceline, he had intimated this fact to her, and though she did not inform her father of it, the knowledge undoubtedly went far in attracting her towards the young man and inspiring the confidence that she yielded to him so quickly and unquestioningly.

Mrs. de Winton, Clide’s mother, had been a sincere Catholic, although her heart had beguiled her into the treacherous error of marrying a man who was not of her faith. She had stipulated unconditionally that her children should be brought up Catholics; and on her death-bed demanded a renewal of the promise--then, as formerly, freely given--that Clide, their only child, should be carefully educated in his mother’s religion. But these things can never safely be entrusted to the good-will of any human being. The mother compromised--if she did not betray--her solemn trust, and her child paid the penalty. Mr. de Winton kept his promise as far as he could. He had no prejudices against the old religion--he was too indifferent to religion in the main for that--the antiquity and noble traditions of the Catholic Church claimed his intellectual sympathies, while its spirit and teaching, as exemplified in the life of her whom he revered as the model of all the virtues, inclined him to look on the doctrines of Catholicity with an indulgence leaning to reverence, even where he felt them most antagonistic.

Clide had a Catholic nurse to wash and scold him in his infantine days, and when, too soon after his father’s second marriage, the boy became an orphan and was left to the care of a stepmother, that cold but conscientious lady carried out her husband’s dying injunctions by engaging a Catholic governess to teach him his letters. Conscience, however, gave other promptings which Mrs. de Winton found it hard to reconcile with the faithful discharge of her late husband’s wishes. She maintained the Catholic influence at home, but she would not prolong the evil day an hour more than was absolutely necessary. She felt justified, therefore, in precipitating Clide’s entrance at Eton at an age when many children were still in the nursery. The Catholic catechism was not on the list of Etonian school-books, and he would be otherwise safe from the corroding influence which as yet could scarcely have penetrated below the surface of his mind. It was reasonably to be hoped that in course of time the false tenets he had imbibed would fade out of his mind altogether, and that when he was of an age to choose for himself the boy would elect the more respectable and rational creed of the De Wintons. His stepmother carried her conscientious scruples so far in this respect, however, as to inform the dame who was charged with the care of Clide’s linen, and the tutor who was to train his mind, that the boy was a Catholic and that his religion was to be respected. This injunction was, after a certain fashion, strictly obeyed. The subject of religion was carefully avoided, never mentioned to Clide directly or indirectly; and he was left to grow up with about as much spiritual culture as the laborer bestows on the flowers of the field. The seeds sown by his mother’s hand were quickly carried away by the winds that blow from the four points of the compass in those early, youthful days. If some sunk deeper and remained, they had not sun or dew enough to blossom forth and fructify. Perhaps, nevertheless, they did their work, and acted as an antidote in the virgin, untilled soil, and preserved the young infidel from the vicious vapors that tainted the air around him. It is certain that Clide left the immoral atmosphere of the great public school quite uncorrupted, guileless and upright, and still calling himself a Catholic, although he had practically broken off from all communion with the church of his childhood. He was more to be pitied than blamed. He was thinking so now as he lay back in the railway carriage, while the admiral sat beside him grunting complacently over the leading article, and mentally prognosticating that the country was going to the dogs, thanks to those blundering, unpatriotic Whigs. Yes, Clide pitied himself as he surveyed the past, and saw how his young life had been wasted and shipwrecked. If he felt that he had been too severely punished for follies that he had never been warned against, you must make allowance for him. His face wore a very sad, subdued look as he gazed out vacantly at the quiet fields and villages and steeples flying past. Why does he suddenly make that almost imperceptible movement, starting as if a voice had sounded close to his side? Was it fancy, or did he really hear a voice, low and soft, like faint, distant music that stirred his soul, making it vibrate to some dimly remembered melody? Could it be his mother’s voice echoing through the far-off years when he was a little child and knelt with his small hands clasped upon her knee, and lisped out some forgotten words that she dictated? Was it a trick of his imagination, or did some one stand at his side, gently touching his right hand and constraining him to lift it to his forehead, while his tongue mechanically accompanied the movement with some once familiar, long disused formula? There was in truth a presence near him, and a voice sounding from afar, murmuring those notes of memory which are the mother-tongue of the soul, subtle, persuasive, irresistible; accents that live when we have forgotten languages acquired with mature choice and arduous study; a presence that clings to us through life, and reveals itself when we have the will and the gift to see and to recognize it. That power is mostly the purchase of a great pain; the answer to our soul’s cry in the hour of its deepest need.

It flashed suddenly upon Clide, as that sweet and solemn influence pervaded and uplifted him, that here lay the unexpected solution of the problem--the missing key of life. He had fancied for a moment that he had found it in M. de la Bourbonais’ serene theories and practical philosophy. These had done much for him, it is true; but they had fallen away; they failed like a broken sword in the hour of trial; they did well enough for peaceful times, but they could not help and rescue him when all the forces of the enemy were let loose. Yet they seemed to have sufficed for Raymond.

Clide did not know that the calm philosophy was grafted on a root of faith in the French gentleman’s mind; his faith was not dead; far from it, and its vital heat had fed the strength which philosophy alone could never have supplied. Poor Clide! If any one had been at hand to interpret to him the message of that voice from his childhood, the whole aspect of life might there and then have changed for him. But no spiritual guide, no gentle monitor was there to tell him what it meant. The music died away; the presence was clouded over and ceased to be felt. When the train entered the station the passing emotion had disappeared, drowned without by the roar of the great city; within, by the agitation of the present which other thoughts had for a moment lulled to sleep.

The travellers drove straight from the railway station to Wimpole Street. Mr. Peckett, the dentist, was at home. They were admitted at once, and a few minutes’ conversation sufficed to confirm their worst forebodings. There could be no doubt but that the person whom Cromer had recognized in that transitory glimpse the day before was the beautiful and mysterious creature, Clide’s wife.

The dentist had very little definite information to give concerning her. He could only certify that she was the same who had come to him nearly ten years ago to have a silver tooth made. It was a fantastic idea of her own, and in spite of all his remonstrances she insisted on having it carried out; it had seriously injured the neighboring tooth--nearly eaten it away. This was what Mr. Peckett had foretold. He was launching out into a rather excited denunciation of the thing, an absurdity against all the laws of dentistry, when the admiral called him back to the point. Did this tooth still exist? Yes; and if it was of no other use, it would serve to identify the wearer. She had been to have it arranged about four years ago, and again within the last few days. Mr. Peckett said she was very little changed in appearance; as beautiful as ever, and considerably developed in figure; but in manner she was greatly altered. Her former childlike gayety was quite gone; she sat demure and silent, and when she spoke it was with a sort of frightened restraint; if a door opened, or if he asked a question abruptly, she started as if in terror. It was not the ordinary starting of a nervous person; there was something in the expression of the face, in the quivering of the mouth and the wavering glance of the eyes, that had on one occasion especially suggested to him the idea of a person whose mental faculties had suffered some derangement. She gave him the impression, in fact, of one who either had been or might on slight provocation become mad. She never gave any name or address, but had always been accompanied by either the man whom she called “uncle,” or an elderly woman with the manner of a well-to-do shopkeeper; and she seemed in great awe of both of them. Yesterday was the first time she had ever come by herself, and Mr. Peckett thought that very likely either of these persons was waiting for her in the cab into which she had jumped so quickly when Cromer was trying to come up with her. She had left no clew as to her residence or projected movements; only once, in reply to some question about a recipe which her uncle wanted the dentist to see, she said that it had been forgotten in St. Petersburg. His answer seemed to imply that they meant to return there. Mr. Peckett was quite sure she sang in public, but whether on the stage or only in concerts he could not say.

This was all he had to tell about his mysterious patient. He was very frank, and appeared anxious to give any assistance in his power, and promised to let Admiral de Winton know if she came to him again. But he thought this was not likely for some time, at any rate. He had finished with her on the last visit, and there was no reason that he foresaw for her coming back at present.

There was not a shadow of doubt on Clide’s mind but that the person in question was his lost Isabel. The admiral, however, stoutly continued to pooh-pooh the idea as absurd and impossible. He was determined, at any rate, not to give in to it until he had been to St. Valéry, and investigated the question of the dead Isabel whom he had seen buried there. So he left Clide to open communications once more with Scotland Yard, and set the police in motion amongst the managers of theatres and other agents of the musical world, while he went on board the steamer to Dieppe. He was not long searching for the link he dreaded to find. The young woman whom he had so hastily concluded to be his nephew’s missing wife had been proved to be the daughter of a Spanish merchant, whose ship had foundered on the Normandy coast in the gales that had done so much damage during that eventful week. He himself had been saved almost miraculously, and after many weeks of agonized suspense as to the fate of his child, he heard of a body having been washed ashore at St. Valéry, and buried after waiting several days for recognition. He hastened to the spot, and, in spite of the swift ravages of death, recognized it beyond a doubt as that of his child. The English milord who had paid for all the expenses of the little grave, and manifested such emotion on beholding the body, turning away without another glance when he saw the long hair sweeping over it like a veil, had left no address, so the authorities had no means of communicating with him.

This was the intelligence which Clide received two days after his interview with the dentist. It only confirmed his previous conviction. He was as satisfied that his wife was alive as if he had seen and spoken to her. About an hour after his uncle’s return there came a note from Mr. Peckett saying that “the person in question” was on her way to Berlin, if she had not already arrived there. The landlady of the house where she had been lodging, under the name of Mme. Villar, had called at Wimpole Street for a pocket-book which her late tenant believed she must have dropped there. While she was inquiring about it of the servant, Mr. Peckett came out; he inquired after his patient; the landlady was glad to say she was well, and sorry to say she was gone; she had left the day before for Berlin, going _via_ Paris.

“Now, uncle, we must part,” said Clide; “I can’t drag you about on this miserable business any more. I must do what remains to be done myself. I will start at once for Berlin, and once there, à la grace de Dieu! you will hear from me when I have anything to say.”

“I shall hear from you as soon as you arrive; you must write to me without waiting for news,” said the admiral. “You will take Stanton with you?”

“I suppose I had better; he knows everything, so there is no need to shirk him, and he’s a discreet fellow, as well as intelligent and good-natured. He may be of use to me.”

“Then God be with you both, my boy. Bear up, and keep a stout heart whatever comes,” said the admiral, wringing his hand.

“You will write to Harness for me,” said Clide; “tell him I can’t write myself; and say I trust to his doing whatever is best for me.…”

He turned away abruptly; and so they parted.

No incident broke the monotony of the road until Clide reached Cologne. There, as he was crossing the platform, a lady passed him; she looked at him, and started, or he fancied she did, and instead of getting into the carriage that they were both evidently making for, she hurried on to the one higher up. He drew his hand across his forehead, and stood for a moment trying to remember where he had seen the face, but his memory failed him. His curiosity was roused, however, and he was in that frame of mind when every insignificant trifle comes to us pregnant with unlooked-for possibilities. He went on to the carriage the lady had entered. There was only another occupant beside herself, an elderly German, with a beery countenance and brick-red whiskers. Clide got in and seated himself opposite the lady, who was at the other end of the compartment, and steadily looking out of the window. He felt sure she had seen him come up to the door, but she did not turn round when he opened it and closed it again with a bang. They had five minutes to wait before the train started. Clide employed them in getting out a book and making himself comfortable for the long ride in prospect. The lady was still absorbed in the landscape. The German made his preparations by taking a clay pipe from his pocket, filling it as full as it would hold with tobacco, and then striking a light. Clide had started bolt upright, and was watching in amazement. The lady was in front of him. Did the brute mean to puff his disgusting weed into her face? He was making a chimney of his hand to let the match light thoroughly. Perhaps Clide’s vehement look of indignation touched him mesmerically, for before applying it to the pipe he looked round at him and said in very intelligible English:

“I hope you don’t object to smoking?”

“I can’t say I much relish tobacco, but I sha’n’t interfere with you if this lady does not object.”

Mein herr asked her if she did. She was compelled to turn round at the question.

“I am sorry to say I do, sir; the smell of tobacco makes me quite sick.”

Hem! She is not a lady, at any rate, thought Clide.

“Oh! I am sorry for that,” said the German; “for you’ll have the trouble of getting out.”

Before Clide could recover sufficient presence of mind to collar the man and pitch him headforemost out of the window, the lady had grasped her bag, rug, and umbrella, and was standing on the platform. The impending ejectment was clearly a most welcome release; nothing but the utmost goodwill could have enabled her to effect such a rapid exit. Clide was so struck by it that he forgot to collar the German, who had begun with equal alacrity to puff away at his pipe, and the train moved on.

The first thing Clide saw on alighting at the next station was his recent _vis-à-vis_ marshalling an array of luggage that struck even his inexperienced eye as somewhat out of keeping with a person who said “sir” and travelled without a servant. What could one lone woman want with such a lot of boxes, and such big ones? She waylaid a porter, who proceeded to pile them on a truck while she stood mounting guard over them.

“Follow that man and see where he is taking that luggage to,” Clide whispered to Stanton, and the latter, leaving his master to look after their respective portmanteaux, hurried on in the direction indicated.

“They are going to the Hotel of the Great Frederick, sir,” he said, returning in a few minutes.

“Then call a cab and let us drive there.”

The Hotel of the Great Frederick was not one of the fashionable caravansaries of the place; it was a large, old-fashioned kind of hostelry, chiefly frequented by business people, travelling clerks, dress-makers, etc.; and its customers were numerous enough to make it often difficult to secure accommodation there on short notice. This was a busy season; everybody was flitting to and from the watering-places, where the invalids and gamblers of Europe were ruining or repairing their fortunes and their constitutions, so that Mr. de Winton was obliged to content himself with two small rooms in the third story for the night; to-morrow many travellers would be moving on, and he could have more convenient quarters.

“Stanton, keep a lookout after that person. I am in a mood for suspecting everything and everybody; but I don’t think it’s all fancy in this case. I believe the woman is trying to avoid me; and if so, she must have a motive for it. Ask for the visitors’ book, and bring it to me at once.”

Stanton brought the book, and while his master was running his eye searchingly over the roll of names, hoping and dreading to see Mme. Villar among the number, he set off to look after the woman with the multitude of boxes. She was lodging on the first floor, and had been expected by a lady and gentleman who had taken rooms in the house the day before. This much Stanton learned from a _Kellner_,[148] whom he met coming out of the said rooms with a tray in his hands.

“I think I know her,” said Stanton. “What is her name?”

But before the _Kellner_ could answer the door opened, and the lady herself stood face to face with Mr. de Winton’s valet. Their eyes met with a sudden flash of recognition; Stanton turned away with an almost inaudible whistle, and was vaulting up to the third story in the twinkling of an eye.

“I’ve seen her, sir, and I can tell you who she is. She is the dressmaker that made Mrs. de Winton’s gowns before you brought her to Glanworth. I remembered her the moment I saw her without a bonnet. I had been twice to her place in Brook Street, with messages and a band-box from Mrs. de Winton.”

Clide had started up with an exclamation of anger and triumph. Here, then, was a clew. Evidently the woman held communication or was in some way connected with Isabel, else why should she have shrunk from meeting him? It was clear as daylight now that she did shrink.

“Tell the landlord I wish to speak to him,” said Clide.

He was walking up and down the room, his hands in his pockets, and his head tossed back like an impatient horse, when the owner of the Great Frederick came in.

“I want to have a word of conversation with you; sit down, pray,” said Clide; but he continued walking, as we are apt to do when agitation is too vehement to bear immobility, and must have an outlet in motion. The landlord had taken a chair as desired, but rose again on seeing that his guest did not sit down; the hotel-keeper was a well-mannered man. There was a lapse of two or three moments while Clide considered what he should say. It was impossible to acknowledge the real motive of his curiosity about the occupants of the first-floor rooms, and how otherwise could he justify any inquiries about them and their movements? He recoiled from the odious necessity that drove him to pry into people’s affairs, to ask questions and set watches like a police agent; but this was the mere husk of the bitter kernel he had to eat. It may have been the extraordinary agitation visible in the young man’s face and gait and manner that aroused the hotel-keeper’s suspicions and put him on the defensive, or it may have been that some one had been beforehand with Clide, and cut the ground from under his feet by warning the landlord not to give any information; but at any rate the latter acted with a circumspection that was remarkable in a person so unskilled in the science of diplomacy. These first-floor people were good customers; this was the third time they had stopped at the Great Frederick, and it was not likely to be the last, unless, indeed, the house should be made objectionable to them in some way; and no landlord who knew his duty to his customers could be a party to such a proceeding.

“Mme. Brack is a most excellent customer, but no dressmaker--that I can assure milord of; she has many boxes because she goes to spend many months at Vienna; that is her custom, as also that of the friends she travels with--M. Roncemar and his daughter, people of quality like milord, and large fortune. Unfortunately they do not tarry long at the Great Frederick, only remaining three days to rest themselves; their rooms are already bespoke from Friday morning, when they start by the midday train. But why should not milord go himself and ask of M. Roncemar any information he desires? M. Roncemar is a most polite gentleman, and would no doubt be happy to see a compatriot.”

This was all that Clide could extract from the wily master of the Great Frederick. If he had been more outspoken, he might have been more successful; but he could not bring himself to this; he spoke so vaguely that his motives might have borne the most opposite constructions. The landlord’s private opinion was that there was a money-claim in the way, and that he was on the track of some fugitive, perhaps fraudulent, debtor; it was no part of a landlord’s business to pry into matters of this sort, or bring a customer into trouble.

“Well, sir?” said Stanton, coming in when he saw the landlord come out.

“I did not make much out of him; the fellow either knows more than he cares to tell, or we are on the wrong scent. You must lose no time in finding out from the waiters whether these names are the real ones; whether, at least, they are the same the people have borne here before, and also if it is true that the rooms are taken till Friday next; if so, it gives me time to go to the consul and take proper legal steps for their arrest. But it may be a dodge of his; if the woman recognized us both, as I am strongly inclined to believe, they have put the landlord up to telling me this, just to prevent my entrapping them, and so as to give them time to escape. The people whom he calls Roncemar have been here at any rate before the alarm came, and it will be known most likely whether they are on their way to Vienna or not. Be cautious, Stanton; don’t rouse suspicion by asking too pointed questions, because you see it may be that as yet there is no suspicion, it may be my fancy about the man’s throwing me off the scent. He urged me to go and see M. Roncemar myself, which was either a proof that he suspects nothing, or that he is the cleverest knave who ever outwitted another. Be off and see what you can learn. I will dine at the _table d’hôte_.”

The few details that Stanton gleaned from the _kellner_ attached to the first floor corroborated all that the landlord had said: the party were to remain until Friday--in fact they were not quite decided about going so soon; the younger lady was in delicate health, and greatly fatigued by the journey; it was possible they might remain until the Monday. “So if you are counting on the rooms you may be disappointed,” he added, winking at Stanton as he whipped up a tray and darted up the stairs like a monkey, three steps at a time.

So far, then, Clide was sure of his course. He walked about after dinner--supper, as it was called there--and called at the consulate; but the consul had been out of town for the last week, and was not expected home until the next day.

“And he is sure to be here to-morrow?” inquired the visitor.

“Yes, sir; he has an appointment of great importance at one o’clock. We expect him home at twelve.”

“Then I will call at two. You will not neglect to give him this card?” He wrote a line in pencil on it announcing his visit at two next day, and returned to the hotel. As he was crossing the hall he heard the heavy tramp of hobnailed shoes on the stairs, and a noise as of men toiling under a weight. It was a piano. Clide walked slowly up after the carriers, saw them halt at the rooms on the first floor, saw the doors thrown open and the instrument carried in; there was no mistake about it; the occupants meant to remain there for some few days at least.

He sat down and wrote a long letter to the admiral, lit a cigar, and killed time as best he could with the newspapers until, physically worn out, he lay down in hopes of catching a few hours’ sleep. Stanton, satisfied with the information he already possessed, felt it might be unwise to ask further questions, and contented himself with hanging about the corridors in the neighborhood of Mrs. Brack’s rooms, in hopes of seeing her coming in or out, and catching a glimpse, perhaps, of another inmate who interested him more closely. It may seem irrational in him, and especially in his master, to have jumped at a positive conclusion as to the identity of that inmate on such a flimsy tissue of evidence; but when our minds are entirely possessed by an idea, we magnify trifles into important facts, and see all things colored by the medium of our prepossessions, and go on hooking link after link in the chain of witnesses till we have completed it, and made our internal evidence do the work of substantial testimony.

It was a glorious day, and when Clide had breakfasted he was glad to go out and reconnoitre the town instead of sitting in his dingy room, or lounging about the reading-room. He was a trained walker, thanks to his years of travel, and once set going he would go on for hours, oblivious of time, and quite unconscious of fatigue as long as the landscape offered him beauty or novelty enough to interest him. It was about half-past ten when he left the house, and he tramped on far beyond the town, and walked for nearly two hours, when the chimes of a village Angelus bell reminded him that time was marching too, and that he had better be retracing his steps. It was close upon two o’clock when he appeared at the consul’s door. On entering the hall, the first person he saw was Stanton.

“Sir, I’ve been waiting here these two hours for you. You’d better please let me have a word with you before you go in”; and Clide turned into the dining-room, which the servant of the house civilly opened for him. “We’ve been sold. They were off this morning at six. The three started together. They are gone to Berlin--at least so one of the _kellners_ let out to me; the one I spoke to yesterday was coached-up by the landlord and the people themselves, I suppose, for he told me it was Vienna they were gone to; he had a trumped-up story about the _fraulein’s_ mother being taken suddenly ill and telegraphing for them. They are a cunning lot. That piano was a dodge to put us to sleep, sir.”

“What proof have you that they are gone to Berlin? That other man may be mistaken, or lying to order like the rest? I must see the consul and take advice with him. This scoundrel of a landlord shall pay for his lies,” said Clide, beating his foot with a quick, nervous movement on the ground; “he must be forced to speak, and to speak the truth.”

“No need, sir; I’ve found it out without him. I’ve been to the railway. I made believe I was the servant following with luggage that was forgotten, and they told me the train they started by and the hour it arrives, and described them all three as true as life,” said Stanton.

“And it is _she_?”

“Not a doubt of it, sir. As certain as I’m Stanton.” Clide felt nevertheless that it would be well to see the consul; the case was so delicate, so fraught with difficulties on all sides, that it was desirable at any cost of personal feeling to furnish himself with all the information he could get as to how he should now proceed, so as not to entangle things still further.

On hearing his visitor’s strange tale, the consul’s advice was that he should see with his own eyes the person whom he took for granted was his wife, before venturing on any active steps. “The fact is quite clear to you,” he remarked, “and from what you say it is equally clear to me; but the evidence on which we build this assumption would not hold water for one minute before a magistrate. Suppose, after all, it turns out to be a case of mistaken identity; what a position you would be in!”

“That is impossible,” affirmed Clide.

“No, not impossible; highly improbable, I grant you; but such improbable things occur every day. You must have more substantial ground than second-hand evidence and corroborating circumstances to go upon before you stir in the matter, and then you must do nothing without proper legal advice.”

Clide recognized the common-sense and justice of this, and determined to be advised. He started for Berlin, and on arriving there went straight from the railway to the British Embassy, where he obtained a letter from the ambassador to the Minister of Police, requesting that functionary to give the young Englishman every assistance and facility. The minister was going to bed; it was near twelve o’clock; the ambassador’s letter, however, secured the untimely visitor immediate admission, and a civil and attentive hearing. He took some notes down from Clide’s dictation, and promised that all the resources of the body which he controlled should be enlisted in the matter, and as soon as they had discovered where the party they were in pursuit of had alighted, he would communicate with Mr. de Winton.

The latter then went to the hotel, where Stanton had preceded him, and was waiting impatiently for his arrival. The moment he entered the room, Stanton was struck by his pale, haggard look; he had not noticed it on the journey; when the train stopped, they saw each other in the shade or in the dark, and after exchanging a hasty word passed each to his separate buffets and carriages. It was indeed no wonder his master should be worn out after the terrible emotions of the last few days, added to the continued travelling and scarcely any sleep or food, but it did not look like ordinary fatigue.

“You had better go to bed, sir; you’ll be used up if you take on like this; and that won’t mend much,” he said, when Clide, after lighting a cigar, flung himself into a chair and bade Stanton bring him the papers.

“I’ll go to bed presently; bring me the papers,” repeated Clide, and the man left the room.

When he returned he found his master standing up and holding on by the back of his chair as if to steady himself.

“I feel queerish, Stanton; get me some brandy and water; make haste,” he said, speaking faintly.

Instead of obeying him, Stanton forced him gently into the chair, and proceeded to undress him Clide resigning himself passively to it, as if he were in a stupor; he let himself be put to bed in the same way, like a child too sleepy to know what was being done to it.

“I don’t like the looks of him at all,” thought Stanton, as he stole softly out of the room; “if he’s not all right to-morrow, I send for the admiral.”

Clide was not all right in the morning; he was feverish and exhausted, and complained in a querulous way, quite unlike his usual self, of a burning, hammering pain in his head. Stanton sent for a medical man without consulting him. When he said he had done so, Clide gave no sign of displeasure; he did not seem quite to take it in.

“I’ve got fifty thousand toothaches in my skull, Stanton; what the deuce is it, eh?” he cried, tossing from side to side on his pillow. Then suddenly he raised himself:

“Stanton!”

“Yes, sir!”

“You think I’m going to be ill. Don’t deny it; I see it in your face. Perhaps I am; I feel uncommonly odd here”--passing his hand over his forehead--“but I want to say one thing while I think of it: you don’t write a word to any one in England until the doctor says I’m a dead man. Do you hear me speaking to you?”

“Yes, sir; but don’t you think if the admiral…”

“If you attempt to write to him, I’ll dismiss you that very instant!” And his eyes flashed angrily. “You mind what I say, Stanton!”

“All right, sir; you know best what you like about it.”

The excitement seemed to have exhausted his remaining strength; he grew rapidly worse; and when the doctor came, he declared his patient was in for a brain fever that might turn to worse unless the circumstances were specially propitious.

Why should we linger by his bedside? It would be only a repetition of the old story; delirium following on days of pain and restlessness; a long period of anxiety while youth battled with the enemy, now seemingly about to be worsted in the fight, then rising above the disease with unexpected starts, showing how rich and strong the resources of the young frame were. The medical man was not communicative with the valet; he kept his alternations of hope and fear to himself; it was only by scrutinizing the expression of his face as he felt the patient’s pulse that Stanton could make a guess at his opinion. To his eager inquiries on accompanying the oracle to the door, he received the uniform reply that this was a case in which the disease must run its course, when no one could say what a day might bring forth, when much depended on the quality of the patient’s constitution; the one drop of comfort Stanton extracted from him was the emphatic assurance that in this instance the patient had a constitution of gold. The crisis came, and then Stanton, convinced in his inexperienced mind that no mortal constitution could pass this strait, boldly asked the doctor if it was not time to write to the family.

“These things must run their course; in twenty-four hours it will be decided,” was the sententious reply.

Stanton was fain to be content with it, and wait. The day passed, and the night dragged on slowly as a passing bell, until at last the decisive hour came and was passed; then the medical man spoke again.

“He is saved. The worst is now over; he is entering on the period of convalescence.”

The period was long--longer than he had anticipated; for the golden constitution had been fiercely tried and shaken; it was more than two months from the day of Clide’s arrival in Berlin until he was able to leave the hotel. In the meantime, what had become of Isabel, or Mme. Villar, as we shall call her for the present? All that Stanton could ascertain was that she had left Berlin about a week after his master had been struck down, and had gone--so it was said at the hotel where she and her party put up--for a tour in the neighboring spas, after which she was to proceed to St. Petersburg to fulfil an engagement for the season. This was the last link the police had got hold of; but as nobody had taken it up at the time, it was impossible to say how many others had intervened in the two months that had gone by.

It was now late in September. Clide was very weak still, and unfit for a long railway journey, and besides, it was unlikely Mme. Villar would be yet in St. Petersburg, assuming that the story of her going there at all was true. He yielded therefore to the doctor’s advice, and went to recruit himself at the nearest watering-place, after having again seen the authorities at Berlin, and urged them not to let the affair sleep, but to keep a sharp lookout in every direction.

In the first week of October he arrived in St. Petersburg. The city of the Czars looked dreary and desolate enough in these keen autumn days; there was not much movement in its immense market-places--its bald, spacious squares, and high, broad houses standing unsocial and mistrustful, far apart in the wide, noiseless streets; but people were dropping in quickly from day to day from their country-houses, getting out their furs, and settling down for the winter campaign that was at hand; for the foe was marching steadily on them, girt with sullen skies of lead, and tawny mists, and trumpeted by the shrill blast of the north wind, a few strong puffs from whose ice-breathing nostrils would soon paralyze the rivers and lay them to sleep under twenty feet of ice. Clide was weary after his long ride, and was in a mood to be exasperated when, on stepping out of the train, and seeking for their two portmanteaus amongst the heaps of luggage, the porters said they were missing. It was no small inconvenience, for the said portmanteaus contained all their clothes, and nearly all their money.

The officials were very civil, however, and assured the travellers that their luggage would be forthcoming next day. There was nothing for it but to console themselves with this promise, and go on to the hotel. Clide then gave his purse to Stanton and bade him go out and purchase such things as were indispensable for the night. The valet accordingly set off, accompanied by an English waiter who volunteered to interpret for him, and Clide sallied forth for a stroll along the Neva, that still flowed high and free between its broad quays. He walked on and on, forgetting time, as was his habit, until lassitude recalled him to his senses, and he looked around him and began to wonder where he had strayed to. He had drifted far beyond his intention, and now found himself on an island where handsome villas amidst groves and long avenues were to be seen on every side. Happily a drosky passed empty at the moment; he hailed it, gave the name of his hotel, and drove home. Stanton had not yet returned. This was odd, for his interpreter had come back an hour since, and said that the valet, after doing all his commissions, had lingered behind merely to see the quays, saying he would follow in ten minutes. It was impossible he could have lost his way, for the hotel was in sight. The fact was, Stanton had had an adventure. He happened to be crossing the bridge when he noticed a man bestriding the parapet at the other end, swinging from side to side, and apostrophizing the lamp-post with great earnestness. Stanton watched him as he walked on, mentally wondering how long this social position would prove tenable, when the man gave a sudden lunge, and was precipitated with a shriek into the water. There were several foot-passengers close to the spot; they rushed towards the parapet, and began screaming to each other in Russian and gesticulating with great animation, hailing everybody and everything within sight, but no one gave any sign of doing the only thing that could be of avail, namely, jumping in after the drowning man. The unfortunate wretch was struggling frantically, and gasping out cries for help whenever he got his head above the water. There was a stair running down from the quay, where boats were moored to rings in the wall. Stanton saw this; he was a capital swimmer; so, without stopping to reflect, he pulled off his coat, flew down the steps, and plunged in. A loud cheer rang all along the parapet, then a breathless silence followed; the two men in the water were wrestling in a desperate embrace; Stanton had the Russian by the collar, and the latter with the suicidal impulse of a drowning man, was clutching him wildly, and dragging him down with all his might. Happily, he was no match for the Englishman’s sinewy arms; Stanton shook himself free with a vigorous effort, swam out a few yards, then he turned and swam back, caught the drowning man by the hair, and drew him on with him to the steps. A thundering salvo greeted his achievement; the group had now swelled to a crowd, and a score of spectators came tumbling down the steps gabbling their congratulations, and, what was more to the purpose, helping the hero to lift the rescued man on to the steps, and then haul him up to the landing-place. Stanton broke through the press to snatch up his coat, and was elbowing his way out, when two individuals, whom he rightly took for policemen, came up to him, and began to hold forth volubly in the same unintelligible jargon. Stanton only understood, by their pointing to some place and clutching him by the shoulder, that they wanted him to accompany them. With native instinct, Stanton suspected they were proposing a tribute of admiration to him in the shape of a bumper at the tavern; but he was more intent on his wet clothes, and, thanking them by signs, indicated that he must go in the opposite direction, shouting meanwhile, at the very top of his lungs, “Hôtel Peterhof! I’m going to Peterhof!” But the policemen shook their heads, and still pointed and tugged, until, finding further expostulation useless, one of them took a stout grip of Stanton’s collar and proceeded to drag him on, _nolens volens_. The British lion rose up in Stanton “and roared a roar.” He levelled his clenched fist at the aggressor’s chest, struck him a vigorous blow, and in language more forcible than genteel bade him stand off. But the Russian held on like grim death, gabbling away harder than ever, and pointing with his left thumb to the _spit_ on his own breast, and then touching the corresponding spot on Stanton’s wet shirt; but Stanton would not see it. He doubled up his fist for another blow, when the other policeman suddenly caught him by both arms, and pinned his elbows as in a vise behind his back. The crowd had gone on swelling, and now numbered several hundred persons; they crushed round the infuriated Englishman, who stood there the picture of impotent rage, dripping and foaming and appealing to everybody to help him. At this juncture a carriage drove up; the coachman stopped to know what was going on; and great was Stanton’s joy when he heard a voice cry out to him in English: “You must go with them; they won’t hurt; they are going to give you a decoration for saving a man’s life.”

“Confound their decoration! What the devil do I want with their decoration? Tell them I’m not a Russian!”

“They know that, but it don’t matter; the law is the same for natives and foreigners,” explained the coachman.

“Hang it, I’m not a foreigner; what do you take me for? I’m an Englishman!” protested Stanton.

“Don’t matter; you must be decorated; you may as well do it, and be done with it.”

“But look at my clothes, man! I’m as wet as a drowned rat!”

“Served you right! What business had you jumping into the water after a fool that wanted to drown himself?”

“I wish I’d let him,” said Stanton devoutly; “but just you tell these chaps to let me go or else they’ll ’ear of it; tell them my master will go to the ambassador and get them flogged all round; tell them that, and see what comes of it.”

“No good. The law is the law. Good morning to you; take a friend’s advice, and keep your skin dry next time”; and, nodding to Stanton, he touched his horses and was off at a pace.

There was nothing for it but to resign himself to his fate. Stanton ceased all resistance, and let himself be led to the altar where glory awaited him in the form of a yellow _spit_. He was marched on to a large, barrack-like building; two sentries were mounting guard over its ponderous iron gate. He passed through them and was marched from bureau to bureau, addressed by several officials in every tongue under the sun, it seemed to him, till they came to the right one, requested to record his name, age, and state of life in several ominous-looking books, and on each occasion was embraced and shaken hands with by the presiding genius of the bureau; at last he was brought into the presence of a gold-laced and highly decorated individual, who handed him a written document, very stiff and very long, and with this a knot of ribbon. Stanton without more ado was stuffing both into the pocket of his soaked pantaloons, when the gold-laced gentleman exclaimed with friendly warmth, “Oh! you must permit me to place the _spit_ upon your breast!” Upon which the Englishman recoiled three steps with a scowl of disgust, and bade him do it if he dared. The official, apparently surprised to see his polite offer met so ungraciously, forbore to press it, and demanded the fee. “The fee!--what fee?” He explained that a fee was always paid on receipt of a decoration. Stanton declined paying it, for the substantial reason that he had no money; his luggage had been lost on the railway; so had his master’s. The polite gentleman was very sorry to hear of their misadventure, but the law was inexorable--every man who performed that noble feat of saving a Russian’s life should be decorated, and the decoration involved a fee.

“Then what in the name of the furies do you want me to do?” cried the exasperated Stanton; “I can’t coin any, can I?”

No; this was not a practical alternative, but very likely his master could devise one; he would have no difficulty in getting credit for the amount; any one in St. Petersburg would be happy to accommodate a milord with so small a sum, or indeed any sum.

Stanton had nothing for it but to write a line to the Peterhof explaining his pitiable position, and entreating his master to come to the rescue without delay.

It was late in the evening when this missive was handed to Clide. The landlord, with the utmost alacrity, placed the coffers of the Peterhof at his disposal, and sent for a carriage to convey him to the scene of his valet’s distress.

“If ever any one catches me saving a Russian fellow’s life again may I be drowned myself!” was Stanton’s ejaculation as he shut his master into the cab, and drove home with the _spit_ in his pocket.

This little incident gave Clide some food for reflection, and aroused in him a prudent desire to make some acquaintance with the ways and customs of Muscovy before he went further. A little knowledge of the code which included such a very peculiar law as the aforementioned might prove not only desirable but essential, before he entangled himself in its treacherous meshes. A paternal government might have its advantages, but clearly it had its drawbacks. Russia was almost the only spot in the so-called civilized world that he had not explored in the course of his wanderings, so the people and their laws were as unknown to him practically as the people and the laws of the Feejee Islands. He had gone once as far as Warsaw with the intention of pushing on to Russia, but what he saw in the Polish city of her spirit and national character sickened and horrified him; he turned his back on the scene of her cruelty and demoralizing rule, and went down to Turkey. There at least barbarism reigned with a comparatively gentle sceptre, and wore no hypocrite’s mask. He had not furnished himself with a single letter of introduction to St. Petersburg. It never entered into his imagination when leaving London that he should want any; he did not dream that the will-o’-the-wisp he was chasing would have led him so far. But he was here now, and he must find some one to steer him safe through quicksands and sunken rocks.

There was no doubt an English lawyer in the city to whom he could safely apply. The landlord of the Peterhof gave him the address of one. It was a Russian name, but he assured Clide that it was that of the English lawyer of St. Petersburg, who managed all the law affairs of English residents. Clide went to this gentleman’s office, and found a small, urbane little man, who spoke English with a very pure accent and fluently, but with Muscovite written on every line of his face. It was of no consequence, however, as he showed his client in the first few questions he put that he was in the habit of dealing with English people and transacting confidential and intricate cases for them. The present one he frankly admitted was without precedent in his legal experience, and his advice to Clide was pretty much the same as the consul’s, reinforced, however, by a rather startling argument.

“You must first prove beyond a doubt that it is not a case of mistaken identity, and, even when this is done, you have to consider whether it is expedient to run the risks that must attend any active proceedings against the persons in question. Let us consider the facts as they stand, setting aside possible antecedents. The lady is engaged here for the season. I can guarantee that much. I heard her repeatedly last year, and the announcement, on the night of her last appearance, that she was to return next season, was received with an enthusiasm that I cannot describe. She is, therefore, an established favorite with the public. This in itself is a fact fraught with danger to any one seeking to molest her--I use the word from the point of view of the public--any person interfering with so important a branch of their pleasure as the opera would expose himself to disagreeable consequences. The government is paternally anxious that the people should be amused. It is not wise to thwart a paternal government.… The Czar, moreover, has shown decided appreciation of this prima donna. He condescended to receive her into the imperial box and himself clasp a costly diamond bracelet on her arm. He and the rest of the royal family are to be present at her first reappearance. No one, be they ever so guilty, can be attacked with impunity while under the favor of the imperial smile. A paternal government is not trammelled by the conventionalisms and routine that check the action of other forms of government; it acts promptly, decisively. If you meddle in this matter rashly, you may find yourself in very unpleasant circumstances.”

“I should agree with all you say if I were a subject of the Russian government,” said Clide, “but I am an Englishman; surely that makes a difference?”

The lawyer smiled grimly.

“I would not advise you to count upon it for security. I have known some Englishmen whose nationality did not prove such a talisman as they expected.”

“You mean that they have been imprisoned without offence or trial, treated like Russian subjects?” Clide’s lip curled under his moustache as he emitted the monstrous proposition.

“I mean to give you the best advice in my power,” returned the urbane lawyer with unruffled coolness. “You have come to me for counsel. You are free to follow it or not as you see good.”

“So far, you have given me only negative advice. You tell me what I must not do; can you tell me nothing that I can and ought to do?” said Clide.

“For the present, I can only urge you to be prudent. One rash act may precipitate you into a still worse dilemma than the present. See this lady for yourself, and see the man who accompanies her. I do not advise you to speak to them, nor even to let them know of your presence here, still less of your intentions. The man, from what you already know of him, is likely to be an unscrupulous fellow, a dangerous enemy to cope with. He--on account of his pupil or niece--has patrons in high place. If he got wind of your designs, he might frustrate them in a manner … that … that you don’t foresee.…” The lawyer paused, and bent his sharp green eyes on Clide with a meaning that was not to be misunderstood.

“You mean that the government would connive at or assist him in some personal violence to me?”

“I mean to advise you honestly. I might put you off with a sham, or lay a trap for you; I should be well paid for it. But I traffic as little as possible in that sort of thing, and _never_ with an English client.” It was impossible to doubt the genuine frankness in this assurance, coupled as it was with the implied admission that the lawyer was less incorruptible to native clients. Clide was convinced the man was dealing fairly by him.

“And when I have seen them both, and thus put a seal on certainty--what next?”

“Wait until the season is over; then follow them to their next destination, out of Russia, and take counsel with a shrewd legal man of the place. My own opinion is that your wisest course would be to do nothing until you can attack the affair in England: the mere fact of being a foreigner puts barriers in the way of the law for helping you anywhere; but, as you value your liberty, don’t interfere with a prima donna who is in favor with the Court of St. Petersburg--it were safer for you to play with fire.”

Clide laid a large fee on the lawyer’s green table, and wished him good morning.

He hesitated as he was stepping into his fly. Should he go to the British Embassy, and lay the whole story before Lord X----, and so place one strong barrier between him and the monstrous possibilities with which the lawyer had threatened him? He stood for a moment with his hand on the door, which Stanton was holding open for him; his forehead had that hard line straight down between the horizontal bars over his eyes that had once so scared Franceline. “To the hotel!” he said, slamming the door, and Stanton jumped up beside the coachman.

They had gone about a hundred yards when the window was pulled down in front, and Clide called out: “To the British Embassy!”

The horse’s head was turned that way. While they were rattling over the stones, Clide was arguing his change of resolution, and trying to justify it. “I will burn my ship and take the consequences. What balderdash he talked about the danger of letting the man know of my intentions! How the deuce could they harm me? If I were a Russian, no doubt; but the government would hardly run their neck into such a noose as assault or imprisonment of a British subject for the sake of a popular prima donna! Pshaw! I was an idiot to mind him.”

The coachman pulled up before the British Embassy. Two private carriages stopped at the same moment, gentlemen alighted from them and ran up the steps. Stanton held the door open for his master, but Clide did not move; he sat with his head bent forward, examining his boots, to all appearance unconscious of his valet’s presence.

“Here we are, sir; this is the Embassy,” said Stanton. But Clide sat dumb, as if he were glued to the seat. At last, starting from his revery, he said “Home!” and flung himself back in the carriage.

“That fever has left him a bit queer,” thought Stanton, as he closed the door on his capricious master.

“What a fool’s errand it would be!” muttered Clide to himself; “and what have I to say to Lord X----? If it _should_ turn out to be a case of mistaken identity.… The lawyer’s advice is after all the safest and the most rational.”

TO BE CONTINUED.

SPACE.

II.

It is of the utmost importance in the philosophical investigation in which we have engaged to bear in mind that the power by which we attain to the knowledge of the intrinsic nature of things is not our imagination, but our intellect. The office of imagination is to form sensible representations of what lies at the surface of the things apprehended; the intellect alone is competent to reach what lies under that surface, that is, the essential principles of the thing, and their ontological relations. This remark is so obvious that it may seem superfluous; but our imagination has such a power in fashioning our thoughts, and such an obtrusive manner of interfering with our mental processes, that we need to be reminded, in season and out of season, of our liability to mistake its suggestions for intellectual conceptions. What we have said about absolute space in our past article shows that even renowned philosophers are liable to such mistakes; for nothing but imagination could have led Balmes, Descartes, and many others, to confound absolute space with the material extension of bodies. As to relative space, the danger of confounding its intellectual notion with our sensible representation of it, is, perhaps, less serious, when we have understood the nature of absolute space; yet, here too we are obliged to guard against the incursions of the imaginative faculty, which will not cease to obtrude itself, in the shape of an auxiliary, upon our intellectual ground.

Absolute space cannot become relative unless it be extrinsically terminated, or occupied, by distinct terms. Hence, in passing from the consideration of absolute space to that of relative space, the first question by which we are met is the following:

Is absolute space intrinsically modified or affected by being occupied? or, _Does the creation of a material point in space entail an intrinsic modification of absolute space?_

The answer to this question cannot be doubtful. Absolute space is not and cannot be intrinsically affected or modified by the presence of a material point, or of any number of material points. We have shown that absolute space is nothing else than the virtuality of God’s immensity; and since no intrinsic change can be conceived as possible in God’s attributes or in the range of their comprehension, it is evident that absolute space cannot be intrinsically modified by any work of creation. On the other hand, nothing can be intrinsically modified unless it receives in itself, as in a subject, the modifying act; for all intrinsic modifications result from corresponding impressions made on the subject which is modified. Thus the modifications of the eye, of the ear, and of other senses, result from impressions made on them, and received in them as in so many subjects. But the creation of a material point in space is not the position of a thing in it as in a subject; for, if absolute space received the material point in itself as in a subject, this point would be a mere accident; as nothing but accidents exist in a subject, and since it is manifest that material elements are not accidents, it is plain that they are not received in space as in a subject.

Hence the creation of any number of material points in space implies nothing but the _extrinsic_ termination of absolute space, which accordingly remains altogether unaffected and unmodified. Just as a body created at the surface of the earth immediately acquires weight, without causing the least intrinsic change in the attractive power which is the source of all weights on earth, so does a material element, created in absolute space, acquire its ubication without causing the least intrinsic change in absolute space which is the source of all possible ubications. A material element has its formal ubication inasmuch as it occupies a point in space. This point, as contained in absolute space, is virtual; but, as occupied by the element, or marked out by a point of matter, it is formal. Thus the formality of the ubication consists in the actual termination and real occupation of a virtual point by an extrinsic term corresponding to it.

The formal ubication of an element is a mere relativity, or a _respectus_. The formal reason, or foundation, of this relativity is the reality through which the term ubicated communicates with absolute space, viz., the real point which is common to both, though not in the same manner, as it is _virtual_ in space, and _formal_ in the extrinsic term. A material element in space is therefore nothing but a term related by its ubication to divine immensity as existing in a more perfect manner in the same ubication. But since the formality of the contingent ubication exclusively belongs to the contingent being itself, absolute space receives nothing from it except a relative extrinsic denomination.

Some will say: To have a capacity of containing something, and to contain it actually, are things intrinsically different. But absolute space, when void, has a mere capacity of containing bodies, whilst, when occupied, it actually contains them. Therefore absolute space is intrinsically modified by occupation.

To this we answer, that the word “capacity,” on which the objection is built up, is a mischievous one, no less indeed than the word “potency,” which, when used indeterminately, is liable to opposite interpretations, and leads to contradictory conclusions.

The capacity of containing bodies which is commonly predicated of absolute space, is not a passive potency destined to be actuated by contingent occupation; it is, on the contrary, the formal reason of all contingent ubications, since it contains already in an infinitely better manner all the ubications of the bodies by which it may be occupied. To be occupied, and not to be occupied, are not, of course, the same thing; but it does not follow from this that space unoccupied is intrinsically different from space occupied; it follows only, that, when space is occupied, a contingent being corresponds to it as an extrinsic term, and gives it an extrinsic denomination. In other terms, everything which occupies space, occupies it by ubication. Now every ubication is the participation in the contingent being of a reality which absolute space already contains in a better manner. Consequently, the capacity of containing bodies, which is predicated of space, already _contains actually_ the same ubications, which, when bodies are created, are formally attributed to the bodies themselves.

This answer is, we think, philosophically evident. But, as our imagination, too, must be helped to rise to the level of intellectual conceptions, we will illustrate our answer by an example. Man has features which can be reflected in any number of mirrors, so as to form in them an image of him. This “capacity” of having images of self is called “exemplarity,” and consists in the possession of that of which an image can be produced. Hence, man’s exemplarity actually, though only virtually, contains in itself all the images that it can form in any mirror; and when the image is formed, man’s exemplarity gives existence to it, but receives nothing from it, except a relative denomination drawn from the extrinsic term in which it is portrayed. In a like manner, God’s omnipotence, and his other attributes, are mirrored in every created thing, and their “capacity” of being imitated in a finite degree arises from the fact that God’s attributes contain already in an eminent manner the whole reality which can be made to exist formally in the contingent things. Hence, when these contingent things are created, God gives existence to them, but receives nothing from them, except a relative denomination drawn from the extrinsic terms in which his perfections are mirrored. In the same manner, too, when a material element is created, it receives its being, and its mode of being in space, that is, its ubication, which is a finite image or imitation of God’s infinite ubication; but it gives nothing to the divine ubication, except the extrinsic denomination; just as the image in the mirror gives nothing to the body of which it is the image, but simply borrows its existence from it.

From this it follows that material elements are in space _not by inhesion, but by correlation_, each point which is formally marked out by an element corresponding to a virtual point of space, to which it gives an extrinsic denomination. The said correlation consists in this, that the contingent term, by its formal mode of existing in the point it marks out, really imitates the eminent mode of being of divine immensity in the same point; and from this it follows again, that whatever new reality results from the existence of a material element in space, belongs entirely to the element itself, and constitutes its mode of being.

The relation between the contingent being as existing formally in its ubication, and divine immensity as existing eminently in the same ubication, is called “presence.”

We must notice, before we go further, that the virtuality of God’s immensity, when considered in relation to the distinct terms by which it is extrinsically terminated, assumes distinct relative denominations, and therefore, though it is one entitatively, it becomes manifold terminatively. In this latter sense it is true to say that the virtuality of divine immensity which is terminated by a certain term _A_, is distinct from the virtuality which is terminated by a certain other term _B_; and when a material point moves in space, we may say that its ubication ceases to correspond to one virtuality of immensity, and begins to correspond to another. Such virtualities, as we have just remarked, are not entitatively distinct, for immensity has but _one_ infinite virtuality. Yet this _one_ virtuality, owing to the possibility of infinite distinct terminations, is capable of being related to any number of distinct extrinsic terms, and of receiving from their distinct mode of existing in it any number of distinct relative denominations. When, therefore, we speak of distinct virtualities of divine immensity, we simply refer to the distinct extrinsic terminations of one and the same infinite virtuality, in the same manner as, when we speak of distinct creations, we do not mean that God’s creative act is manifold in itself, but only that its extrinsic termination to one being, v. gr. the sun, is not its termination to other beings, v. gr. the stars. And in a similar manner, when a word is heard by many persons, its sound in their ears is distinct on account of distinct terminations, though the word is not distinct from itself.

We have explained the origin and nature of formal ubication; we have yet to point out its division. Ubication may be considered either _objectively_ or _subjectively_. Objectively considered, it is nothing else than a _point in space marked out by a simple point of matter_. We say, _by a simple point_ of matter, because distinct material points in space have distinct ubications. Hence, we cannot approve those philosophers who confound the _ubi_ with the _locus_, that is, the ubication with the place occupied by a body. It is true that those philosophers held the continuity of matter; but they should have seen all the same that all dimensions involved distinct ubications, and that every term designable in such dimensions has an ubication of its own independent of the ubications of every other designable term; which proves that the _locus_ of a body implies a great number of ubications, and therefore cannot be considered as the synonym of _ubi_.

If the ubication is considered subjectively, that is, as an appurtenance of the subject of which it is predicated, it may be defined as _the mode of being of a simple element in space_. This mode consists of a mere relativity; for it results from the extrinsic termination of absolute space, as already explained. Hence, the ubication is not _received_ in the subject of which it is predicated, and does not _inhere_ in it, but, like all other relativities and connotations, simply connects it with its correlative, and lies, so to say, between the two.[149]

But, although it consists of a mere relativity, the ubication still admits of being divided into _absolute_ and _relative_, according as it is conceived absolutely as it is in itself, or compared with other ubications. Nor is this strange; for relative entities can be considered both as to what they are in themselves, and as to what they are to one another. Likeness, for instance, is a relation; and yet when we know the likeness of Peter to Paul, and the likeness of Peter to John, we can still compare the one likeness with the other, and pronounce that the one is greater than the other.

When the ubication is considered simply as a termination of absolute space without regard for anything else, then we call it _absolute_, and we define it as _the mode of being of an element in absolute space_, by which the element is constituted in the divine presence. This absolute ubication is an _essential mode_ of the material element no less than its dependence from the first cause, and is altogether immutable so long as the element exists; for, on the one hand, the element cannot exist but within the domain of divine immensity, and, on the other, it cannot have different modes of being with regard to it, as absolute space is the same all throughout, and the element, however much we may try to imagine different positions for it, must always be in the centre, so to say, of that infinite expanse. Hence, absolute ubication is altogether unchangeable.

When the ubication of one element is compared with that of another element in order to ascertain their mutual relation in space, then the ubication is called _relative_, and, as such, it may be defined as _the mode of terminating a relation in space_. This ubication is changeable, not in its intrinsic entity, but in its relative formality; and it is only under this formality that the ubication can be ranked among the predicamental accidents; for this changeable formality is the only thing in it which bears the stamp of an accidental entity.

The consideration of relative ubications leads us directly to the consideration of the relation existing between two points distinctly ubicated in space. Such a relation is called _distance_. Distance is commonly considered as a quantity; yet it is not primarily a quantity, but simply the relation existing between two ubications with room for movement from the one to the other. Nevertheless, this very possibility of movement from one point to another gives us a sufficient foundation for considering the relation of distance as a virtual dimensive quantity. For the movement which is possible between two distant points may be greater or less, according to the different manners in which these points are related. Now, more and less imply quantity.

The quantity of distance is essentially continuous. For it is by continuous movement that the length of the distance is measured. The point which by its movement measures the distance, describes a straight line by the shifting of its ubication from one term of the distance to the other. The distance, as a relation, is the object of the intellect, but, as a virtual quantity, it is the object of imagination also. We cannot conceive distances as relations without at the same time apprehending them as quantities. For, as we cannot estimate distances except by the extent of the movement required in order to pass from one of its terms to the other, we always conceive distances as relative quantities of length; and yet distances, objectively, are only relations, by which such quantities of length are determined. The true quantity of length is _the line_ which is drawn, or can be drawn, by the movement of a point from term to term. In fact, a line which reaches from term to term exhibits in itself the extent of the movement by which it is generated, and it may rightly be looked upon as a track of it, inasmuch as the point, which describes it, formally marks by its gliding ubication all the intermediate space. The marking is, of course, a transient act; but transient though it is, it gives to the intermediate space a permanent connotation; for a fact once passed, remains a fact for ever. Thus the gliding ubication leaves a permanent, intelligible, though invisible, mark of its passage; and this we call a geometric line. The line is therefore, formally, a quantity of length, whereas the distance is only virtually a quantity, inasmuch as it determines the length of the movement by which the line can be described. Nevertheless, since we cannot, as already remarked, conceive distances without referring the one of its terms to the other through space, and, therefore, without drawing, at least mentally, a line from the one to the other, all distances, as known to us, are already measured in some manner, and consequently they exhibit themselves as formal quantities. Distance is the base of all dimensions in space, and its extension is measured by movement. It is therefore manifest that no extension in space is conceivable without movement, and all quantity of extension is measured by movement.

We have said that distance is a relation between two terms as existing in distinct ubications; and we have now to inquire what is the foundation of such a relation. This question is of high philosophical importance, as on its solution depends whether some of our arguments against Pantheism are or are not conclusive. Common people, and a great number of philosophers too, confound relations with their foundation, and do not reflect that when they talk of distances as _relative spaces_, they do not speak with sufficient distinctness.

We are going to show that relative space must be distinguished from distances, as well as from geometric surfaces and volumes, although these quantities are also called “relative spaces” by an improper application of words. Relative space is not an intrinsic constituent, but only an extrinsic foundation, of these relative quantities; hence these quantities cannot be styled “relative spaces” without attributing to the formal results what strictly belongs to their formal reason.

What is relative space? Whoever understands the meaning of the words will say that relative space is that through which the movement from a point to another point is possible. Now, the possibility of movement can be viewed under three different aspects. First, as a possibility dependent on the active power of a mover; for movement is impossible without a mover. Secondly, as a possibility dependent on the passivity of the movable term; for no movement can be imparted to a term which does not receive the momentum. Thirdly, as a possibility dependent on the perviousness of space which allows a free passage to the moving point; for this is absolutely necessary for the possibility of movement.

In the present question, it is evident that the possibility of movement cannot be understood either in the first or in the second of these three manners; for our question does not regard the relation of the agent to the patient, or of the patient to the agent, but merely the relation of one ubication to another, and the freedom for movement between them. If the possibility of movement were taken here as originating in a motive power, such a possibility would be greater or less according to the greater or less power; and thus the relativity of two given ubications would be changed without altering their relation in space; which is absurd. And if the possibility of movement were taken as resulting from the passivity of the term moved, then, since this passivity is a mere indifference to receive the motion, and since indifference has no degrees, it would follow that the possibility of movement would be always the same; and therefore the relativity of the ubications would remain the same, even though the ubications were relatively changed; which is another absurdity. Accordingly, the possibility of movement which is involved in the conception of relative space is that which arises from space itself, whose virtual extension virtually contains all possible lines of movement, and allows any such lines to be formally drawn through it by actual movement.

From this it follows that relative space is nothing else than _absolute space as extrinsically terminated by distinct terms, and affording room for movement between them_. It follows, further, that this space is relative, not because it is itself related, but because it is that through which the extrinsic terms are related. It is actively, not passively, relative; it is the _ratio_, not the _rationatum_, the foundation, not the result, of the relativities. It follows, also, that the foundation of the relation of distance is nothing else than space as terminated by two extrinsic terms, and affording room for movement from the one to the other. This space is at the same time absolute and relative; absolute as to its entity, relative as to the extrinsic denomination derived from the relation of which it is the formal reason.

The distinction between absolute and relative space is therefore to be taken, not from space itself, but from its comparison with absolute or with relative ubications. Space, as absolute, exhibits the possibility of all absolute ubications; as relative, it exhibits the possibility of all ubicational changes. Absolute space may therefore be styled simply “the region of ubications,” whilst relative space maybe defined as “the region of movement.”

This notion of relative space will not fail to be opposed by those who think that all real space results from the dimensions of bodies. Their objections, however, need not detain us here, as we have already shown that the grounds of their argumentation are inadmissible. The same notion will be opposed with greater plausibility by those who confound the formal reason of local relations with the relations themselves, under the common name of relative space. Their objections are based on the popular language, as used, even by philosophers, in connection with relative space. We will reduce these objections to two heads, and answer them, together with two others drawn from other sources, that our reader may thus form a clearer judgment of the doctrine we have developed.

_First difficulty._ The entity of a relation is the entity of its foundation. If, then, the foundation of the relation of distance is absolute space, or the virtuality of God’s immensity, it follows that the entity of distance is an uncreated entity. But this cannot be admitted, except by Pantheists. Therefore the relation of distance is not founded on the virtuality of God’s immensity.

This difficulty arises from a false supposition. The entity of the relation is _not_ the entity of its foundation, but it is the entity of the connotation (_respectus_) which arises from the existence of the terms under such a foundation. Likeness, for instance, is a relation resulting between two bodies, say, white, on account of their common property, say, whiteness. Whiteness is therefore the foundation of their likeness; but whiteness it not likeness. On the contrary, the whiteness which founds this relation is still competent to found innumerable other relations; a thing which would be impossible if the entity of the foundation were not infinitely superior to the entity of the relation which results from it.

This is even more evident in our case; for the foundation of the relation between two ubications is an entity altogether extrinsic to the ubications themselves, as we have already shown. Evidently, such an entity cannot be the relativity of those ubications. The relation of distance is neither absolute nor relative space, but only the mode of being of one term in space with respect to another term in space. Now, surely no one who has any knowledge of things will maintain that space, either absolute or relative, is a mode of being. The moon is distant from the earth; and therefore there is space, and possibility of movement, between the moon and the earth. But is this space _the relation_ of distance? No. It is the ground of the relation. The relation itself consists in the mode of being of the moon with respect to the earth; and, evidently, this mode is not space.

The assumption that the entity of the relation is the entity of its foundation may be admitted in the case of transcendental relations, inasmuch as the actuality of beings, which results from the conspiration of their essential principles, identifies itself _in concreto_ with the beings themselves. But the same cannot be said of predicamental relations. It would be absurd to say that the dependence of the world on its Creator is the creative act; nor would it be less absurd to say that the relativity of a son to his father is the act of generation, or that the fraternity of James and John is the same thing as the identity of Zebedee, their father, with himself. And yet these absurdities, and many others, must be admitted, if we admit the assumption that the entity of predicamental relations is the entity of their foundation. Hence the assumption must be discarded as false; and the objection, which rested entirely on this assumption, needs no further discussion.

We must, however, take this opportunity to again warn the student of the necessity of not confounding under one and the same name the relative space with the relations of things existing in space. This confusion is very frequent, as we often hear of distances, surfaces, and volumes of bodies spoken of as “relative spaces,” which, properly speaking, they are not. We ourselves are now and then obliged to use this inaccurate language, owing to the difficulty of conveying our thoughts to common readers without employing common phrases. But we would suggest that, to avoid all misconstruction of such phrases, the relative space, of which we have determined the notion, might be called “_fundamental_ relative space,” whilst the relations of things as existing in space might receive the name of “_resultant_ relative spaces.” At any rate, without some epithets of this sort, we cannot turn to good account the popular phraseology on the subject. Such a phraseology expresses things as they are represented in our imagination, not as they are defined by our reason. Distances are intervals between certain points in space, surfaces are intervals between certain lines in space, volumes are intervals between certain surfaces in spaces; but these intervals are no _parts_ of space, though they are very frequently so called, but only relations in space. Space is one, not many; it has no parts, and, whether you call it absolute or relative, it cannot be cut to pieces. What is called an interval _of_ space should rather be called an interval _in_ space; for it is not a portion of space, but a relation of things in space; it is not a length of space, but the length of the movement possible between the extrinsic terms of space; it is not a divisible extension, but the ground on which movement can extend with its divisible extension. In the smallest conceivable interval of space there is God, with all his immensity. To affirm that intervals of space are distinct spaces would be to cut God’s immensity into pieces, by giving it a distinct being in really distinct intervals. It is therefore necessary to concede that, whilst the intervals are distinct, the space on which they have their foundation is one and the same.

Pantheists have taken advantage of the confusion of fundamental space with the resulting relations in space, to spread their absurd theories. If we grant them that _distance is space_, how can we refute their assertion that distance is a form under which divine substance, or the Absolute, makes an apparition? For, if distance is space, and space is no creature, distance consists of something uncreated (and therefore divine) under a contingent form. This is not the place for us to refute Pantheism; what we aim at is simply to point out the need we have of expressing our thoughts on space with philosophical accuracy, lest the Pantheists may shield themselves with our own loose phraseology.

God is everywhere, and touches, so to say, every contingent ubication by his presence to every ubicated thing. But the contingent ubications are not spaces, nor anything intrinsic to space; they are merely extrinsic terms, corresponding to space, as we have explained; and therefore such ubications are not apparitions of the divine substance, but apparitions of contingent things; they are not points of divine immensity, but points contingently projected on the virtuality of God’s immensity. It is as vain to pretend that contingent ubications are points of space, as it is vain to pretend that contingent essences are the divine substance. Pantheists, indeed, have said that, because the essences of things are contained in God, the substance of all things must be God’s substance; but their paralogism is manifest. For the essences of things are in God, not formally with the entity which they have in created things, but eminently and virtually, that is, in an infinitely better manner. The formal essences of things are _only_ in the things themselves, and they are extrinsic terms of creation, imperfect images of what exists perfect in God. In the same manner the ubications of things are not in God formally, but eminently and virtually. They formally belong to the things that are ubicated. So also the intervals of space are in God eminently, not formally; they formally arise from extrinsic terminations, and therefore are mere correlations of creatures. This suffices to show that distances and other relations in space involve nothing divine in their entity, although they are grounded on the existence and universal presence of God, in whom “we live, and move, and have our being.”

_Second difficulty._--If the foundation of local relations is uncreated, it is always the same; and therefore it will cause all such relations to be always the same. Hence, all distances would be equal; which is manifestly false.

This difficulty arises from confounding the absolute entity of the thing which is the foundation of the relation, with the formal manner of founding the relation. The same absolute entity may found different relations by giving to the terms a different relativity; for the same absolute entity founds different relations whenever it connects the terms of the relation in a different manner. Thus, when the entity of the foundation is a generic or a universal notion, it can give rise to relations of a very different degree. Taking _animality_, for instance, as the foundation of the relation, we may compare one hound with another, one wolf with another, one bird with another, or we may compare the hound with the wolf, the wolf with the bird, the bird with the lion, etc.; and we shall find as many different relations, all grounded on the same foundation--that is, on animality. In fact, there will be as many different relations of likeness as there are different animals compared. Now, if one general ratio suffices to do this, on account of its universality, which extends infinitely in its application to concrete things, it is plain that as much and more can be done by the infinite virtuality of God’s immensity, which can be terminated by an infinite variety of extrinsic terminations. It is the proper attribute of an infinite virtuality to contain in itself the reason of the being of infinite terms, and of their becoming connected with one another in infinite manners. This is what the infinite virtuality of divine immensity can do with respect to ubicated terms. Such an infinite virtuality is whole, though not wholly, in every point and interval of space; it is as entire between the two nearest molecules as between the two remotest stars. Hence its absolute entity, though unchangeable itself, can have different extrinsic terminations; and, since it founds the relations in question inasmuch as it has such different terminations, consequently it can found as many different local relations as it can have different extrinsic terminations. A hound and a wolf, as we have said, inasmuch as they are animals, are alike; and the wolf and the bird, also, inasmuch as they are animals, are alike; but the likeness in the second case is not the same as in the first, because the animality, which is one in the abstract, is different in the concrete terms to which it is applied. Hence the difference, or entitative distance, so to say, between the wolf and the hound is less than the entitative distance between the wolf and the bird, although the ground of the comparison is one and the same. In a like manner, the distance from a molecule to a neighboring molecule is less than the distance from a star to another star, although the ground of the relation be one and the same; with this difference, however, that in the case of the animals above mentioned the relation has an intrinsic foundation, because “animality” is intrinsic to the terms compared; whilst in the case of local distances the relation has an extrinsic foundation; for the ubications compared are nothing but extrinsic terms of space.

_Third difficulty._--Distances evidently intercept portions of space, and differ from one another according as they intercept more or less of it. But, if space is the virtuality of divine immensity, such portions cannot be admitted; for the virtuality of divine immensity cannot be divided into parts distinct from one another.

This difficulty arises from the confusion of that which belongs to space intrinsically, with that which belongs to it by extrinsic denomination only. Space in itself has no parts; and therefore distance cannot intercept a portion of the entity of space. Nevertheless, parts are attributed to space by extrinsic denomination, that is, inasmuch as the movements, which space makes possible between given terms, do not extend beyond those terms, while other movements are possible outside of the given terms. Hence, since space is infinite and affords room for an infinite length of movement in all directions, the space which corresponds to a limited movement has been called an interval of space and a portion of space. But this denomination is extrinsic, and does not imply that space has portions, or that the entity of space is divisible. That such a denomination is extrinsic, there can be no doubt, for it is taken from the consideration of the limited movement possible between the terms of the distance, as all distances are known and estimated by movement. Indeed, we are wont to say that “movement measures space,” which expression seems to justify the conclusion that the space measured is a finite portion of infinite space; but, though the expression is much used (from want of a better one), it must not be interpreted in a material sense. Its real meaning is simply that movement “measures the length of the distance” in space, or that movement “measures its own extent” in space--that is, the length or the extent, not of space, but of what space causes to be extrinsically possible between two extrinsic terms.

This will be still more manifest by referring to the evident truth already established, that all ubications as compared with the entity of space are unchangeable, because the thing ubicated cannot have two modes of being in the infinite expanse of space, but, wherever it be, is always, so to say, in the centre of it. This proves that the movement of a point between the terms of a given distance measures nothing else than _its own length_ in space; for, had it to measure _space itself_, it would have to take successively different positions with regard to it, which we know to be impossible. We must therefore conclude that distance does not properly intercept space, though it determines the relative length of a line which can be drawn by a point moving through space; for this line is not a line of space, but a line of movement. In other words, distance is not the limit of the space said to be intercepted, but of the movement possible between the distant terms.

As this answer may not satisfy our imagination as much as it does our intellect, and as our habit of expressing things as they are represented in our imagination makes it difficult to speak correctly of what transcends the reach of this lower faculty, we will make use of a comparison which, in our opinion, by putting the intelligible in contact with the sensible, will not fail to help us fully to realize the truth of what has been hitherto said.

Let God create a man, a horse, and a tree. The difference, or, as we will call it, the entitative distance, between the man and the horse is less than between the man and the tree, as is evident. Yet the man, the horse, and the tree are extrinsic terms of _the same_ divine omnipotence, which neither is divisible nor admits of more or less. Now, can we say that, because the man is entitatively more distant from the tree than from the horse, there must be _more of divine omnipotence_ between the man and the tree than between the man and the horse? It would be folly to say so. The only consequence which can be deduced from the greater entitative distance of the man and of the tree, is, that a greater multitude of creatures (extrinsic terms of divine omnipotence) is possible between the man and the tree, than between the man and the horse. The reader will readily see how the comparison applies to our subject; for the two cases are quite similar. Can we say, then, that, because two points in space are more distant than two other points, there must be _more of divine immensity_, or of its virtuality, between the former than between the latter? By no means. The only consequence which can be deduced from the greater distance of the two former points is, that a greater multitude of ubications (extrinsic terms of immensity) is possible between them, than between the two others. This greater multitude of possible ubications constitutes the possibility of a greater length of movement; and shows the truth of what we have maintained, viz., that distance endues the aspect of quantity through the consideration of the greater or less extent of the movement possible between its terms, and not through a greater or less “portion” of space intercepted.[150]

The difficulty is thus fully answered. Nevertheless, as to the phrases, “a portion of space,” “an interval of space,” “space measured by movement,” and a few others of a like nature, we readily admit that their use, having become so common in the popular language, we cannot avoid them without exposing ourselves to the charge of affectation, nay, we must use them, as we frequently do, in order to be better understood. But we should remember that the common language has a kernel as well as a shell, and that, when we have to determine the essential notions and the intelligible relations of things, we must break the shell that we may reach the kernel.

_Fourth difficulty._--The notions of space and of ubication above given imply a sort of vicious circle. For space is explained by the possibility of ubications, whilst ubications are said to be modes of being in space. Therefore neither space nor ubication is sufficiently defined.

We answer, that then only is a sort of vicious circle committed in defining or explaining things, when an unknown entity is defined or explained by means of another equally unknown. When, on the contrary, we explain the common notions of such things as are immediately known and understood before any definition or explanation of them is given, there is no danger of a vicious circle. In such a case, things are sufficiently explained if our definition or description of them agrees with the notion we have acquired of them by immediate apprehension. We say that _Being_ is that _which is_, and we explain the extension of time by referring to movement, while we also explain movement by referring to time and velocity, and again we explain velocity by referring to the extension of time and movement. This is no vicious circle; for every one knows these entities before hearing their formal definition. Now, the same is true with respect to space and ubication; for the notion of space is intuitive, and before we hear its philosophical definition, we know already that it is the region of all possible ubications and movements.

Moreover, such things as have a mutual connection, or as connote one another, can be explained and defined by one another without a vicious circle. Thus we say that a _father_ is one who has a _son_, and a _son_ is one who has a _father_. In the same manner we define _the matter_ as the essential term of a form, and _the form_ as the essential act of the matter. Accordingly, since ubications are extrinsic terms of absolute space, and space is the formal reason of their extrinsic possibility, it is plain that we can, without any fear of a vicious circle, define and explain the former by the latter, and _vice versa_.

Finally, no philosopher has ever defined space or explained it otherwise than by reference to possible or actual ubications, nor was ubication ever described otherwise than as a mode of being in absolute or in relative space. This shows that it is in the very nature of things that the one should be explained by reference to the other. Hence it is that even our own definition of absolute space, which does not explicitly refer to contingent ubications, refers to them implicitly. For when we say that “absolute space is the virtuality, or extrinsic terminability, of divine immensity,” we implicitly affirm the possibility of extrinsic terms, viz., of ubications.

And here we will end our discussion on the entity of relative space; for we do not think that there are other difficulties worthy of a special solution. We have seen that relative space is entitatively identical with absolute space, since it does not differ from it by any intrinsic reality, but only by an extrinsic denomination. We have shown that space is relative in an active, not in a passive sense, that is, as the formal reason, not as a result of extrinsic relations. We have also seen that these extrinsic relations are usually called “relative spaces,” and that this phrase should not be used in philosophy without some restrictive epithet, as it is calculated to mislead.

Let us conclude with a remark on the known division of space into _real_ and _imaginary_. This division cannot regard the entity of space, which is unquestionably real. It regards the reality or unreality of the extrinsic terms conceived as having a relation in space. The true notion of real, as contrasted with imaginary space, is the following: Space is called _real_, when it is _really_ relative, viz., when it is extrinsically terminated by _real_ terms, between which it founds a _real_ relation; on the contrary, it is called _imaginary_, when the extrinsic terms do not exist in nature, but only in our imagination; for, in such a case, space is not really terminated, and does not found real relations, but both the terminations and the relations are simply a fiction of our imagination. Thus it appears that void space, as containing none but imaginary relations, may justly be called “imaginary,” though in an absolute sense it is intrinsically real.

Hence we infer that the _indefinite_ space, which we imagine, when we carry our thoughts beyond the limits of the material world, and which philosophers have called “imaginary,” is not absolute, but relative space, and is not imaginary in itself, but only as to its denomination of relative, because where real terms do not exist there are only imaginary relations, notwithstanding the reality of the entity through which we refer the imaginary terms to one another.

That absolute space, considered in itself, cannot be called “imaginary” is evident, because absolute space is not an object of imagination. Imagination cannot conceive space except in connection with imaginary terms so related as to offer the image of sensible dimensions. It is, therefore, a blunder to confound imaginary and indefinite space with absolute and infinite space. Indeed, our intellectual conception of absolute and infinite space is always accompanied in our minds by a representation of indefinite space; but this depends on the well-known connection of our imaginative and intellectual operations: _Proprium est hominis intelligere cum phantasmate_; and we must be careful not to attribute to the object what has the reason of its being in the natural condition of the subject. It was by this confusion of the objective notion of space with our subjective manner of imagining it, that Kant formed his false theory of subjective space. He mistook, as we have already remarked, with Balmes, the product of imagination for a conception of the intellect, and confounded his phantasma of the indefinite with the objectivity of the infinite. It was owing to this same confusion that other philosophers made the reality of space dependent on real occupation, and denied the reality of vacuum. In vacuum, of course, they could find no real terms and no real relations, but they could _imagine_ terms and relations. Hence they concluded that, since vacuum supplied nothing but imaginary relations, void space was an imaginary, not a real, entity. This was a paralogism; for the reason why those relations are imaginary is not the lack of real entity in absolute space, but the absence of the real terms to which absolute space has to impart relativity that the relation may ensue. It was not superfluous, then, to warn our readers, as we did in our introduction to this article, against the incursions of imagination upon our intellectual field.

A FRAGMENT.

_David Ben-Aser to his friend, Amri Ephraim, health, love, and greeting_:

MY BEST FRIEND: A month past I would have marvelled greatly that the fame of one seemingly so obscure as he who calls himself Jesus of Nazareth--and what good can come out of Nazareth?--could have travelled to Rome or Damascus.

But the inquiry in thy friendly epistle from the banks of the Tiber, brought me to-day by thy faithful Isaac, assures me that the city of the Emperor has caught wind of the rumors with which Jerusalem is filled, and ’tis but an hour since Yusef, a Damascene merchant, questioned me with interest concerning this new teacher, whose wonderful doctrines and still more wonderful deeds have set all Galilee in a flame.

Strangely enough, it has been my fortune of late to have met him, not once only, but several times, and always under striking circumstances. What seemed less likely when we parted than that I should give more than idle thought to what we both deemed a sensation of the hour; and yet it has come to pass that this prophet, teacher--what you will, so that it be kindly--has occupied my reflections for many moments in many days. Things have so fallen out from a small beginning that I am bidden to dine to-morrow at the house of Simon the Pharisee, in the company of Jesus.

At the present writing, I can gratify thy curiosity to a certain important and strange extent; but after having had opportunity to converse with him, I hope to be able still further to enlighten thee, as well as satisfy myself as to the nature and depth of the impression this strange teacher has made on thy hitherto reserved and unsusceptible friend. I saw him first about a fortnight past.

On my way to the house of Marcus the centurion, with whom I had a money transaction, my attention was attracted by a motley crowd of men, women, and children, all eager to press closer to what seemed to be some prominent figure in their midst.

“What is the cause of this commotion,” I inquired, “and whither are ye bound?”

One of the number made answer thus: “We follow Jesus of Nazareth, who has been sent for by Marcus the centurion, to heal his servant, now lying at the point of death.”

“Which is Jesus?” I asked “and is he also a physician?”

“That is he with the grave face and gentle eyes, and he is not a physician, but a worker of miracles.”

Anxious to obtain a nearer view of him whose name is in every mouth, I endeavored to force my way through the crowd, when a man running at full speed and making wild gestures with his hands called on the multitude to part and give him speech with Jesus, which they did, as soon as they fully understood his meaning and from whence he came. Then he called out, saying: “Lord, my master saith, Trouble not thyself, for I am not worthy that thou shouldst enter under my roof; say but the word, and my servant shall be healed.” Jesus lifted his head, and I saw his face for the first time; nay, but that part which extends from the top of the forehead beneath the eyes. But what eyes--how full of life, and holiness, and truth! And methought they fixed their piercing glance full upon me as he cried aloud: “I say unto you, I have not found so great faith in Israel.”

But the crowd pressed about him and I saw him no more, for he retraced his steps, followed by the multitude, while I pursued my way, filled with curiosity as to the result. As I neared the house of Marcus I heard sounds of thanksgiving, and what was my surprise to hear, and in a moment after see, the man who had been ill, perfectly restored, and fairly dancing and laughing with joy.

Marcus is a man of probity and considerable influence, as you well know, and his faith in the power of Jesus is very great, which can hardly be counted singular.

Having transacted my business, I went on my way, marvelling and reflecting much, albeit I am not given to running after strange prophets, nor to walk in new paths. But once lighted upon, it seemed this untrodden way was to open out fresh scenes to my view.

The next day I betook my steps early to Nain, where my brother-in-law, Jonah, lies sick of the fever, which is now making fearful ravages in that city. Returning in the cool of the evening, I suddenly encountered a funeral procession. A woman deeply veiled followed the corpse, piercing the air with heartrending cries. At the same moment a group of travel-stained men entered the gate of the town. In their leader I recognized Jesus of Nazareth, and at his approach an indefinable feeling possessed me. I cannot describe it save in saying that I would fain have fallen at his feet, as though in the presence of some superior being.

“Whom do you carry?” inquired one of the travellers.

“The only son of his mother, and she is a widow,” was the sad response.

Jesus touched the bier, and the bearers paused. Turning with a look of ineffable compassion to the heartbroken mother, he said, in tones gentle as those of a woman, “Weep not.” Then, in a louder voice, “Young man, I say to thee, Arise.”

My breath came thick and fast, the cold dews gathered on my forehead, for, miracle of miracles: the dead arose, cast aside his grave-clothes, and fell sobbing upon his joyful mother’s breast. This I beheld with my eyes--I heard him speak, I saw his happy tears. But Jesus calmly gathered up his robe and pursued his journey, and once again I fancied--or did I fancy?--that he singled me out from the crowd, and fixed his eyes on mine with an expression that was almost an appeal. My eager gaze followed him till I could no longer catch the outline of his garments; after which, I slowly returned to Jerusalem.

There is much talk in the city concerning this last great miracle, and I have been at pains to learn more of Jesus, of whom it is even said that he calls himself the Messiah. It is argued against him that he consorts with publicans and sinners, and that his most intimate friends and disciples are illiterate fishermen.

However, he preaches that he came not to call the just, but sinners, to repentance; it is therefore but natural and consistent that he should seek out such, if his mission lies among them; and, with regard to his near friends being illiterate, he is himself only a carpenter’s son.

Again, his enemies say that he casts out devils and works prodigies through Beelzebub. But he preaches charity, good-will, hatred of hypocrisy and double-dealing, and surely these are not the weapons of the prince of darkness.

Many of the Pharisees, far wiser than I, are disturbed and thoughtful because of these marvels that are daily occurring, so be not alarmed, nor fear that your David is losing his wits.

Three days ago, on my way from the synagogue, I was joined by Simon, to whom Jesus is well known, and in the conversation which ensued between us, our friend hospitably invited me to dine with him at his house this evening, saying that Jesus would be of the company. Of course I assented, and am all impatience for the hour to arrive. Simon’s recognition of Jesus speaks well for both, the former being a shrewd and careful man, a quick observer, and not slow to detect imposture; and if the qualities of the latter were not sound and commendable, Simon would not thus honor him with his hospitality.

But already the sun dips low in the heavens; till to-morrow, my Ephraim--farewell.

* * * * *

I left you last evening aglow with curiosity to see and hear more of the prophet of Israel, who is agitating all Jerusalem with the fame of his miracles. I return to you awestruck, fascinated, filled with the spirit of reverence and admiration. What I have to say may lose much of its impressiveness by reason of distance and want of actual participation in the events which have taken place. But you cannot fail to be touched by the strangeness and sublimity of the soul embodied in the form of Jesus. Yet you have not seen him, you have not heard the sublime language that falls from his lips whenever he opens them to speak, you have not felt his god-like eye penetrating yours, nor seen his rare and wondrous smile. Therefore, should you scorn my enthusiasm, I shall not blame you, but abide the time when Jerusalem may claim you once more. For the rest, I do not doubt that in this, as in all things else, we two shall be one. But I must hasten to resume my narrative while the events of the past few hours are still fresh in my memory.

The sun had gone down behind a huge bank of crimson clouds, portending a storm, as is not unusual at this wintry season, when we seated ourselves, to the number of twenty or thereabouts, at the well-spread table of Simon the Pharisee. Jesus was already present when I arrived, and sat, the honored guest, at the right hand of the host, while several of his friends or disciples surrounded him in the semicircle formed by the curve of the table. Was I mistaken, or did his eyes rest on me, as I entered, with that half-sad, half-affectionate expression so like an invitation? Remembering the interest I had manifested in our conversation concerning him, Simon kindly placed me as near Jesus as could well be, owing to the proximity of several older guests, but after the first moment of greeting Jesus resumed his discourse, and I had ample opportunity for observing him at my leisure. He wore a single garment of woollen stuff, which fell in graceful folds to his feet, being confined at the waist by a thick cord. The robe was of soft but coarse material, and, though considerably worn, appeared quite free from soil or travel-stain. He sat with hands loosely folded on his knees, and I noticed the peculiar whiteness and transparency of the fingers, which were long and thin. Those hands do not look as though they belonged to a carpenter’s son. His forehead is high and broad, and the hair, tinged with auburn, falls in graceful waves about half-way to the shoulders. The face is oval, each feature perfect, the eyebrows delicately pencilled, the nose of a Grecian rather than our native Hebrew type, the lips not very full, but firm and red. Beard the color of his hair, and slightly cleft, shows the well-formed chin, and barely sweeps his breast. But those eyes--those deep, unfathomable, crystal wells--how can I speak of their many and varied expressions, of that changeful hue between gray and brown so beautiful and yet so rare. They seem to unite in themselves all of majesty and sweetness I have ever dreamed looked forth from eyes of angels--dignity and lowliness, severity and tenderness, sadness and something higher than joy. But their prevailing expression is one of sorrow, as though they had looked out into the world, and, taking in its untold miseries and sins at one deep glance, must hold the mournful picture there for evermore. Indeed, it is said, I know not how truly, that Jesus has never been known to laugh. His voice is low and soft, but very clear. I fancy it would be most melodious in our Hebrew chants. And yet it can grow strong and loud in reproach, as you shall presently hear.

The feast had begun, and the servants were busy attending to the wants of the guests, when a slight noise was heard in the antechamber, as though the porter were remonstrating with some one who desired to enter. Suddenly a woman appeared on the threshold, clothed in a fleecy white tunic, girdled with blue, and bearing an alabaster box in her hand. A murmur went round the assembly. Surely our eyes did not deceive us--it was the notorious courtesan, Mary Magdalen, but divested of the costly robes and ornaments which were formerly her pride, and with her rich golden hair loosely coiled at the back of her head and simply fastened with a silver comb.

I bethought me of a rumor I had heard, that Jesus had once delivered her from the hands of those who were about to stone her, and also that since that time she had renounced her abandoned manner of life. Pale, with eyes downcast, she stood one hesitating instant in the doorway; then, falling on her knees before Jesus, she wept aloud, literally bathing his feet with her tears. He uttered no word of reproach, but suffered her to unbind that beautiful hair whose golden threads had lured so many to destruction. Now, as though seeking to make atonement, she wiped with it his tired feet. Kissing them humbly, and still weeping, she drew from the alabaster box most precious ointment and anointed them profusely. All were silent, but many shook their heads with doubt and suspicion. Simon the Pharisee folded his arms, but spake not, till Jesus, as though divining the thoughts of his heart, said slowly and impressively:

“Simon, I have somewhat to say unto thee.”

And he answered him: “Master, say on.”

Then he said: “There was a certain creditor who had two debtors: the one owed five hundred pence, and the other fifty. And when they had nothing to pay, he frankly forgave them both. Tell me, therefore, which of them will love him most?”

Simon answered and said: “I suppose he to whom he forgave most.”

And he said unto him: “Thou hast rightly judged.” And he turned to the woman, and said unto Simon: “Seest thou this woman? I entered into thine house, thou gavest me no water for my feet; but she hath washed my feet with tears, and wiped them with the hairs of her head. Thou gavest me no kiss; but this woman, from the time I came in, hath not ceased to kiss my feet. My head with oil thou didst not anoint, but this woman hath anointed my feet with ointment. Wherefore, I say unto thee, her sins, which are many, are forgiven, for she hath loved much; but to whom little is forgiven, the same loveth little.” And he said unto her: “Thy sins are forgiven.”

No one made answer as the woman silently departed, but the incident had strangely disturbed the spirit of the feast. I marvel how the most critical could have found fault or misjudged what was undoubtedly a spontaneous expression of gratitude and contrition in the repentant sinner. Jesus had saved Mary from death, and humbled her accusers with these remarkable words: “Let he who is without sin among you throw the first stone.” They slunk away mortified and abashed.

Since that time she has seen the error of her ways, and surely, if the God of our fathers pardons sinners, it is but in keeping with his established character for justice and mercy that so perfect a man as Jesus should not rebuke them. I am more and more powerfully drawn towards this wonderful teacher. As the guests dispersed last evening, I contrived to obtain speech with him, and he replied to several questions of mine with great mildness and suavity. And although, by reason of my known wealth and position among the Pharisees, one might suppose he would make some note of the voluntary admiration and respect I did not hesitate to manifest, he soon turned with grave dignity to others who surrounded him, his own friends no doubt, and seemed to forget my presence. They say he goes to-morrow into various towns and villages, for the purpose of preaching and instructing. He will be accompanied by the twelve who always follow him. My interest has been so strongly excited that I am tempted to defer still longer my journey to Rome, which I had intended to begin almost immediately. However, I shall not postpone it sufficiently long to deprive myself of the pleasure of thy company in the capital for some time previous to thy return to Jerusalem.

In any event, I shall write thee soon. Blessings upon thee, dearest friend! I await an answer to this lengthy epistle.

II.

The fury of the first persecution had nearly exhausted itself, and even Nero, that insatiable butcher whose thirst for blood had enkindled the fierce flame, seemed to have well-nigh spent the measure of his inhuman cruelty.

Hiding like criminals in gloomy abodes and obscure retreats, those Christians who had escaped martyrdom seldom ventured forth save when the dusk of evening rendered them less liable to scrutiny or interrogation.

But among the exceptions to this precautionary rule was one, that of a very old, white-haired man, who might be seen at all times in the most public places, and who was well-known to be a fearless and devoted Christian. Indeed, he seemed rather to court danger than avoid it, and it was a marvel to the more timid among his brethren how he had thus far escaped the lion’s jaws or the caldron of boiling oil.

One raw evening in early March, three drunken soldiers were tumbling along a narrow Roman street, lined with small, obscure-looking houses, when a bent figure suddenly issued from one of the low doorways and walked hurriedly in the direction of the Jews’ quarter, not far distant.

“Ho there!” called one of the three, eager for adventure of any kind, “ho there! Who art thou, and whither goest thou?”

The figure paused, and said in reply, “I am an old man, and I go to relieve a fellow-man in distress.”

“Not so fast, not so fast, friend,” retorted the soldier. “In these times, we guardians of the emperor’s peace must be circumspect and vigilant.”

“Ho, ho! It is Andrew, that dog of a Christian who boasteth, I am told, that he is not afraid of our august emperor himself,” said another of the three. “Speak, old man; art thou not a Christian, and brave enough to face thy master, who can, if he so pleases, make a torch of thee to light belated way-farers home?”

“Ay, thou sayest truly, I am a Christian,” replied the old man, folding his arms and standing erect, as he continued: “My name is Andrew; I am well known in the city, and acknowledge no master in the odious tyrant who calls himself Emperor of Rome.”

“Ah! what is this?” said the soldier who had not yet spoken, and who appeared the most sober of the three. “So--so. A traitor and a Christian. There is a double reward set upon thy head, old fellow. Comrades, we would be doing an injustice to the emperor and the state in not apprehending this venomous traitor. Let us away with him to prison, and before this time to-morrow he may know what it is to feel the emperor’s avenging arm.” The old man’s eye brightened, and he would have spoken, but was prevented by him who had first accosted him.

“Nay, nay, comrades,” he said, “let the poor creature go. He has been seen in all public places since the edict, and is well known for a Christian. Yet his age and infirmities have thus far saved him from arrest. Let us to our quarters, and permit him to go free.”

“Not so,” replied his companion gruffly, while the other seized the old man by the cloak. “It won’t do to make fish of one and flesh of another. Besides, there’s the booty, and that’s something not to be despised.”

“Well, so be it,” was the reply; “one against two is but poor odds. Let us go.”

The prisoner made no resistance, walking on silently between his captors, but a strange light shone in his eyes; and when the great iron door of the cell into which he was rudely hurried closed behind him, he fell on his knees exclaiming:

“At last, my God, at last! O Lord! I thank thee--let not this great joy pass from me.”

Morning dawned, and Nero sat dispensing death and torture to the doomed Christians, inventing new cruelties with each death sentence. An old man, heavily manacled, was led in by three guards. His venerable appearance attracted the emperor’s notice, and he cried out:

“Ho, guards! bring forward the patriarch. What offence hath the old Jew committed? Has he been pursuing some unlucky creditor, or hath his last enterprise savored too strongly of usury? What is charged against thee, Jew?”

“He is no Jew, but a bragging Christian, most noble emperor,” exclaimed the foremost guard. “He boasted but last night that he would not acknowledge thee for master, and we have brought him to thy presence that his boast may wither beneath the light of thy august countenance.”

“Art thou not a Jew?” cried Nero, as the prisoner lifted his bowed head, and stood erect.

“I am a Jew by birth, but a Christian by religion,” he replied in a low but audible voice.

“What is thy name?”

“I was baptized Andrew, and so I am called.”

Here a murmur ran through the crowd, and a centurion stepped forward, saying:

“A most bitter enemy of the gods, most noble emperor. He is the same who may be seen at all the public executions of Christians, exhorting and praying with them.”

“I wonder he has never been apprehended until now--it speaks well for the devotion of my adherents,” replied the emperor with a sneer. The centurion drew back somewhat abashed.

“I have often sought death, but my gray hairs have spared me until now,” said the old man.

“Hold thy treacherous tongue, sirrah,” cried one of the guards. “I’ll warrant thee they will not spare thee now.”

“Silence!” cried the emperor. “Old man, art thou the same of whom it is said thou wert a friend of the Galilean ere he went to the gibbet?”

“What I was it matters not. What I desire to be is the faithful servant of my Lord Jesus Christ.”

“Verily, thou art impertinent, and age hath not taught thee humility. Mayhap, it would please thee to have thy old body cut in slices and thrown to the wild beasts.”

“It would be the fulfilment of my most ardent prayers--any death by which I might suffer martyrdom for Jesus Christ. I have longed for it these fifty years.” As he spoke his face seemed transfigured, while that of Nero assumed a new and more malicious expression.

“How old art thou?” he asked.

“I am ninety-two.”

“Where is thy birthplace?”

“Jerusalem.”

“And thou wouldst die for Jesus Christ?”

“Thou knowest it, my judge.”

“Such death would be the greatest boon thy heart desires?”

“My God knoweth it.”

A mocking smile played around the emperor’s lips as he said:

“Then hear thy sentence. Thou shalt be taken from hence to the Appian gate--and there bidden go thy way in peace. Thou art not young enough to be toothsome to the lions, and the sap is so dried in thy veins thou wouldst make but a sorry torch by night. There is so little flesh upon thy bones that thou wouldst not sink in Tiber, and we cannot afford to waste stones in weighting such as thou. Thy withered carcass would not whet the executioner’s knife; there is naught for it but to let thee go. Spend the remainder of thy days as thou hast wasted those that are gone, in longings for martyrdom. Guards! seize your prisoner, and execute sentence upon him.”

The light that had illumined the eyes of the old man slowly faded as the emperor spoke, and great tears rolled down his furrowed cheeks. Clasping his withered hands high above his head, he exclaimed:

“It is not to be--it is not to be! My God, I accept the retribution.”

“What sayest thou?” cried Nero. “Hast thou committed some terrible crime that thou talkest of retribution?”

“Ay, a great crime; but I have suffered much, and striven to make atonement. But my Saviour is not yet satisfied.”

“Accuse thyself. We may be less lenient here than awhile ago.”

The old man’s eyes kindled once more and again he stood erect: “Yes, I will confess,” he cried in a loud voice. “I will let all the world know that he whom his companions have called just is the meanest sinner of them all; I will strive by the whiteness of my gray hairs and the years of sorrow that have passed since that mad day to awaken in thy tyrant heart some pity, some relenting from thy cruel sentence.

“But alas! what do I say? The hand of God is in it--my Saviour refuses me the boon I crave, and thou art but his instrument.” He sighed heavily, wiped the tears from his eyes, and continued in a less agitated voice:

“I am a native of Jerusalem--a descendant of the tribe of Aser; my father was a ruler of much wealth and influence--both of which I inherited. I had luxurious tastes, and gratified them to a certain extent, filling my house with rare and costly furniture and ornaments. I travelled much, and indulged my inclinations to the fullest extent without transgressing the moral law. I esteemed virtue and practised it, more from a sense of pride than a feeling of true religion. I was unmarried and had few intimate friends. One, however, Amri Ephraim, was bound to me by the closest ties of intimacy and association. He was also wealthy. Business called him to Rome about the time our Lord Jesus began to preach the gospel in Galilee. We were both somewhat interested in the new prophet, as he was then called; but from my first meeting with him I was filled with admiration for his teachings, and drawn towards him by an attraction I could not then understand. Alas! I have known its meaning for many sorrowful, repentant years.

“His influence grew upon me. I followed him from place to place; he took kindly notice of me. His gentle looks seemed to beckon me on; his wondrous miracles became convincing proofs of his divine mission; his merciful and consoling teachings entered deep into my soul, and left it glowing with awe and veneration. I felt that he was the Messiah promised by David; I knew it in my coward heart. And yet this world--this glittering, hollow sham--it was that which held me back and lured me to my own perdition. Many times I saw Jesus look upon me with a gaze that told of affection mingled with doubt and sorrow. For days I would absent myself from his side, only to return athirst and filled with new desires.

“One day, as he sat in the shade of a palm-tree with a few of his disciples, I threw myself at his feet and listened to the wisdom that fell from his lips.

“‘Master,’ I said at length, ‘what shall a man do to inherit eternal life?’

“‘Keep the commandments,’ he answered, fixing his eyes upon me as though he would read my soul.

“‘I have kept them from my youth,’ I replied.

“‘Then lackest thou yet one thing,’ he said. ‘Sell all thou hast, give thy treasure to the poor, and come, follow me.’

“The words were spoken--they had appealed to my heart for many days; Jesus loved me, he had singled me from the multitude of whom but little is required--he would have chosen me for a familiar disciple. I saw it in his eye; I heard it in his voice. He had called me to follow him! And I?…

“Before me there swept a vision of lost delights and despised honors. I saw myself hungry and cold, and naked and scorned; I heard the censure of the world, the altered tones of friends, the jibes and sneers of enemies. If I had dared once more to lift my eyes--if I had met that benignant glance, so full of affection and assurance--all would have been well, and the craven heart had never bled these sixty years for that one moment’s loss. But, alas! I cast down my eyes and bowed my head; I arose and went away sorrowful. That night I left Jerusalem and fled to Rome. I say fled, for I was like a criminal fleeing not from a tyrant but a kind and merciful father. My friend, to whom I had written faithfully of my interest in Jesus, passed and missed me on the way to Jerusalem.…”

Here the old man’s voice faltered and his frame shook with sobs. He seemed unconscious of all but his own sorrow as he continued:

“He learned to know Jesus--became a faithful disciple; he witnessed his capture and cruel trial; he followed him to Calvary; he saw the prodigies that occurred at his death; he saw him ascend into heaven. He enjoyed the sweet privilege of conversing with Mary; he received the dead body of Stephen the blessed martyr, and helped to give it decent burial, and his body lies to-day at the bottom of old Tiber--martyred for the faith of Christ; while I--coward that I was--awoke to the sense of my sin when it was too late to return and throw myself at his sacred feet, too late to touch the hem of his garment, too late to follow his bloody footsteps up the frightful Mount of Calvary. One expiation I thought to make--one atonement for my sin; for the poor sacrifice of my wealth was nothing to me. I sought martyrdom. In the public places, in the forum, by the side of dying Christians, at the graves of murdered saints. But I seemed to bear a charmed life. They passed me by, they did not molest me. He is harmless, said one; he is old, said another. And now, when I thought the goal within my reach, when I hoped that my expiation had been accepted, it is again denied me. Be it so, my God, my outraged and despised Saviour, be it so! I rejected thee--thou rejectest me. Thou didst die for me--thou wilt not suffer me to die for thee. Thy will be done!”

The bowed head fell heavily on the clasped hands, and the old man sank slowly on his knees. At that moment a stray sunbeam, the first of a murky morning, touched his white hair as with a crown of brightness, then faded and the clouded heavens grew dark. The guards stooped to lift him. He was dead.

“What a dramatic talent those Christians have!” said the emperor to his friend Apulius, who stood beside his throne. “Pity they do not apply it to better purpose. Guards! let that old man go free--we pity his gray hairs--ha! ha!”

“He is dead, most noble emperor,” replied one of the soldiers, not without something of softness in his voice.

“Ah! so? Remove the corpse then; and thou, good Marcellus, be sure thou hast those fifty Syrian Christian torches well pitched and oiled ere night--for it will be dark, and we must needs be lighted to Phryma’s banquet. Come Apulius--make way, lictors.”

So Nero passed beneath the arched doorway from his tyrant throne--and at the same moment some timid Christians near its foot bore away the body of a saint for burial.

ART AND SCIENCE.

A wild swan and an eagle side by side I marked, careering o’er the ocean-plain, Emulous a heaven more heavenly each to gain, Circling in orbits wider and more wide: Highest, methought, through tempest scarce descried, One time the bird of battle soared;--in vain; So soon, exhausted ’mid their joy and pride, Dropped to one sea the vanquished rivals twain. Then, o’er the mighty waves around them swelling, That snowy nursling of low lakes her song Lifted to God, floating serene along; While she that in the hills had made her dwelling Struggled in vain her wings to beat and quiver, And the deep closed o’er that bright crest for ever.

AUBREY DE VERE.

THE ROMAN RITUAL AND ITS CHANT

_COMPARED WITH THE WORKS OF MODERN MUSIC._

II.--CONCLUDED.

VALUE AS A MEDIUM OR VEHICLE OF DIVINE TRUTH AMONG THE PEOPLE.

Popular national songs with their melodies are not, either in point of poetry or music, very elaborate or classical works of art. Consummate art is incapable of passing among a people, and must ever remain confined to the initiated and the connoisseur; yet national songs are not only characteristic of all people, but fulfil a very important function. They not only foster and preserve the national spirit, of which they are the expression, but also keep up, by tradition among the people, a knowledge of the history of their race, and of the exploits and noble deeds of its great men. In a word, the songs of a people have an influence over the growth of their moral character which it is not easy to overestimate, and which was well known to that statesman who was heard to say that they who have the making of a people’s songs will soon have the making of their laws; a sentiment fully confirmed by the proverb, “Qui mutat cantus, mutat mores.”

The above remarks, much too brief to put the importance of the ideas contained in them in their proper light, seem to issue in the conclusion that the song of the Christian kingdom will be necessarily something very different from an elaborate work of musical genius.

When our divine Redeemer lifted up his eyes, and beheld the multitudes going astray as sheep without a shepherd, he was moved with compassion. Surely in his judgment sacred song will be deemed to fulfil its mission when it passes current among the people, is domesticated in the laboring man’s cottage among his children, and there teaches the family the knowledge of their Saviour’s life and sufferings, of their redemption by these from sin, and the death of the world to come. Sacred song will, in his compassionate eyes, fulfil its mission of mercy when it takes up the words of eternal Wisdom, and puts them in the mouth of the people as a charm against the maxims of a world declared by the Word of God to be “_lying in wickedness_,” and as a shield against the assaults of a tempter, said in the same Word “_to be ever going about seeking whom he may devour_.” It will fulfil its mission when it enters into the heart and soul of the people, accompanies the departed with a requiem as man goeth to his long home and the mourners go about the streets, when it administers comfort to the survivors, while it bids them not to sorrow as they that have no hope, and, in a word, weeps with them that weep, and rejoices with them that do rejoice. Nor let it be said that this is a romantic notion--the making out of the earth an ideal paradise. Surely the actual and adequate fulfilment of such a mission of sacred song belongs to the idea of the mission of the Son of God, sent by the Father to re-establish order, piety, and sanctity on the earth. But what if this idea was not only familiar to the fathers, but that they actually saw the progress of its accomplishment?

“There is no need here,” says S. Chrysostom, exhorting his people to take part in the church chant, “of the artist’s skill, which requires length of time to bring to perfection. Let there be but a good will and a ready mind, and the result will soon be sufficient skill. There is no absolute need even of time or place, for in every place or time one may sing with the mind. Though you be walking in the Forum, or are on a journey, or are seated with your friends, the mind may be on the alert, and find for itself an utterance. It was thus that Moses cried, and God heard. If you are an artisan, you may sing Psalms as you sit laboring in your workshop; you may do the same if you are a soldier, or a judge seated on his bench” (Hom. on Ps. iv.)

A formal acknowledgment on the part of the church of this principle of teaching by means of song, which at the same time proves its antiquity, though it can be hardly necessary to cite it, may be found in one of the Collects for Holy Saturday: “Deus, celsitudo humilium, et fortitudo rectorum, qui per sanctum Moysen puerum tuum ita erudire populum tuum sacri carminis tui decantatione voluisti, ut illa legis iteratio fiat etiam, nostra directio,” etc., etc.--“O God! the loftiness of the humble and the strength of them that are upright, who wast pleased, through thy holy servant Moses, to instruct thy people by the singing of a sacred song,” etc., etc.

If, then, this be a true and just view of the mission of the sacred song among the poor and the unlearned multitude, as contemplated in the divine idea; if it be true, as I suppose no one will deny, that the Ritual Chant is not only fitted to accomplish it, but has realized it in times past, and does still realize it in countries that might be named; and if the works of modern art are, from their very scientific character as music, incapable of being the medium in which divine truth can pass among the people; and, indeed, if it be their nature to give so much more of prominence to the beauty of mere sound than to the expression of intelligible meaning or sentiment, which every one knows is the case, we seem to gain this obvious result, on drawing the comparison, that the Ritual chant is a _real medium_ or vehicle for the circulation of divine truth among the people, fitted with a divine wisdom to its end; while the great works of art that the musician so much admires are not, to any practical extent whatever, such a medium, and indeed, if the truth must be said, were probably _never_ contemplated as such, either by those who composed or those who now admire them.

COMPARATIVE “MEDICINAL VIRTUE.”

“They that are whole need not a physician,” said our Redeemer (Mark ii. 17), “but they that are sick. I came not to call the just, but sinners to repentance.” It was part of the mission of the Son of God upon earth, that he should be the physician of the souls of men (Isaiæ lxi.): “Spiritus Domini super me, eo quod unxerit Dominus me, _ut mederer contritis_ corde.” It will follow, then, that the music which the divine Physician of souls will desire to see employed in his church will be strongly marked with the medicinal character.

And this conclusion becomes the more natural, from observing the numberless indications which the literature of different countries affords that music has always been popularly regarded as a medicine for the spirit; as, for instance, the Greek pastoral poet, Bion:

Μολπὰν ταὶ Μοῖσαι, μοὶ ἀεὶ ποθέοντι διδοῖεν Τὰν γλυκερὰν μολπὰν τᾶς φάρμακον ἅδιον οὐδέν.

BIONIS, _Bucolica_, i.

“Song than which no medicine so sweet.” Among the Romans, the courtly Ovid:

“Hoc est cur cantet vinctus quoque compede fossor Indocili numero, cum grave mollit opus. Cantat et innitens limosæ pronus arenæ, Adverso tardam qui vehit amne ratem; Qui refert pariter lentos ad pectora remos, In numerum pulsâ brachia versat aquâ. … Cantantis pariter, pariter data pensa trahentis Fallitur ancillæ, decipiturque labor.”

OVID, _de Tristibus_, _Eleg._ lib. i.

And, in our own literature, the great poet of human nature, Shakspeare:

“When griping grief the heart doth wound, And doleful dumps the mind oppress, Then music with her silver sound With speedy help doth lend redress.”

SHAKSPEARE’s _Romeo and Juliet_.

With this view of music, as permitted by a merciful Providence to retain a large share of healing virtue, even apart from religion, and in the midst of the disorders of heathenism, expectation will be naturally much raised on coming to inquire what have been the effects of the Christian music which the divine Physician of souls has given to his Church. Nor will there be any disappointment. S. Basil the Great, the well-known doctor and bishop of the East, speaks of the Plain Chant of his own day in the following terms:

“Psalmody is the calm of the soul, the umpire of peace, that sets at rest the storm and upheaving of the thoughts. Psalmody quiets the turbulence of the mind, tempers its excess, is the bond of friendship, the union of the separated, the reconciler of those at variance; for who can count him any longer an enemy with whom he has but once lifted up his voice to God? Psalmody putteth evil spirits to flight, calleth for the help of angels, is a defence from terrors by night, a rest from troubles by day, is the safety of children, the glory of young men, the comfort of the old, the fairest ornament of women.… Psalmody calls forth a tear from a heart of stone, is the work of angels, the government of Heaven, the incense of the Spirit.”

S. Ambrose, Archbishop of Milan in the West, in the preface to his Commentary on the Book of Psalms, speaks as follows:

“In the Book of Psalms there is something profitable for all; it is a sort of universal medicine and preservative of health. Whoever will read therein may be sure to find the proper remedy for the diseased passion he suffers from. Psalmody is the blessing of the people, a thanksgiving of the multitude, the delight of numbers, and a language for all. It is the voice of the Church, the sweetly-loud profession of faith, the full-voiced worship of men in power, the delight of the free, the shout of the joyous, the exultation of the merry. It is the soother of anger, the chaser away of sorrow, the comforter of grief. It is a defence by night, an ornament by day, a shield in danger, a strong tower of sanctity, an image of tranquillity, a pledge of peace and concord, forming its unity of song, as the lyre, from diversity of sound. The morning echoes to the sound of psalmody, and the evening re-echoes. The apostle commanded women to be silent in the church; yet the song of psalmody becomes them (S. Ambrose is speaking of congregational psalmody). Boys and young men may sing psalms without danger, and even young women also, without detriment to their matronly reserve. They are the food of childhood; and infancy itself, that will learn nothing besides, delights in them. Psalmody befits the rank of the king, may be sung by magistrates, and chorused by the people, each one vying with his neighbor in causing that to be heard which is good for all” (_Præfatio in Comment in Lib. Psalmorum_).

S. Augustine speaks thus of the Church Chant: “How my heart burned within me against the Manicheans, and how I pitied them, that they neither knew its mystery nor healing virtue; and that they should insanely rage against that very antidote by which they might have recovered their saneness (insani essent adversus antidotum quo sani esse potuissent)!” (_Confess._ lib. ix.) To which should certainly be added the fact that, in some degree, the church may be said to be indebted to this very medicinal power of her psalmody, and to the tears it drew forth from the young catechumen Augustine, for one of the profoundest among her saints and doctors.

And to come to times nearer our own, the well-known Massillon, in one of his charges to his clergy, delivered at the Conference at which he presided, earnestly recommends them to make the study of the Plain Chant a part of their recreation; for, adds he, “le peuple souvent se calme au chant du sacerdoce dans le temple.” (_Conferences_, vol. iii.) And our own times have witnessed a remarkable instance of the same medicinal power of the church chant when in the Champs Élysées of Paris, during the summer of 1848, the citizens met in the open air, to celebrate a Requiem Mass for the repose of those who had fallen in the great civil commotion of that year, which had been suppressed with such loss of life. Here were to be seen the murderer and the relations of the murdered, forgetting that strongest and deadliest feud of the human heart--the thirst for vengeance for the shedding of kindred blood--joining their own to the thousands of voices that poured forth the well-known church chant of the _Dies iræ_. Ten thousand voices supplicating Almighty God to pardon the past, to grant rest to the souls of the slain, to bear in mind that he had come on earth to save them, and to beg that he would remember them in mercy at the day of his judgment, in the language and song of the church! Of a truth, then, may the church chant say, _Unxit me Spiritus Domini, ut mederer contritis corde_.

It is also curious to observe in what a marked manner, even in the recent Protestant literature of our own country, this medicinal character of the church chant is still recognized. Mr. Wordsworth has the following lines in his _Ecclesiastical Sonnets_ (xxx.):

CANUTE.

“A pleasant music floats along the Mere, From monks in Ely chanting service high, While--as Canute the King is rowing by-- ‘My oarsmen,’ quoth the mighty king, ‘draw near, That we the sweet song of the monks may hear.’ He listens (all past conquests and all schemes Of future vanishing like empty dreams) Heart-touch’d, and haply not without a tear. The royal minstrel, ere the choir is still, While his free barge skims the smooth flood along, Gives to that rapture an accordant Rhyme.[151] O suffering earth! be thankful; sternest clime And rudest age are subject to the thrill Of heav’n-descended piety and song.”

Henry Kirke White, in the fragment of a ballad entitled the “Fair Maid of Clifton,” bears even the still more remarkable testimony to a power over evil spirits. He is describing the death-bed of a female who, fearing that the demons would carry her away, had sent for her own relations to pray by her side, and for the “clerk and all the singers besides.”

“And she begged they would sing the penitent hymn, And pray with all their might; For sadly I fear the fiend will be here, And fetch me away this night. … “And now their song it died on their tongue, For sleep it was seizing their sense, And Margaret screamed and bid them not sleep, Or the fiends would bear her hence.”[152]

_Southey’s edition_, p. 281.

And now, in drawing the comparison, it is fair to ask, granting the exception where it may be justly conceded, in favor of particular compositions: What on the whole is the _medicinal virtue_ of our modern figured music? how does it take effect? who are the persons whose sorrow it relieves? who are they who find themselves really made better by it, and inclined, through its influence, to feel in greater charity with the remainder of the congregation? To judge from the kind of remarks that are usually made by persons coming away from a church where one of these figured music Masses has been executed, one would certainly not say that they could be many. For what are these remarks but those of connoisseurs, who criticise the merits of a voice which has reached a very high or low note, or of a particular solo, trio, or quartet, to which those who are uninitiated in the mysteries of minim and crotchet pay positively no attention at all? Now, let us for a moment suppose a person to say, with S. Ambrose, in praise of Mozart’s famous No. XII., that it was a “defence by night, an ornament by day, a shield in danger, a strong tower of sanctity, an image of tranquillity, a pledge of peace”; or with S. Basil, that “it had the virtue of putting devils to flight”; would any experience more unfeigned surprise than those very persons who think this Mass the absolute ideal of church music? Or again: if, unknown to himself and to others, there were at this moment a future doctor of the church among our London club politicians, how much would it naturally occur to us to think that the performance of this same No. XII. would be likely to contribute towards effecting his conversion?

RESPECTIVE CAPACITY FOR DURABLE POPULARITY.

God, who gave the Ecclesiastical Chant as a gift of mercy to the people, must needs contemplate it as _popular_. For except it were really popular, it would fail to attain its end. This, then, will be the place to examine what indications are to be found that the Ritual Chant is really, in this particular, the fulfilment of the Divine idea.

When an invention or an art is such that people come to borrow from it popular expressions, or when it gives birth to new phrases or metaphors, or a word or words come to be engrafted from it upon one or many languages, this becomes an argument for its popularity, such as no one will be inclined to dispute. Such phrases as those of “Go ahead,” “Get the steam up,” are quite sufficient to prove the fact of everybody being well acquainted with the steam-engine, from which they are derived. Now, if a similar fact can be found relative to the Gregorian chant, its popularity is in a manner placed beyond the reach of doubt.

When the poet Gray uses a well-known word in the lines,

“The next, with _dirges_ due, in sad array. Slow through the church-yard path we saw him borne,”

he bears testimony to such a fact. The initial word of the first Antiphon of the Matins for the dead, “_Dirige_ gressus meos, Domine,” has given this well-known word to our language. It can be hardly necessary to refer to a similar reception of the word “Requiem” into many different languages, which is the initial word of the Introit in the Mass for the dead.

The following anecdote, related by Padre Martini, page 437 of the third volume of his _History of Music_, may be here to the point. It is of Antonio Bernacchi, the most celebrated singer of his day (the beginning of the XVIIIth century), and narrated to him by Bernacchi himself: that, as he happened to be on a journey in Tuscany, near a monastery of Trappist monks, he felt a desire to visit it, in order to become acquainted with the way of life of these religious. He entered their church exactly at the time they were singing Tierce. Bernacchi was overcome by the effect of a multitude of voices in such perfect union that they seemed to be only one voice. He admired their precision in the utterance of every syllable, and in the softening, swelling, and sustaining of the voice, that although no more than men, they seemed to him like angels occupied in praising God; whereupon Bernacchi fell into the following soliloquy: “How deceived have I been in myself; I thought that, after a long and diligent application to the art of singing under such a master as Pestocchi, and having the natural gift of a good voice, I might pretend to exercise my profession without any question. How have I been deceived, being obliged to confess that the psalmody of these religious has in it a value and a quality that renders their song superior to mine!”

Dom Martene relates that, in his travels to visit the churches of France, he passed by a church of Benedictine nuns, who met with a patron and benefactor in the following manner: The Duc de Bournonville retiring from Paris in disgrace to “Provins,” on his arrival inquired for the nearest church; and, upon being shown the church of these nuns, he entered it as they were singing Vespers. So charmed was he by the sweetness of their song, that he seemed to himself to be listening to angels, and not to human creatures. On hearing, in an interview that followed, that the community were in debt, he gave the lady abbess an immediate present of one thousand ecus, and ever afterwards continued to be a benefactor to the convent (_Voyage Littéraire_, etc., part i. p. 79).

Baini (_Mem. Stor._, vol. ii. p. 122) quotes a letter, which is thus addressed to some English gentlemen who had visited Rome: “To Mr. Edward Grenfield, Fellow of the Royal Academy of London, to Mr. Davis, Mr. Morris, and other learned Englishmen, whose ears have not been altered by fashion, and made obtuse by habit, and who have been more than once heard to say, that they felt themselves more moved by the Gregorian Chant than by all the noisy performances of the greater part of our theatres.”

Nor is this appreciation for Gregorian music confined merely to persons from among the multitude. The following are the sentiments of two of the most distinguished musical scholars of the day:

“All is worthy of admiration in the primitive Roman Chant. The tune of the ‘Kyrie,’ for doubles and feasts of the first class, runs out to some length, and is full of beautiful passages. That of Sundays is shorter and more simple, but not the less full of unction. In both the one and the other it seems impossible to change or to suppress a note without destroying a beautiful idea, where all hangs so perfectly together. With what natural, or rather inspired genius, has not this Kyrie, confined as it is to such narrow limits, been conceived to form a whole so complete” (Fetis, _Des Origines du Plain Chant, ou Chant Ecclésiastique_).

“Musicians may oppose and contradict what I say as they please; they have full liberty; but I am not afraid to assert that the ancient melodies of the Gregorian Chant are inimitable. They may be copied, adapted to other words, heaven knows how, but to make new ones equal to the first, that will never be done” (Baini, _Memorie Storiche di P. Palæstrina_, vol. ii. p. 81).

And again, describing Palæstrina as engaged in the task of revising the Gradual, he says: “But the Gregorian chant claims a character wholly its own, has a beauty and a force proper only to itself. It is what it is, and does not change. But to remain ever the same, and to be susceptible of a change contrary to its nature, would be impossible. In a word, it may be said that _heaven_ formed it through the early fathers, and then fractured the mould.”

“Palæstrina applied himself with the zeal of one who had deeply at heart the majesty of divine worship. But having completed the first part, _De Tempore_, his pen fell from his hands, and more wearied than Atlas under the weight of the sky, he abandoned his attempt; and nothing was found at his death but the incomplete manuscript.… And thus we may see the greatest man ever known in the art and science of figured music _become less than a mere baby_ when he wished to lay a _profane hand_ on the fathers and doctors of the Holy Roman Church. …And how wise at last was he, after having fruitlessly attempted in so many ways to correct this _divine song_ according to human ideas, to abandon the enterprise for ever, and to conceal up to his death the useless result of his labor, which he himself acknowledged to be unworthy of being made public” (_Mem. Stor._ vol. ii. p. 123).

Next, as slightly illustrating its power of pleasing even a modern European people, and that in contrast with the most elaborate products of modern art; in 1846, at the centenary Jubilee of the Feast of Corpus Christi at Liege, Mendelssohn’s _Lauda Sion_ was sung at one of the offices. Yet the general opinion of the people who heard it (and who, by the by, from its constant use in processions, are well acquainted with the old Gregorian melody of the same sequence) was, that it was not to be compared to the ritual _Lauda Sion_. At the Metropolitan Church of Mechlin, on Easter Day, 1846, the students of the great and little seminaries united together to sing at the evening Benediction. The pieces sung were from Italian masters, Baini and a second, and the third was the Gregorian sequence, _Victimæ Paschali Laudes_. One of the singers himself told me that the people thought nothing comparable to the old melody, sung in simple unison.

The Collegiate Church of S. Gudule, in the city of Brussels, may also be cited as an existing proof of the power of the old chant. Whoever has heard the Requiem Mass and the _Te Deum_ sung in that church by two hundred voices in unison, must cease to think of the idea of its popularity as if it were strange.

In the church of Notre Dame, in Paris, the simple melody of the _Stabat Mater_ is sometimes sung by a congregation of four thousand persons, at the conclusion of the annual retreats, with an effect that can never be forgotten.

Again, as has been already said, the Requiem Mass, which took place in the Champs Elysées after the terrible days of June (1848), it was proposed that the Mass should be sung in music; but the Republican authorities, in conjunction with the bishops, forbade it, and the Plain Chant was ordered instead. Tens of thousands joined in singing the _Dies iræ_, and their voices seemed to rend the heavens.

In Germany, among the melodies that pass by tradition among the people, are many that are derived from the Ritual Chant of different localities, as may be seen by merely looking into their numerous printed collections of these melodies.

The Gregorian modes, again, as has been said, are far from being unpopular in their nature. Many of the Scotch and Irish melodies, traditional among the people, belong to neither of the modern major nor minor modes. The French in Egypt found many traditional Arab melodies in the Gregorian modes; and no doubt the same would be found to be the case over the whole world.

The chant of the Vespers is exceedingly popular among our congregations in England, though they are acquainted with it only in a form of disguise, shorn of its antiphons, and encrusted with the deposit of a long bandying about from organist to organist, like Ulysses, returning home in rags and tatters after his many years’ wandering. Why should not the popularity of the whole, when it shall become known, by the kind efforts of such as will feel a pleasure in devoting themselves to teach it to the poor, be believed in, upon the augury of the known popularity of a mutilated and tattered part?

This idea has long since found a home among English Catholics. Charles Butler, Esq., in his _Memoirs of English, Irish, and Scottish Catholics_, after reviewing the chief Catholic composers of modern music, says: “But, with great veneration for the composers and performers of these sacred strains, the writer has no hesitation in expressing a decided wish that the ancient Gregorian Chant was restored to its pristine honors.” And again:

“There (in the church) let that music, and that music only, be performed, which is at once simple and solemn, which all can feel, and in which most can join; let the congregation be taught to sing it in exact unison, and with subdued voices; let the accompaniment be full and chaste; in a word, let it be the Gregorian Chant” (vol. iv. p. 466).

Benedict XIV., after expressing his own decided opinion of the superior fitness of the Plain Chant, accounts, by means of it, for a _fact_, that those who think the Gregorian Chant an unpopular one, would do well to study. This, says he, is the chief cause why the people are so much more fond of the churches of the Regulars than the Seculars. And then he quotes a very remarkable passage from Jacques Eveillon: “This titillation of harmonized music is held very cheap by men of religious minds in comparison with the sweetness of the Plain Chant and simple Psalmody. And hence it is that the people flock so eagerly to the churches of the monks, who, taking piety for their guide in singing the praises of God with a saintly moderation, after the counsel of the Prince of Psalmists, skilfully sing to their Lord as Lord, and serve God as God, with the utmost reverence” (_Encyclical Letter_, p. 3).

The same Dom Martene who has been quoted above, often speaks, in the narrative of his journey, of the different churches which he visited, and in which he was present at the celebration of any of the solemn offices of the Liturgy. The following passages are specimens of his opinion on the comparative merits of the Plain Chant. Describing the Cathedral of Sens he says: “Pour ce qui est de l’Eglise Cathedrale, elle est grande,” etc. “La musique en est proscrite, on n’y chante qu’un beau Plain Chant, qui est beaucoup plus agréable que la musique.”--“As regards the cathedral church, it is large and spacious, and figured music is banished from it. Nothing but a beautiful Plain Chant is sung in it, which is far more agreeable than music” (Part i. p. 60). Again, speaking of the Cathedral of Vienne (Dauphinois), he says: “L’Office s’y fait en tout temps avec une gravité qui ne peut s’exprimer. On en bannit entièrement l’orgue et la musique; mais le Plain Chant est si beau, et se chante avec tant de mesure, qu’il n’y a point de musique qui en approche.”--“The divine Office is sung there with a gravity that cannot be surpassed. The organ and all figured music are banished from it; but the Plain Chant is so beautiful, and is sung with so much rhythm, that there is no music that can come near to it” (Part i. p. 256).

Even Rousseau, in his _Lexicon Musicum_, article, “Plain Chant,” says: “It is a name that is given in the Roman Church at this day to the Ecclesiastical Chant. There remains to it enough of its former charms to be far preferable, even in the state in which it now is (he is speaking of the falsified French edition of it), for the use to which it is destined, than the effeminate and theatrical, frothy and flat, pieces of music which are substituted for it in many churches, devoid of all gravity, taste, and propriety, without a spark of respect for the place they dare thus to profane.”

Here it occurs to reply to a remark that I have seen made, which unless it be founded, as is not impossible, on some very faulty version of the Roman Chant, seems to betray some little inexperience. After having admitted a superiority of the Gregorian melodies for hymns written in the classical metre, the writer proceeds to say: “But, on the other hand, let us take any one of the hymns of the church, in which, though the words are Latin, the classical quantities are wholly disregarded, while the verse proceeds in the measured beat of modern poetry, and the lines are all in rhyme, and let us make an effort to sing it to an unmutilated Gregorian Chant. What an absurd effect is the result! The ear is distracted between two principles of rhythm and versification. The structure of the poetry forces us, whether we will or no, to mark the divisions of the song in accordance with its beat and its rhyme; while the unmeasured, unmarked cadences of the music refuse to yield any willing obedience, and produce no melodious effect, except at an entire sacrifice of the principles on which they were framed. A wretched, hybrid, unmeaning series of sounds is the result, neither recitative nor song, neither classic nor rhyming, neither Gregorian nor modern, but wholly barbarous.”

Now, if the writer of this passage be here speaking of the adapting of melodies to words for which they were not composed, he is himself to blame for a result of which he is the sole cause. Dress a city alderman in the uniform of an officer of marines, and send him afloat on duty, if you will, but do not lay it to his charge if the result is neither very civic nor very nautical. But if the writer in question really means his words to apply to the melodies to which these hymns are set in the Roman Chant-books, he is confronted by the fact that, among these, and they are now but few, chiefly in the Feast of Corpus Christi, are found the gems of Gregorian melody. Who is there that has heard the _Ave verum_ and the _Adoro te_, and the other hymns of S. Thomas on the Blessed Sacrament, sung to their original melodies, without feeling their exquisite rhythm and expressiveness? Again, the Gregorian melody of the _Dies iræ_, in the Requiem Mass, has Châteaubriand’s express commendation as among the most masterly adaptations of music to words. Lastly, the touching and most plaintive melody of the _Stabat Mater_, which brings tears into the eyes of all who hear and sing it.

If space permitted, it would be no very difficult task to multiply such proofs and examples as these of an inherent popularity, both in the general character or effect, and in the particular parts of the Ritual Chant. But I think enough has been adduced to indicate that the popularity is one that is co-extensive with mankind, that it finds an echo in the human heart of every age, nation, or state of life. Of course, God, who gave the ecclesiastical song to work a work of mercy among the people, contemplates it as capable of popularity; and I think we have evidence that this part of the divine idea is really fulfilled by the Ritual chant. And, without prejudging the result, I would wait to see whether indications of a similar popularity can be found for the works of art with which I have been engaged in comparing it. However, I think this is impossible; and for this reason: Things come to be popular by being often repeated; and suitableness for perpetual repetition is the test of popularity. But if I am not mistaken, the perpetual production of novelties, which appear and then disappear, is a first and indeed indispensable principle in the mode of dealing with these works of art.

SECURITY AGAINST ABUSE.

All things human are certainly liable to abuse and degeneracy, yet all are very far from being on a par with each other in this respect. In all human undertakings, order, discipline, and system are the divinely-appointed securities against abuse. Now, the Ritual Chant, as all who are acquainted with it know, is, like the ceremonial of the church, a perfect system. It has two large folio volumes of music, embracing the whole annual range of canonical offices, and a body of rules prescribing even the minutiæ of their celebration. On the other hand, the modern art has no such system, no such rules. Its use is, in practice, altogether subject to the dominion of individual taste. The choir-master who likes Haydn’s music, takes Haydn; another, who likes Mozart, takes Mozart; another, who takes a trip on the continent, comes back with the newest French, German, or Italian novelties. I am not here insisting on the singularly small portion of the liturgy that is set to compositions of modern art, but on the entire absence of all system in the use of the pieces themselves, on the complete subjection of the whole thing to individual caprice and taste.

It is quite true that the Bride of Christ is encompassed with variety (_circumdata varietate_). But the church is also the kingdom of the God of order; and I apprehend that between the _varietate_ characteristic of such a kingdom, and the variety actually introduced into Catholic worship by the unrestrained dominion of individual taste in music, there is the widest possible difference.

The obvious exposure of modern music to the easiest inroads of every kind of abuse, in consequence of this absence of system, has been felt by its best-disposed advocates; and an able writer has maintained the notion, that the compulsory use of the organ alone, to the exclusion of all orchestral instruments, especially the violin, would be an all-sufficient safeguard. But it is not very easy to see upon what principle orchestral instruments are to be excluded, when the whole thing is built on the principle of the supremacy of individual taste; and even could they be excluded, it would still remain to be seen whether the organ itself were really the impeccable instrument it is represented.

Let us hear a witness in the Established Church, where, according to this writer, its dominion has been so unexceptionable. In the _Ecclesiastic_ for July, 1846, the following remarks occur: “How intolerable to such saints (Ambrose and Gregory) would have been the attempt to give effect, as it is called, to the Psalms, by the organist’s skilful management of the stops. What would they have thought of the mimic roll of the water-floods, and the crash of the thunder, and the hail rattling on the ground, the lions roaring after their prey down in the bass, and the birds singing among the branches, represented by a twittering among the small pipes? From a heathen poet these gentry might learn a lesson of reverence--Virgil seems to make it a point of natural piety not to counterfeit the thunder of the Highest--

“Vidi et crudeles dantem Salmonea pœnas, Dum flammas Jovis et sonitus imitatur Olympi. Demens qui nimbos et non imitabile fulmen Ære et cornipedum pulsu simularat equorum.”

_Æneid_, vi. 585.

A real thunderstorm interrupting one of these mimic tempests on the organ, makes one feel the profaneness of the imitation.”

Now, it is fair to ask, if the organ is to be the guardian of the sobriety and gravity of modern art, who is to keep the organ in order?

“Quis custodiet ipsum Custodem?”

There were great abuses in the use of modern art at the Council of Trent. Yet the fathers of the council declined altogether to forbid its use. They tacitly allowed its continuance, as it had come into existence, and could not be removed without serious evils. And with regard to the favorable light in which its use was viewed by some of the bishops of that council, and by some other men of authority who have since spoken in its commendation, it should be borne in mind that all such commendation has had annexed to it the condition, _provided that such music be grave and decent, that the meaning of the divine words be not disguised in it, and that it possess nothing in common with the theatre_ (Benedict XIV., Encyclical Letter). Of which conditions the subsequent history of the use of modern music in the church is, to say the least, a very inadequate fulfilment, as the ensuing testimony will show.

Bishop Lindanus, quoted in the same Encyclical Letter on the subject of church music, says: “I know that I have often been in churches where I have listened most attentively to learn what it was that was being sung, without being able to understand one single word.”

Salvator Rosa, the celebrated painter of the XVIIth century, gives the following account of the church music of his day--the middle of the century:

“An effeminate and lascivious music is the only thing that people at all care for. The race of musicians eats up all before it, and princes do not scruple to lay burdens on their subjects to glut them according to their desires. The churches are made to serve as nests for these owls. The Psalms become blasphemies in passing through the mouths of these wretches; and no scandal can equal that of the Mass and Vespers, barked, brayed, and roared by such fellows. The air is so filled with their bellowings that the church resembles Noah’s ark. At one time it is a _Miserere_ sung to a _chaconne_ (a sort of polka of that day); at another, some other part of the Office adapted to music in the style of a farce.” (Quoted in M. Danjou’s _Revue de Musique_, 3d year, page 119.)

Again, Abbot Gerbert, in 1750, complains so deeply of the degradation of the church music of his day as to say, in the preface to his learned work _De Musica Sacra_, that the evil had grown to so great a pitch that, unless God in his mercy applied the remedy, which he had daily besought him to do, all was over (_actum est_) with the decorum and solemnity of the Catholic worship.

Yet this result ought really not to be a matter of surprise; for how can it be expected that the majesty and solemnity of worship should long survive when its music is left to the control of individual tastes?

Musicians, therefore, when they plead for modern music, must plead for it as it exists in an ideal form in their own minds; and the advocate for the use of the Ritual Chant objects to it, not as it might be if every organist and company of singers were other Davids and the sons of Asaph, but for being what he hears it to be with his own ears wherever he goes; for being what he knows it to have been, and still to be, from the testimony of writers and travellers; and, lastly, from what he foresees it will be to the end of time. The one has before his mind’s eye the harmonies of heaven and the choirs of angels, and hopes to attain to these with the elements of earth. A vision of glory flits before him, and, forgetting that the earth is peopled by sinners, he thinks it may at once be grasped. The other remembers the sad reality of what it is; he thinks of the churches in which he has been present, where he has heard the sounds of the theatre--the fiddle, the horn, and the kettle-drum; where he has heard the song of dancing-girls rather than of worshippers, and choruses rather of idolaters than of men believing in the mysteries at which they were present.

Ἠΰτε περ κλαγγὴ γεράνων πέλει οὐρανόθι πρὸ, Αἵτ’ ἐπεὶ οὖν χειμῶνα φύγον καὶ ἀθέσφατον ὄμβρον. Κλαγγῇ ταίγε πέτονται ἐπ’ ὠκεανοῖο ῥοάων, Ἀνδράσι Πυγμαίοισι φόνον καὶ κῆρα φέρουσαι.

_Iliad_, b. iii.

Or, in the more humble words of an English poet--

“As if all kinds of noise had been Contracted into one loud din.”

_Hudibras_, canto ii. book ii.

And I would ask, considering the endlessly varying caprices of the human mind, how any thing else except confusion and disorder is to be expected from the principle of the supremacy of individual taste; and if music in the Christian Church is to be regarded as called to fulfil the intention of a God of order, in what way it is expected that this end will ever be realized, where the safeguards of a fixed order and system are discarded, and individual discretion enthroned in their stead?

LAST POINT OF THE COMPARISON.

_Catholicity of the Ecclesiastical Song, or its Companionship of the Catholic Doctrines over the whole Globe._

This last point of the comparison, though far from the least weighty, to those who will fairly consider it, may happily be much more shortly stated. The Prophet Malachi predicted that, from the rising of the sun to its setting, God’s name should be great among the Gentiles, and a “pure offering” (_munda oblatio_) should be offered to him; a prediction fulfilled by the fact of the Christian missionaries having carried the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass over the globe. If, then, there be a song which has ever been the faithful companion of this Holy Sacrifice, wherever it has been conveyed; that has ever been present with it when solemnly offered; which has survived the passing away of generations; has undergone no change, but is now what it was of old; is the same to the priests of one nation which it is to those of another--if such a song there be, it will hardly be disputed that such is an accredited and authentic song of the Christian kingdom. Yet such is the Ritual Chant, which, at least in its well-known parts, has literally overspread the whole globe. A French traveller in Russia, finding there the Ecclesiastical Chant, and that the Greek Church had preserved it equally with the Latin, speaks of it as a part of the “_Dogme Catholique_”--these church traditions of song seeming to him as great a bondage as the church traditions of faith. (See a very well written paper in the _Ecclesiastic_ for July, 1846, a magazine conducted by clergy of the Established Church.)

If, then, the advocate for modern music be unable to point to any such fact as this for his art--if he be compelled to acknowledge that it is necessarily confined to people either of European origin or education; that it is no song for the Caffre of Africa, the Tartar of Asia, the savage of Australia, the Red Indian of North America, the Esquimaux, the Paraguay Indian--nothing but the luxury of the European; there can be little room to doubt that, on this last particular also, the Ritual Chant is the only adequate fulfilment of the divine idea.

DR. DRAPER.

In consequence of the eulogy passed by Prof. Tyndall on Dr. Draper’s book, which is entitled a _History of the Intellectual Development of Europe_, we inquired with some curiosity for this work, and have since examined it. It is evident that Prof. Tyndall himself is largely indebted to it, as he states; but a more flimsy and superficial attempt to trace the history of philosophy we have never met with. It seems that this gentleman, Dr. Draper, is a professor of chemistry and physiology at New York. His object, as he informs us, in this compilation, was to arrange the evidence of the intellectual history of Europe on _physiological_ principles. The style is feeble and incorrect, and the analysis of the Greek philosophy positively ludicrous. As, however, it might be inferred from Prof. Tyndall’s address that Dr. Draper was, like himself, a disciple and admirer of Democritus, we will give the American philosopher the benefit of citing his own appreciation of the atomic theory. After stating that the theory of chemistry, as it now exists, essentially includes the views of Democritus (a point on which we bow to his authority), he proceeds thus, if we may be permitted slightly to abridge a very clumsy sentence:

“A system thus based on secure mathematical considerations, and taking as its starting-point a vacuum and atoms--the former actionless and passionless, which recognizes in compound bodies specific arrangements of atoms to one another; which can rise to the conception that even a single atom may constitute a world--such a system may commend itself to our attention for its results, but surely not to our approval, when we find it carrying us to the conclusion that the soul is only a finely-constituted form fitted into a grosser frame; that even to reason itself there is an impossibility of all certainty; that the final result of human inquiry is the absolute demonstration that man is incapable of knowledge; that the world is an illusive phantasm; and that there is no God.”

Such is the sentence passed upon Democritus and the atomic theory by Dr. Draper, on whom Prof. Tyndall assures us that he relies implicitly as an authority in the history of philosophy. Dr. Draper’s account of the philosophical opinions and writings of Cicero is in the highest degree inaccurate. But enough; we have done with him, and we advise Prof. Tyndall to seek a better guide. Suppose, for example, he were to read the dialogue of Velleius and Cotta in the first book of the _De Natura Deorum_.[153]--_Edinburgh Review._

DANIEL O’CONNELL.

Man seeks in nature a hidden sympathy with himself. The quickened beatings of his heart, the restless currents of his mind, make for themselves a reflex image in the forces of the sea and sky. For ever, the white crests of the breakers rolling in from the western ocean curl up and lash themselves against the rocks on the coast of Kerry. For ever, in the gray dusk, the waves, advancing and retreating, moan out a sad and hollow sound. In sorrow and in gladness their monotone is the same. Yet it well might be that the Irish peasant, in the year 1775, gathering kelp for his patch of land from the shallow coves where the sea broke in over his naked feet, felt, without thinking too closely about it, that nature, chill, leaden, and stern, mirrored there his own lot. The sudden gleams of blue sky through the drifting clouds reflected a buoyant humor that no sufferings could quite subdue.

George III. had reigned fifteen years. Dull, bigoted, cruel; striving in a blind way to be honest, but his blood tainted with the stains of centuries of intolerance, he was now the living type of Protestant fanaticism. In Europe, the old order of things existed without break or fissure. In America, the first heavings of the volcano were plainly felt. The King, Lords, and Commons of Ireland existed in name. The Irish Parliament sat in College Green to register the degrees of the English Privy Council. But what a Parliament! Four millions of Catholics without a representative. The broken Treaty of Limerick might still be spoken of among the traditions of the Irish peasantry, but its guaranties had sunk more completely out of the mind of the English and Irish legislatures than the statutes of Gloucester. The Penal Code was in full legal effect. Burke had described it a few years before with the calmness of concentrated passion as “well-digested and well-disposed in all its parts; a machine of wise and elaborate contrivance, and as well fitted for the oppression, impoverishment, and degradation of a people, and the debasement in them of human nature itself, as ever proceeded from the perverted ingenuity of man.” Yet even Burke hardly gave credit enough to the magnificent qualities of the race which was able to survive this code. It failed in its object. It did not succeed in extirpating them. It never could degrade them, for they yielded neither to its blandishments nor its terrors.

But though holding fast the faith with such power as if God’s arm specially supported them therein for providential ends, English Protestant domination had broken down and crushed this once proud race to the very earth, in all material ways. The Israelites sweated not more hopelessly in the Egyptian sands. In some respects the lot of the Irish was worse. Their task-masters were an intruding race; they were aliens in their own land. The face of the country in many places still bore mute witness to Cromwell’s pathway of blood and fire. Then the scriptural image had been reversed, and the Irish had been hewn down like the Canaanites of old. The noonday horrors of Drogheda and Wexford had left a scar in the national memory which time has not yet effaced. Murder, lust, and rapine, under the guise of religious fanaticism, had made this people throw up its hands despairingly to heaven, as if hell itself had been thrown open, and its demons issued forth to scourge the land. The XVIIIth century had opened under changed, but it could hardly be said better auspices. The fury of destruction had ceased, but had been succeeded by the ingenious devices of legislative hatred and tyranny. The sword of Cromwell, dripping with the blood of men, women, and children, had given place to the gibbet of William of Orange. The lawless murderer was followed by the judicial torturer and jailer. The successors of William III. trod faithfully in his footsteps. The parliaments of Anne, of George I., of George II. heaped new fetters on the Irish papist. What wonder that a lethargy like death settled down upon the native race? The national idea was almost lost. It wavered and flickered like an expiring flame, yet was not quite extinguished. In caves and barns, by stealth, and at uncertain times, the Irish priest poured out a little oil from his scanty cruse which kept alive in the heart of his countrymen the memory of his religion and his national history. The “iron fangs” of the code relaxed a little during the first years of the reign of George III. Its victim lay stretched supine. More truly even than on a later occasion the words of Henry Grattan might have been applied to the condition of the country. Ireland “lay helpless and motionless as if in the tomb.” But though politically dead, the vitality of the race was inexhaustible, unconquerable. Population increased. There was little or no emigration except among the Protestant linen weavers of the north. The amazing fertility of the soil, spite of legislative drawbacks, made food plentiful. An English traveller, Arthur Young, in 1776, found the Irish peasantry quiet, apathetic, content to till their wretched holdings, at the mercy of their landlords, without complaint so long as they could keep a shelter over their heads, and had potatoes enough to eat. Political ambition or aspirations, the hope or even desire of shaking off their chains and asserting their rights as freemen, did not seem to exist among them. Thus far the oppression of centuries had done its work. Some efforts at enfranchisement had been made by the Norman Catholic aristocracy and the few old families of pure Irish blood who still held their estates, or portions of them, by sufferance; but the words of Swift continued true of the mass of the native race--not from want of natural capacity or manhood--far from it; but from the effect of this grinding oppression of centuries, and the systematic uprooting of all organization among them by English policy. They were “altogether as inconsiderable,” said the author of _Drapier’s Letters_, “as the women and children, … without leaders, without discipline, … little better than hewers of wood and drawers of water, and out of all capacity of doing any mischief if they were ever so well inclined.” Swift went further and declared them devoid of “natural courage.” But this was the libel of the Protestant Dean, not the belief of the Irish patriot. The title of the land, with a few unimportant exceptions, had passed completely out of the native race. Under the law none could be purchased. Education was forbidden. Yet such was the ardor of the inherited love of learning which had once distinguished the island, that Arthur Young found everywhere schools under the hedges, or, as he himself says, often in the ditches.

The breath of liberty was beginning to stir among the Protestants of the north, and the Volunteer movement was soon to lead the way to the short-lived recognition of the legislative independence of Ireland which terminated with the Union. But among the mass of the Catholic Irish peasantry no corresponding feeling as to their political rights was manifested, or was even in any degree possible. Arms were forbidden them. Terrible as the appellation sounds applied to that chivalrous race which had won a deserved renown on so many battlefields of Europe, at home they, were, in all outward respects, helots. The risings which sometimes took place were seldom or never political. They were solely agrarian. The infamous tithe-proctor roused a spasmodic, bloody resistance, which ended with the removal of the special cause exciting it, never extending to any effective organization against the political slavery under which they lay torpid. The Whiteboys and Hearts of Steel were not the material, nor were their aims and programmes the policy, out of which could spring such a revolution as was contemporaneously taking place in the American colonies. The mass of the people looked on in hopeless indifference at the outbreaks of those secret societies, or in some instances voluntarily combined against their indiscriminate violence. The native Irish bore their misery alone, without friends or sympathy except from France; and the interference of this power, by means of some feeble and unsuccessful landings in Ireland, served only to irritate England and tighten the chains of her captive. The mighty lever of moral support which is now wielded by the united voice of her sons in every quarter of the globe did not exist. In some counties, such as Kerry, where the native language was chiefly spoken, and the Milesian Irish largely predominated, the harsh hand of the law was never stretched out but to seize upon the substance or the life of the people. The memory of liberty could scarcely be said to exist in the hearts of this ancient race. That gift which the Greek fable had declared to have remained at the bottom of Pandora’s box when all else escaped, seemed to have taken wing from Ireland. Hope had fled.

In that age, under those skies, Daniel O’Connell was born.

One hundred years have passed. Rises now the Genius of the Irish race in America to celebrate the centennial anniversary of that glorious birth, to invoke in tones that peal across the waves--the memory of that illustrious and beloved name. A majestic, youthful presence, daughter of Erin, robed in white and with a garland of green upon her brow, comes with her sisters to lay a wreath upon the tomb of the Liberator of his country. _Non omnis moriar_, wrote the Latin poet:

“I shall not wholly die. Some part, Nor that a little, shall Escape the dark Destroyer’s dart And his grim festival.”

Conquerors and statesmen have repeated his words. But neither the glories of war nor the triumphs of politics have won for any a surer immortality than O’Connell’s. His fortunes waning at the close, his blighted hopes, the broken column of his labors, have only endeared his memory the more to his countrymen. Time has terminated discussion or softened its asperity. Nothing is remembered but his love and his labors for Ireland. From Montreal to New Orleans, from the first shore on which the Irish exile set his foot, across the continent to the Pacific Coast, over an expanse of country so vast that the parent isle would form but an oasis in its central desert--myriad voices repeat his name, proclaiming in various forms of words, but with one meaning, this eternal truth, that freedom beaten to the earth will rise again. If in spirit the heroic figure of the great Tribune could top once more the Hill of Tara, what a spectacle would spread out before his eye unobscured by its earthly veil! A mightier multitude would listen to his strong and mellow voice. The descendants of the men into whose bruised and downcast hearts he first breathed the hope and the ardor of liberty have built up a greater Ireland in America. Sharing in the glories and faithful to the traditions of American freedom--yielding to none in the duties of citizenship--they have yet carried with them, and handed down to their sons, that love of the mother country which seems ever to burn with a brighter flame in man’s heart in enforced or unmerited exile. Irish-American generals have equalled or eclipsed the fame of those distinguished soldiers whose exploits in the service of foreign powers are household words in the military history of the race.

Citizens and soldiers unite to commemorate the birth of the man whose single arm struck off the fetters that had bound their fathers for nearly three hundred years.

If we turn to Ireland itself, we shall find the change which has been accomplished in those one hundred years in some respects more profound and startling than the corresponding advance in the fortunes of the Irish in America. The latter has been the regular and graduated result of causes working in ascertained channels; the former has all the character of a moral revolution. Ireland has not, it is true, gained that political independence with which her sons in these United States started. But over the far longer road before her to reach that goal her stride has been vast and, if we consider the growth of nations, rapid. To appreciate the transformation in the character and position of the Irish peasant we must recall what he was in 1775. Catholic emancipation was a wrench to the religious and social traditions of the English nation, and at the same time a dead-lift to the moral status of the Irish, to which no parallel will be found in history. Repeal failed from causes which we can now easily discern, but which were hidden from O’Connell by his proximity to the Union. But no Coercion Bills can conceal the fact that the strength of Ireland is growing in a ratio greater than her bonds. The tendency of modern European politics, and, willingly or unwillingly, of English legislation itself, and the increasing material prosperity of Ireland, are adverse to them, and continuously wearing them away. Her national spirit is indomitable. The hour may be distant, but it is inevitable, when they will fall from around her, and she will step forth in all the majesty of freedom.

What, then, is the place O’Connell holds in the national development of his race during those one hundred years? What are the achievements, greater than all defeats, which demand from his countrymen a recognition that no centennial celebration of his memory can too honorably offer.

In any view of modern Irish history it is essential to a clear understanding of its motives that we should distinguish the character and position of the three great races occupying the island. It is not enough to divide the people into Saxon and Celt. The native Irish race, the blended result of the successive ancient colonizations of the island, remained essentially distinct from the Catholic Norman Irish even after the Reformation. The intermarriages and adoption of Irish customs, which had early given to the descendants of Strongbow’s followers the title “Hibernicis Hiberniores,” had still left them a higher caste. They retained a not inconsiderable portion of their great estates through all the civil wars. The Penal Code never fell upon them with the rigor and leaden weight that paralyzed the native Irish. Their wealth purchased immunity. Although formally ostracized from political life, their influence as landowners secured them consideration. The observance of the duties enjoined by their religion was connived at. In other cases they were powerful enough to make it respected.

Far different was the case of the Milesian Irish. Their history had been a series of heroic struggles, ending in what appeared to be irretrievable disaster. Before the process of consolidation, which was simultaneously going on all over Europe, and which would have welded the various septs and kingdoms into one nation, could be completed, the Norman invasion under Strongbow had introduced a new and more furious element of strife. The Reformation only changed their masters, but changed them for the worse. Hitherto they had been serfs. They now became helots. The glorious deeds of arms of the O’Neals and other chieftains, which more than once threatened to drive the English into the sea, delayed but could not finally avert the complete triumph of combined craft and superior resources. Projects for the extirpation of the native race were freely mooted. Famine, the sword, and the gallows at one time seemed almost to promise it. The same price was set on the priest’s and the wolf’s head. A non-Catholic writer, Lecky, gives this summary of the Penal Code as it existed when O’Connell was born:

“By this code the Roman Catholics were absolutely excluded from the Parliament, from the magistracy, from the corporations, from the bench, and from the bar. They could not vote at parliamentary elections or at vestries. They could not act as constables, or sheriffs, or jurymen, or serve in the army or navy, or become solicitors, or even hold the position of gamekeeper or watchman. Schools were established to bring up their children as Protestants; and if they refused to avail themselves of these, they were deliberately consigned to hopeless ignorance, being excluded from the university, and debarred under crushing penalties from acting as schoolmasters, as ushers, or as private tutors, or from sending their children abroad to obtain the instruction they were refused at home. They could not marry Protestants; and if such a marriage were celebrated, it was annulled by law, and the priest who officiated might be hung. They could not buy land, or inherit or receive it as a gift from Protestants, or hold life annuities, or leases for more than thirty-one years, or any lease on such terms that the profit of the land exceeded one third of the rent. If any Catholic leaseholder so increased his profits that they exceeded this proportion, and did not immediately make a corresponding increase in his payments, any Protestant who gave the information could enter into possession of his farm. If any Catholic had secretly purchased his old forfeited estate, or any other land, any Protestant who informed against him might become the proprietor. The few Catholic landholders who remained were deprived of the right which all other classes possessed, of bequeathing their lands as they pleased. If their sons continued Catholic, it was divided equally between them. If, however, the eldest son consented to apostatize, the estate was settled upon him, the father from that hour becoming only a life-tenant, and losing all power of selling, mortgaging, or otherwise disposing of it. If the wife of a Catholic abandoned the religion of her husband, she was immediately free from his control, and the chancellor was empowered to assign her a certain proportion of her husband’s property. If any child, however young, professed itself a Protestant, it was at once taken from its father’s care, and the chancellor could oblige the father to declare upon oath the value of his property, both real and personal, and could assign for the present maintenance and future portion of the converted child such proportion of that property as the court might decree. No Catholic could be guardian either to his own children or those of any other person; and therefore a Catholic who died while his children were minors, had the bitterness of reflecting upon his deathbed that they must pass into the care of Protestants. An annuity of from twenty to forty pounds was provided as a bribe for every priest who would become a Protestant. To convert a Protestant to Catholicism was a capital offence. In every walk of life the Catholic was pursued by persecution or restriction. Except in the linen trade, he could not have more than two apprentices. He could not possess a horse of more than the value of five pounds, and any Protestant upon giving him five pounds could take his horse. He was compelled to pay double to the militia. He was forbidden, except under particular conditions, to live in Galway or Limerick. In case of a war with a Catholic power, the Catholics were obliged to reimburse the damage done by the enemy’s privateers. The legislature, it is true, did not venture absolutely to suppress their worship, but it existed only by a doubtful connivance, stigmatized as if it were a species of licensed prostitution, and subject to conditions which, if they had been enforced, would have rendered its continuance impossible. An old law which prohibited it, and another which enjoined attendance at the Anglican worship, remained unrepealed, and might at any time be revived; and the former was in fact enforced during the Scotch rebellion of 1715. The parish priests, who alone were allowed to officiate, were compelled to be registered, and were forbidden to keep curates, or officiate anywhere except in their own parishes. The chapels might not have bells or steeples. No crosses might be publicly erected. Pilgrimages to the holy wells were forbidden. Not only all monks and friars, but also all Catholic archbishops, bishops, deacons, and other dignitaries, were ordered by a certain day to leave the country, and, if after that date they were found in Ireland, they were liable to be first imprisoned and then banished; and if after that banishment they returned to discharge their duties in their dioceses, they were liable to the punishment of death. To facilitate the discovery of offences against the code, two justices of the peace might at any time compel any Catholic of eighteen years of age to declare when and where he last heard Mass, what persons were present, and who officiated; and if he refused to give evidence they might imprison him for twelve months, or until he paid a fine of twenty pounds. Any one who harbored ecclesiastics from beyond the seas was subject to fines which for the third offence amounted to the confiscation of all his goods. A graduated scale of rewards was offered for the discovery of Catholic bishops, priests, and schoolmasters; and a resolution of the House of Commons pronounced the prosecuting and informing against papists ‘an honorable service to the government.’”[154]

This is a dark picture. Yet it is drawn by an unwilling hand. Instances might be accumulated where the severity of the law was outstripped by the barbarity of its execution. Important relief bills were passed in 1777 and 1793. But they provided only for the removal of some of the civil and political disabilities of the Catholics. The badge of religious degradation remained untouched. The heaviest fetters of that iron code still trailed after the limbs of the Irish Catholic. It is the glory of O’Connell that he finally snapped them in twain, and trampled them for ever in the dust. Englishman, Norman, and Milesian--the British colonist who clung to a proscribed faith in every quarter of the globe--shared in the results of that herculean labor.

But it is the special claim of O’Connell to the eternal gratitude of that native Irish race to which he belonged, that he, first of all, after that bondage of centuries, taught them to lift up their heads to the level of freemen. Had his work stopped at Emancipation, had his claim to fame and a place in the national memory been included solely in the noble title of Liberator, enough had been done by one man for humanity and his own renown. But in the course of that long struggle a greater and further-reaching consequence was involved. A transformation took place in the character of the native Irish, the full results of which are not yet visible. In their journey through the desert, in their marchings and counter-marchings, their victories and transient defeats, as they neared the borders of the promised land towards which he led them, a change wonderful, but not without parallel, became visible in their spirit and their hopes. Insensibly and by slow degrees the political torpor of centuries yielded to a new and living warmth. A generation sprang up which had flung aside the isolation and submissive hopelessness of 1775, yet was capable of a greater and more sustained effort than the frenzy of despair which prompted ’98. Under the ardor of O’Connell’s burning words, a full understanding of the functions of self-government permeated a race which had hitherto seemed to exist by the sufferance of its masters. He not only liberated his countrymen from religious bondage, he organized them into a nation. He gave them the first impact of self-government since the Invasion. And that impact is never again likely to be lost.

Daniel O’Connell did not, like some other great popular leaders, spring directly from the midst of the people whose passions he swayed and whose actions moved obedient to his will. His family belonged to the old Irish gentry. He had the advantages of that collegiate course in France which was the only way then open to Catholics of the upper classes to afford their sons a liberal education. Yet his family was allied closely enough to the people to make him share in all their feelings, sympathies, and sufferings. The author whom we have already quoted, with that curious blindness, the result of unconscious prejudice, which makes most non-Catholic writers, however otherwise acute, miss the true threads of Irish history, and insult the national sensibility at the very moment they think themselves the most liberal, sets down as a defect in O’Connell what was in reality the secret of his power. “With the great qualities,” he says, “of O’Connell there were mingled great defects, which I have not attempted to conceal, and which are of a kind peculiarly repulsive to a refined and lofty nature. His character was essentially that of a Celtic peasant.”

Yes, this was at once his glory and his strength. O’Connell’s personal traits of character reflected faithfully, on a heroic scale, the national features of his race. Not the coarseness nor scurrility ascribed to it by the stage buffoon or the unsympathetic publicist, but the powerful yet subtle understanding which has won for Irishmen in every age the highest distinction in the field and in the schools, the large, warm heart, easily swayed by generous impulses, the humor closely allied to tears which is the secret of the most popular oratory. It is this thorough identification with the national spirit, with the religion which the persecution of centuries had made inseparable from it, that makes O’Connell without equal or second among the great men who nobly contended for their country’s freedom at the end of the last and beginning of the present century. He stands alone, gifted with a power to which neither the highest intellect nor the most brilliant oratory could otherwise obtain. He swayed the force of the nation he had welded into shape. It was this tremendous lever--obedient, one might almost say without figure of speech, to his single arm--that enabled him to wrest Catholic Emancipation from the combined determined opposition of the King, Parliament, and people of England.

For forty years Henry Grattan labored with chivalrous devotion in the service of Ireland. His eloquence has a charm, a poetical inspiration, a classical finish O’Connell’s never equalled. It thrilled the Irish Parliament like the sound of a trumpet, and held spell-bound the hostile English House of Commons. His patriotism was as unselfish, his zeal, in a certain sense, as ardent as O’Connell’s. Yet what did Grattan ultimately accomplish? What was the end of all these noble gifts and labors? Having, as he said, “watched by the cradle” of the constitutional independence of the Irish Parliament, he lived to “follow its hearse”; and when he died in 1820, Catholic Emancipation, the cause of which had been committed to his hands, became more hopelessly distant than ever. His was individual genius, individual energy, of a very high, if not the highest, type. But it needed something more to win in such a cause. Classical eloquence was thrown away in such a struggle. The concentrated strength of national enthusiasm, careless of form, animated only by a single giant purpose, was demanded. Grattan, though such a man as Irishmen of every creed might well be proud of, was, unfortunately for his success in the attainment of great national aims, neither a Catholic nor identified with the “Celtic peasant.” He lacked the fundamental force bred of the soil. O’Connell, on the other hand, might truly be likened to that fabled giant of antiquity, Antæus, who gained a tenfold strength each time he was flung upon his mother earth. Well might he declare, when reproached on one occasion for the violence of his language, “If I did not use the sledge-hammer, I could never crush our enemies.” It was a war of extremities. It was an epoch surcharged with the elements of moral explosions, when men’s passions were roused to the highest pitch. Those who read now the measured language of Disraeli in Parliament will pause in astonishment when they turn back to the frenzied raving with which he replied on a memorable occasion to the terrible invective of O’Connell. In such an era of violence, of anarchic strife, Grattan’s “winged words” fell harmless, but O’Connell’s “sledge-hammer,” wielded with the arm of Thor, thundered its most effective blows.

Another great Irishman had passed off the stage while the young Dublin law student, Daniel O’Connell, was still only dreaming of the liberation of his country. Edmund Burke--revered and illustrious name!--had rounded off the labors of his long and honorable life in the cause of oppressed humanity, wherever found, by some strenuous and well-directed efforts for the relief of his Catholic fellow-countrymen. Yet he too failed, or at best gained but an indifferent success. The principles he enunciated are imperishable; his arguments will be preserved for ever among the grandest vindications of religious liberty in the English tongue. But in that age they fell upon deaf ears. He too wanted that element of success which comes from identity of race, religion, feelings, opinions, sympathies. To that native Irish race which must ever determine the destinies of Ireland he was a stranger. What a satire upon humanity to expect that men in their position--bondsmen, systematically, and under legal penalties, deprived of all education, of every means of information--could appreciate the teachings of a political philosopher, living in what they regarded, with good cause, as a foreign or even hostile country. It was well if they knew of his existence. He was no leader for them. Nor did Burke ever affect to act with them, but rather for them, upon the convictions of the higher English and Irish classes. Hence it is that O’Connell is to be regarded as the purely national type of leader; by means of action exercising a more powerful influence on human affairs through the wide-spread Irish race than Burke by means of thought.

It will thus be seen that we place O’Connell on a high plane--above, and different from, that of mere orators, or statesmen administering established affairs, however great. He is to be ranked with the nation-builders of all ages. This was the verdict of most contemporary European observers, of Montalembert, of Ventura, and other exponents of continental public opinion. To the English mind he was, and probably will always be, a demagogue, pure and simple. But so no doubt was Themistocles to the Persians. O’Connell stormed too many English prejudices--stormed them with a violence which to his opponents seemed extravagant and unendurable, but without which he could never have gained his end--to be forgiven. The judgment of his countrymen, however--the supreme arbiter for him--is already maturing to a decision in his favor which will place him in a niche in the hall of Irish heroes above all others, and side by side with that old king whose memory recalls the ancient glories and victories of Ireland.

But what of his defeats?--of the failure of Repeal? This is not a panegyric on O’Connell, but a sincere examination of his place in Irish history. In many instances, and above all on the question of Repeal, he miscalculated his forces and the strength of the forces opposed to him. Like the greatest men of action in every age, his movements were directed by the circumstances and exigencies of the occasion, by experience, by the shifting currents of events, by his ability to create those currents, or to turn them to his own purpose. The cast-iron rules of policy which political philosophers formulate in their closets may be singularly inappropriate for the uses of popular leaders. In 1829, under the banner of Moral Force, with the nation arrayed behind him, he had wrested Emancipation from the king and ministry. It was an immense triumph. His temperament was sanguine--an element of weakness, but also of strength. In the hopeless state in which he found Ireland, only a character of the most enthusiastic kind would have ventured on the crusade he opened. In 1843, he thought he could repeat his victory on the question of Repeal. But in 1829 Peel and Wellington yielded, not to moral force, which, so far as Ireland is concerned, is a term unknown in English politics, but to the armed figure of rebellion standing behind it. They were not prepared for the contest. In 1843, the English ministry were ready to crush opposition with an overwhelming military force. If they did not invite rebellion, as in ’98, they were equally ready to ride roughshod over Ireland. The circumstances of the contest had also changed. Catholic Emancipation attacked the religious prejudices of England; Repeal threatened its existence as a nation. It could grant the one, and still maintain its hatred of Popery; it could not yield the other without setting up a legislature with rival interests in politics and trade. The instinct of self-preservation was evoked. No argument will ever convince the average Englishman that in restoring a separate, independent Parliament to Ireland, he is not laying the foundation of a hostile state. The result in 1843 was inevitable. As soon as a sufficient military force was concentrated, remonstrance or negotiation ceased. England simply drew her sword and flung it into the scale. O’Connell and his associates were thrown into prison, and the guns of the Pigeon-House Fort were trained on the road to Clontarf.

In the varied history of the human race few spectacles have ever been presented of equal moral grandeur to those immense peaceful open-air meetings which gathered to hear the great tribune. No greater testimony was ever given of a nation’s confidence and love. Competent judges put down the number who assembled at the Hill of Tara at half a million of people. Yet to the unbiassed observer there is something almost as pathetic in the helplessness of this great multitude--hoping to wrest their independence from England without arms--as grand in the mighty surge of its numbers. It was the confederacy of the sheep against the wolves. O’Connell’s failure shows vividly how narrow is the plank upon which the popular leader walks between an immortal triumph and a prison cell. It reveals the tremendous power residing in an organized government, capable only of resistance by a people in arms and inured to the use of arms. That was a monster meeting of a different kind held on Bunker Hill one hundred years ago, and commemorated this year by these United States.

We are neither impeaching here the wisdom of the course pursued by O’Connell in 1843, nor advising armed rebellion against England at the present day. We discuss simply the historical aspects of the question in the light of the experience of other nations. Nothing can be more hazardous, however, or often absolutely fallacious, than broad generalizations from the history of other countries as capable of determining a particular line of policy for any given state. In nothing else did O’Connell show a higher wisdom as a leader of the Irish people than in rejecting those specious appeals to the success of arms in America, made by the more ardent patriots in 1845-46.

The circumstances of the two countries were radically different. The Americans exhausted every kind of “moral force” at their disposal, and their revolution, when it finally came to blows, was not aggressive but defensive; the policy of England made it incumbent on Ireland to strike the first blow in a contest which she would quickly have found herself unable to sustain. The Americans had a boundless territory; the Irish a narrow island, capable of being pierced from shore to shore by English troops in three weeks. The Americans were trained to arms by a war of one hundred years with the French and Indians, in which they were drilled and fought side by side with English regiments; the Irish--the native Catholic Irish, the people for whom O’Connell was responsible before God and mankind--could not keep a pike since the Treaty of Limerick. An Irish rebellion, therefore, would have meant simply a massacre; and O’Connell, in choosing the wiser course of present submission to superior force, merited as much, although in defeat, the gratitude of his countrymen as he did in his triumph in the cause of Emancipation. For it will have been gathered from what we have already said that we regard O’Connell’s greatest achievement in the service of his country--its political organization, the education of its sons in the knowledge of the rights and duties of freemen--as going on with equal step as well with the unsuccessful agitation for Repeal as with the triumphant struggle for Emancipation. His defeats carried with them the germs of victory. The most ardent lover of his country can scarce escape an uneasy feeling when he reads in the annals of Ireland that story, reiterated with painful monotony, page after page, of the harryings, the devastations, the ceaseless intestine wars, which mark its early history. It would seem sometimes as if the ancient learning of Ireland which produced those numerous and minute chronicles, served only the purpose of a reproach to the island which fostered it. Other nations had struggled through this transition period--common to the whole of Europe--and finally consolidated themselves into peaceful and harmonious states. But it was the misfortune of Ireland that this opportunity of domestic organization was snatched from her by a foreign invasion ending in a domination of which the cardinal principle was to “divide and conquer.” English writers satirize the civil discord of the Irish race, forgetful that from the time of Henry II. to that of George III. it was the steady, and as it then seemed intelligent, policy of successive English statesmen to foster wars between the rival chieftains and clans, to employ them against one another, and in every way to break down any incipient attempt at union, which must have been dangerous, if not fatal, to English power. No man had arisen among the Irish race till O’Connell’s time who neutralized that policy. He showed that they were capable of organization and self-government in a patriotic common cause. In those immense meetings which marked his progress, where men of every county united in one vast brotherhood, he proved, first, that the Irish people loved domestic peace and co-operation as much as any other race; and, secondly, that under happy auspices they possessed a wonderful capacity for order and self control. Even hostile observers concur in expressing as much admiration for the undisturbed peacefulness of those assemblages of from a quarter to half a million of people, as amazement at their vastness, unprecedented in history. They were the foundation of the political education of Ireland.

In another country, and a more remote age, another man of kindred, kingly spirit and organizing power, with whom O’Connell is not unworthy to be compared, had built up his vast empire by like national meetings, not less than by force of arms. In the great national meetings of the Franks, the _Champs de Mai_, Charlemagne gave the first impress of government to Europe, torn to pieces after the fall of the Roman Empire. O’Connell, another “king of men”--such as the Homeric legend sings of--emulated his labors on a less extended scale in Ireland. But the empire of Charlemagne fell to pieces with his death. Chaos reigned again. O’Connell’s work was more homogeneous, and promises to be more enduring. We are only entering upon the dawn of a more hopeful Irish history.

When we seek a comparison of individual action, in the history of England, with O’Connell’s, we are struck at once with the grand but sorrowful isolation of his position. Fortunate the country which has never needed a liberator! Happy the kingdom whose greatest revolution meant only a change of dynasty, a stronger leaven of republicanism, and surer guarantees against religious toleration! The growth of constitutional government in England has been comparatively steady and uniform. Never--since the amalgamation of races following the Norman invasion--subjected to the terrible consequences of conquest and occupation by a race alien in language, religion, and national prejudices, her political and religious struggles have been wrought out to an issue among her own population. Whenever her civil liberty or parliamentary privileges were threatened, sturdy champions were not wanting among her own sons. Her Pyms, Hampdens, and Eliots find their counterparts in the Grattans and Floods of Ireland. But the deliverer of a crushed and hopeless people, the inspired guide who led them out of bondage and defied their taskmasters, is a figure happily absent in English history.

The imagination naturally turns with vivid interest to great deeds of arms. The pomp and panoply of war, the heroic daring of the headlong charge, the valor, disdainful of death, that awaits with constancy an overwhelming foe--these are incentives to action, in presence of which the labors and even triumphs of peaceful agitation appear tame and slow. And the Irish are a people strongly susceptible to those influences. They are a warlike race. Wherever the tide of battle turns against great odds, where the smoke is thickest, and the carnage deadliest, there will be found some Irish name upholding the traditions of his country’s fame. O’Connell had therefore no easy task in restraining within peaceful limits the immense agitation he had evoked. And in estimating his place in history the same considerations place him at a disadvantage compared with those great warriors, the glitter of whose victories is identified with the warlike glories of their country. The “Bridge of Lodi,” the “Sun of Austerlitz”--these are talismanic words which then rang in people’s ears with startling sequence? Yet if we compare O’Connell’s labors and their results with those of the great soldier whose career had closed while the former was only beginning his peaceful struggle with England, there is no reason to shrink from the verdict. Emancipation was worth many Marengos. The _rôle_ of the Liberator may fairly be set off against that of the Conqueror. The civic crown of green and gold placed on O’Connell’s head on the Rath of Mullaghmast, in the presence of 400,000 men, was an emblem of true sovereignty greater in many ways than that iron crown which Napoleon lifted with his own ambitious hands from the altar at Milan. One was rust-eaten, it might be said, with the blood and tears of unknown thousands; the other was invested with the halo of peace, which the attainment of religious liberty and education in the rights of freemen had introduced into a million humble homes. The career of both Napoleon and O’Connell ended in defeat. But how conflicting the emotions of each as he gazed for the last time on the shores of his country! One, preoccupied by the shattering of his gigantic ambition, and the assertion of petty details of etiquette in the midst of the ruin around him; the other, oblivious of self, weighed down by the doom of famine impending over his country--his last words a solemn and pathetic appeal for its protection. In the hour of adversity, stripped of the adventitious circumstances of power, O’Connell stands forth a figure of greater moral grandeur. Of the victories of Napoleon nothing remains but their name, and the terrible retribution that has followed them. The influence of O’Connell’s unselfish labors in the cause of religious freedom has a future practically endless; and after a season of adversity and apparent forgetfulness, his political maxims and principles are again reviving in Ireland in the constitutional agitation for Home Rule. Not in the demand itself, stopping short as it does of Repeal, but in the means by which alone its advocacy may be made successful.

It is a curious instance of the ebb and flow of historical movements that O’Connell was at one time prepared to take up, under the name of “Federalism,” the present demand for “Home Rule.” Ultimately, as is well known, he was forced to abandon it by the mutiny of his followers, who would be satisfied with nothing less than simple “Repeal.” And this reluctance to adopt a middle course was natural enough at the time. In 1840-45 the Irish people were still too close to the Union; the infamous history of that measure and the burning eloquence of Grattan and Plunkett in denouncing it were too strongly impressed upon the national memory, to allow any hope of success to a leader who would promise less than its total erasure from the statute book. Too many were still living--like O’Connell himself--who could remember the brief yet glorious history of Irish legislative independence, to give up the belief that it was yet possible to see an Irish parliament sitting in College Green. Experience, and the statesmanship which does not aim at the unattainable, have shown the practical superiority of the lesser demand as a political programme at the present day. But this does not impugn the wisdom of the Repeal agitation. The true course of a people in its national affairs is necessarily learned slowly. There is no ready-made chart in politics; and were any offered, Burke’s satire upon geometrical demonstrations in state affairs would be conclusive against it. Experience, even the experience of failure, is the only trustworthy guide; and successive agitations, though varying in their object, keep alive the cause in the national memory.

Though the best and truest friends of Ireland, including that venerable hierarchy which has steadily seconded every rational movement for justice and equal rights, have never hesitated to give their support to O’Connell’s policy of moral force, there have not been wanting from the first restless spirits who have made it their bitterest reproach against him, that he was unwilling to fling away the scabbard and plunge the country into rebellion. It would be unjust to speak of all these men as influenced by unworthy motives. Some of them breathed, and still breathe, the purest aspirations of patriotism. But it was a mistaken patriotism, influenced by examples which might indeed make martyrs, but which would never lift one chain from the neck of their country. They might make good soldiers, but were poor leaders. Ireland was not then, and is not now, in a position to gain anything by a policy of violence.

But there are others, inflamed not with a love of Ireland, but with a spirit of hostility to all governments, who would plunge their country into bloodshed in hope of themselves floating to the top. These men are infected with the spirit of the Commune. They are revolutionists--not in the sense in which Washington or Hampden or O’Connell were revolutionists--leaders of great movements for the liberties of peoples--but socialists, whose single incentive is the envy and hatred of all superior authority. Most of all, they desire to supplant the Irish priesthood as the guides of the people. A sorry exchange, from the well-tried friends, proved by the exacting ordeal of a thousand years, to men of no responsibility--mere political gamblers--whose highest motive is ambition, but a lower and more common one, the love of easy-gotten money from confiding people. These conspirators are the promoters of the secret societies against which O’Connell warned the Irish people. But unfortunately they too often find that generous-hearted race--embittered by the recollection of centuries of oppression--willing to give ear to their delusive promises. Indifferent to their own future, these men rejoice in anarchy. Some of them are no doubt poltroons, who would fly as soon as they had led their dupes into danger. But it would be false to deny them all the attributes of courage. Others would die bravely enough behind a barricade. But their wars are essentially wars of the barricades. If defeated they would perish recklessly, having nothing at stake to make life valuable--absolutely indifferent to the slaughter, to the burned homes, to the widows and orphans of the unfortunate people who had submitted to their fatal guidance. If successful, their next attack would be upon the Catholic Church. But success under such leadership is a delusion wilder than the most exaggerated dream of fiction. They have no conception of a national revolution higher than a conspiracy. The elevated principles, the far-sighted calculations of a Washington, an Adams, or a Franklin, which almost assured success from the start, are an unknown language to them. Blind hatred, even of an existing tyranny, is a poor basis upon which to sustain a long and exhausting war. And no one, with the history of the American Revolution before him, can doubt what the character of an armed struggle with England for the independence of Ireland would be.

The same spirit of patriotism, therefore, that urged Washington to throw his sword into the scale in the contest with Great Britain, animated O’Connell with a contrary purpose in the case of Ireland. Yet not less is the latter deserving of the title of “Father of his Country.” Success has crowned the American patriot with a more splendid fame. But when we weigh the individual exertions of each in his gigantic struggle with the great empire opposed to him, and consider the incalculable advantages which a boundless territory and an intervening ocean afforded to the American leader, the Irish liberator will not suffer from the comparison. Washington was surrounded and sustained by a group of great men who would seem to have been providentially raised up at that momentous epoch to lay the foundations of the noble structure of American liberty. O’Connell, standing alone, an Atlas supporting the fortunes of six millions of Irish Catholics on his shoulders, is a figure unexampled in history. His herculean labors recall the fables of antiquity. In the whole parliamentary history of England we read of no other example of one man facing and trampling over the utmost hostility of that proud and powerful assembly--the English House of Commons.

Yet though the pre-eminence of O’Connell makes him appear almost a solitary figure in the records of that day, it would be unjust, in a notice of him, to pass over the assistance he received from the brilliant rhetoric and astute intellect of Richard Lalor Sheil. Though holding a subordinate place to that of the great Agitator, and accused of lukewarmness, in the end, by O’Connell himself, whose “Sheil, Sheil! this will never do,” has become historic, his early exertions merit a grateful remembrance. Nor can any Irishman ever forget the profound learning, the masterly reasoning, the weight of character which Dr. Doyle, the celebrated “J. K. L.,” brought to the contest in the early days of the Catholic Association. Rivalling Swift in the keenness of his satire, and “Junius” in the brilliancy of his style, he united to those qualities a purity of purpose and freedom from personal rancor which neither of those writers possessed. His life is an imperishable monument of the patriotism of the Catholic hierarchy of Ireland.

It is not the purpose of this article to speak of O’Connell’s position in the English House of Commons, of his action on the question of Reform, or the revenues of the Irish Church, on which he anticipated the tardy measure of Mr. Gladstone; nor of the truly liberal and tolerant spirit which made him welcome into the ranks of the Repealers the talented Protestant youth of Ireland, and oppose every manifestation of religious rancor wherever he found it. We have sufficiently pointed out what we believe to be his enduring claims to immortality--Catholic Emancipation, and, in pursuance of that aim and of Repeal, the new level of political thought and action to which he lifted the Irish race. He is the grandest representative of the pure Celtic blood of Ireland that the ages have produced. His power, like that of all other great national leaders, depended upon that representative quality. And he used his power faithfully. Unlike the great German chancellor of the present day, who, beginning with the _rôle_ of a national liberator and organizer, has ended in a career of foreign domination and domestic persecution, O’Connell never perverted the strongest and noblest of popular forces to the uses of tyranny under any form. Prince Bismarck’s plans lead up to that very régime of hate, cruelty, and oppression which O’Connell combated in Ireland, and if they become the settled policy of the Empire, must in time give birth to a German Liberator.

It remains only to say a word upon the future of that Irish people to whom O’Connell devoted his life. We will not venture upon hazardous speculations. The wisdom of his policy was never more apparent than to-day. The motives upon which it was founded repeat themselves anew. There are too many interests in Ireland--Irish and Catholic interests--opposed to revolutionary violences, to make rebellion either desirable or practicable. It is only those who want to confiscate and live by tumult that cry out for it. The same communists who burned Paris and murdered its priests and archbishop under the name of liberty, would like to sack Dublin under the cry of “Down with the Saxon!” National ideas are everywhere the footballs of those radicals, by which they lead the easily-swayed multitude to follow them in their game of plunder. But an Irish communist--that is, one born of a Catholic Irish stock--is a creature of abnormal growth. He will never make much headway in Ireland.

The true course of modern Irish politics points to the assertion of that principle of federalism which has been established as the basis of government in Austro-Hungary, in Canada and all the great free British Colonies, and in the United States, and which, under the name of “Home Rule,” is now the matured policy of the trustworthy exponents of Irish public opinion. We would not be understood to commit ourselves to any particular political programme, but before any of what may be termed sentimental considerations, it would seem that the leaders of public opinion in Ireland must direct their energies to build up its material prosperity, and this can be best accomplished by local self-government. Unanimity in its pursuit is therefore demanded even of those who ultimately look beyond it. A rich and prosperous community will not long remain enslaved. It is only the poor who are trampled on, among nations as among individuals. It must be admitted, however, that nothing could well appear more hopeless than the present position of the Home Rulers in the English House of Commons. The decisive triumph of the Conservative reaction has put them out of the calculations of both parties. But this state of things is not likely to exist in the next Parliament, nor in the one after. Courage and endurance, therefore--the virtues of O’Connell--are the virtues that are needed in this temporary Slough of Despond. The contempt, so loudly and persistently expressed as to imply some apprehension, the frenzy of opposition, Home Rule has evoked in the House of Commons, we do not count for more than it is worth. It is not more bitter or uncompromising than the same feeling prior to Emancipation or even Reform. The same threats of eternal opposition were then common. It took sixty years of active opposition to gain the former; the same number at least and enormous outside agitation to carry the latter. The success of great national movements is necessarily slow against existing forces, and must often be transmitted from generation to generation. There is no need therefore of discouragement at a temporary check. Local self-government--the same that exists in New York and Massachusetts, and for the same objects--leaving foreign and exclusively national questions for the consideration of an Imperial Parliament, as for Congress--is a demand that commends itself to the feeling of justice of all mankind, a feeling which England will eventually be unable to resist. We are not of those who inculcate an eternal policy of revenge. This is easy for irresponsible demagogues to preach, but blows are not given without being received. The reality, the dreadful experiences of war, soon teach moderation where war is felt. Even were the two states independent, peace with England would be the true policy of Ireland.

As for the Irish in America, the future lies before them brilliant, unclouded. It is bounded only by their own ability to make it honorable and useful. Relying primarily, like every other man in the community, upon his own industry, sobriety, and energy, the Irishman in the United States or Canada may attain to any position he is fitted for. If in some instances he has to encounter native prejudices, these will be best overcome by an earnest effort on his own part to observe faithfully all the duties of citizenship. No one who does so will ever fail to obtain the respect and support of his Protestant neighbors. Those who make foreign grudges their first consideration must expect to be looked upon as strangers. Yet we must face what exists. So long as the stream of immigration continues to pour into this country, so long will there be a large body of our countrymen, receiving continual accessions, whose dearest thoughts will be directed towards Ireland, their bitterest towards England. This is inevitable. England reaps the fruit of her past. She is now in the position of a jailer who would fain take off the handcuffs from her prisoner, but dares not, for fear of retrospective revenge. The misgovernment of ages cannot be blotted out from the memory of the misgoverned in a day--nor in a hundred years. It is a national Nemesis; and it will be well for England if it do not overtake her in some dreadful form. This feeling naturally finds its strongest expression in the United States. Sympathy with the mother country will never fail. And God forbid that it should do so. But let that sympathy take a proper direction, an efficient form. Give the strength of your moral support--of your purses, if you will--to the men who are carrying on under a different form the work of O’Connell in Ireland--who are now bravely struggling for Home Rule. But turn a stern countenance on those adventurers and desperadoes who have nothing wiser to advise than wild and criminal incursions into a friendly province, where Irishmen possess all the rights they do here, or conspiracies and secret societies in Ireland--projects which make the honest patriotism and tried courage of Irishmen a farce for the laughter of mankind. The Irish in America have many traps laid for their nationality and their faith; but let them avoid the snares of revolutionary, infidel leaders for themselves, and of godless schools for their children, and the day will eventually dawn when the weight of their support will turn the scale in favor of their country’s rights against England. This is the true way to follow the example and honor the memory of O’Connell.

In spirit, the Great Liberator still beckons the way to his countrymen. The echo of that voice, sonorous, but clear and sweet as a silver bell, is heard no more on the hillsides of Erin. The clover springs up where the feet of thousands pressed closer to listen to its magic spell. But his memory is eternal as the hills themselves.

“By constancy like his sustained, Pollux, of yore, and Hercules, The starry eminences gained.”[155]

Unwearied by labors, animated by a single passion--the love of country--men like him “becoming the heroes and benefactors of the human race, attain to the glory of immortality.” The national historian, in a future age, will date the rehabilitation of Ireland from the birth of O’Connell.

ULTRAISM.

To be ultra is to go beyond. It is to attack the sceptre in the name of the throne, and the mitre in the name of the altar; it is to maltreat the thing you support; it is to kick in the traces; it is to cavil at the stake for undercooking heretics; it is to reproach the idol with a lack of idolatry; it is to insult by an excess of respect; it is to find in the Pope too little papistry, in the king too little royalty, and too much light in the night; it is to be dissatisfied with the albatross, with snow, with the swan, and the lily, in the name of whiteness; it is to be the partisan of things to the point of becoming their enemy; it is to be so very pro that you are con.--_Victor Hugo._

MARIA IMMACOLATA OF BOURBON.[156]

We still see her, a gentle and beautiful girl of fourteen, seated beside her brother, the exiled King of Naples, in a low carriage which passes through the Villa Borghese, in Rome. Her face is of the Bourbon mould. A fair, open forehead, doubly suggestive of the water-lily, because of its snowy whiteness and the innocent frankness with which it seems to turn towards heaven. Bright hazel eyes, the limpid, loving depths of which are expressive of the innocence and purity of the soul, which gives them life and light; while the lines of her chaste mouth and finely-chiselled chin are ever forming themselves into a subdued smile of love, of peace, and of quiet resignation. There is a modesty, and withal an elegance in her dress and carriage, which strike the beholder at once. Her eyes do not wander about, but are fixed with trusting tenderness on the face of her brother, or rest affectionately upon the beautiful greyhound which crouches at her feet and looks up at her with an earnestness almost human. It may have been a mere fancy of ours, founded on our knowledge of the history of that lovely creature; but it always seemed to us that the earnest look of the dog at its young mistress was one of pity as well as of affection--pity because she was an exiled princess; affection, because she was fair to behold and gentle in demeanor, and the life-giving spirit of both qualities was a pure and noble soul, which we have since learned to regard with a veneration not unlike that which we bear towards a saint. We do not purpose to write her biography, nor even her memoirs. We will merely sketch briefly, and in the simplicity with which they were narrated to us, some recollections of that short life of nineteen years which wrought a chastening and ennobling influence upon all whose happiness it was to be near her.

Maria Immacolata Aloysia of Bourbon was the youngest child but one of Ferdinand II., King of Naples, and Maria Theresa of Austria, his second wife, and was born in the castle of Caserta, on the 21st of January, 1855. Her father the king died when she was quite young, and was succeeded on the throne by Francis II., the first-born of his marriage with the saintly Maria Christina of Savoy. After the death of Ferdinand, the Queen-Mother, Maria Theresa, devoted all her energies to the religious and secular education of her four children, the Princess Maria Pia; Prince Don Pasquale, Count of Bari; the subject of this sketch, Princess Maria Immacolata, and Prince Don Gennarino, Count of Caltagirone. In doing this she was actuated by a strong sense of the obligations of a Christian mother towards her children, while she felt that in discharging these obligations with fidelity she paid a worthy tribute to the memory of her deceased consort. Maria Immacolata, even in childhood, showed herself worthy of the sweet name which was given her in baptism, and the name of Aloysia was peculiarly becoming to her; for as S. Aloysius was called “the Angel of the Court of Mantua,” so did her sweet and angelic disposition win for her the appellation of “Angel of the Court of Naples.” Naples, however, was not destined to possess its “angel” long. The sad history of the treacherous expulsion of Francis II. by his own first cousin, Victor Emanuel, is too well known to need recital here. Enough to say, that in 1861 the Bourbons were forced to fly from the fortress of Gaeta and seek refuge in Rome, which was still the home of the exile, the weary, and the world-worn. As their father Ferdinand had offered an asylum to Pius IX. when the revolution of 1848 drove him from Rome, so now the noble heart of the Pontiff sympathized with the exiles, and he forthwith ordered the Quirinal Palace to be prepared for their reception. King Francis soon after took up his residence in the Farnese Palace, and the Queen-Mother retired with her four children to Palazzo Nipoti. It is into this sanctuary of piety, order, and industry that we would introduce the reader, that he may admire with us the domestic virtues of that Christian mother Maria Theresa. All is order, tranquillity, and modesty. Each prince has his own separate apartment and his own instructors. The hours for retiring to bed at night, rising in the morning, for prayers, Mass, study, meals, and recreation are regularly established. Besides the ordinary exercises of piety, there is a religious instruction given once a week, and a spiritual retreat once a year, at which the queen herself and every member of her household assist. She is the ruling and guiding spirit of all, and it was but natural, under the influence of such a perfect model, that the children should soon give evidences of those rare qualities of mind and soul which, in later years, became the theme of general admiration. Such was the domestic life of the exiles. It was here that the character of Maria Immacolata began to develop itself with singular beauty. Naturally pious, she loved God tenderly. At the religious instructions she observed a gravity of demeanor rarely met with in a child of her years, and on retiring to her room, she used to note down upon a slip of paper the principal points in the discourse which she had just heard. Her temperament was a lively one, and no one enjoyed the hours of recreation more heartily than she did. Yet it was apparent to all as she grew up that she was struggling hard to obtain a perfect mastery over herself, and the success which attended her efforts was especially manifest in her affectionate obedience to the queen, to her elder brothers and sister. The sweetest little nook in the Nipoti Palace was the room of Maria Immacolata. It was so small, so neat, so orderly, and the little altar in one corner, surmounted by a statuette of the Immaculate Conception, and ornamented with sweet-smelling flowers, told more plainly than words could who was the occupant. During the month of May her room became a little Eden of flowers in honor of the Virgin Mary. But other flowers were offered up to Our Lady which were far more acceptable to her than the fairest flowers of earth. On the altar stood a little vase of porphyry, containing a number of slips of paper, upon which was written the name of some virtue, some act of charity to be performed, or little mortification to be practised. Every morning, she and her sister, Maria Pia, repaired together to this urn, and, with joy depicted in their countenances, each drew out a slip of paper. Immacolata was always wont to say, when she had read her slip of paper, “O mamma! I need this virtue so much.” It has been said that love is ingenious; and if this be true of that love which creatures, following a God-given instinct, bear one towards another, it must find a proportionately more beautiful application in the love which a pure creature of the earth cherishes for the Immaculate Queen of Heaven. Maria Immacolata and her sister were not content with practising daily the virtues named on each slip of paper, but on the last day of the month they collected all the slips of paper together, and, with the addition of some lilies, they wove them into a chaplet, with which they crowned the statue of their Queen. The idea had a doubly beautiful significance, being suggestive at once of purity of heart and the traditional love of the Bourbons for the lily. The young princess was scarcely eleven years of age when she was told, to her unutterable delight, that she might prepare to receive her First Communion. In this event of her life our admiration is divided between the solicitous care of her noble mother in preparing her daughter for a worthy reception of the Blessed Eucharist, and the holy readiness and thorough spirit of appreciation with which the child performed all that was enjoined upon her. In order to remove every possible occasion of distraction during the spiritual retreat of eight days, which she made in the palace under the direction of a Jesuit father, she sent all her toys to a conservatory of little girls, and on the day previous to her beginning the exercises, she was overheard to say to a parrot, of which she was very fond, “Bird, you and I must part for awhile; a great Visitor is coming, and I must prepare to receive him.” She went so far as to deny herself the cup of chicken-broth which she was in the habit of taking in the morning, because of her delicate constitution. During the retreat she prayed most fervently to S. Aloysius, to whom she was tenderly devoted, beseeching him to obtain for her the grace of overcoming the enemies of her soul--the world, the passions, and the demon. After her death, a slip of paper was found in her prayer-book, upon which she had noted down all that she intended to ask our Lord for at her First Communion. She seems to have been strongly attached to her governess, for she writes: “and I will pray for Maria Laserre, that she may never be separated from me; and I will also pray,” said the child, “for Victor Emanuel, that God may enlighten him and pardon him all the harm he has done to us.” The first prayer received a gracious hearing, and we find Maria Laserre her constant and cheerful companion in all the trials and vicissitudes to which that short and guileless life was afterward subject. The other prayer reveals a sensitive soul, which was penetrated to its depths with a full and saddening consciousness of the monstrous wrongs which her family had suffered from their disloyal cousin, and at the same time a generous, forgiving spirit, not unlike that which prompted the touching prayer of Christ upon the cross, “Father! forgive them.” Many a noble deed is recorded of the Bourbons when they were in power, when the _fleur-de-lis_ was the emblem of a glorious reality; but there is a sublimity of pathos in the forgiving prayer of the delicate child of eleven, despoiled of every vestige of royalty but her princely name, which is far beyond our appreciation, and is only justly estimated by Him who taught us to forgive the trespasses of others if we would hope for the forgiveness of our own. For all the favors which she asked of S. Aloysius she promised to give him a clasp of diamonds, which she had received from the king her father. Her anxiety, however, was great lest her mother might not consent to her parting with such a precious souvenir, as will appear in the letters which she wrote to the saint during the retreat, and which were found after her death in a small silver purse which she carried about with her. They are written in elegant French. As they were never intended for mortal eyes, but were addressed in all innocence and simplicity to a saint in heaven, we take them up with all possible delicacy, and reverence for the chaste heart of which they were the candid outpouring. While they bear testimony to her purity of soul, they are also an evidence of what religion was to her--not a hard, galling yoke, which must be borne from sheer necessity, nor a heavy burden, to be carried only on a Sunday or a holyday. No, there was an every-day warmth in her religion; it was something near at hand, familiar, consoling, and refreshing, and nowhere more perfectly embodied than in the short definition of the Redeemer: “My yoke is sweet, and my burden light.” Here is one of her letters:

“O great saint! who never lost your innocence, and who by your sanctity brought so much glory and honor upon your mother; S. Aloysius Gonzaga, patron of the young, you who were possessed of a great knowledge of the world and of human frailty, I recommend myself to you, that, by your intercession with Jesus Christ our Lord, you obtain for me the grace that I too may make a good First Communion. S. Aloysius Gonzaga! you who knew so well how to make a First Communion, oh! grant that the First Communion may be for me the beginning of a new life, the rule and guide of all my actions; and that I too may begin to battle courageously with the world, the demon, and my own passions. Grant me this favor, O great Saint! Meanwhile, I choose thee for my protector, and I will recommend myself to thee every day, in every sorrowful trial, at every suggestion of the enemy, and in every instance of impatience; and when temptation assails me, I will say a Gloria Patri for thee.

“MARIA IMMACOLATA OF BOURBON (great sinner).

“_Postscript._--Pray for me, O great Saint! and obtain for me these graces. Glory be to God the Father! O my S. Aloysius Gonzaga! pray that mamma will permit me without hesitation to carry as a gift to your chapel that little clasp of diamonds, and give me light to know how to ask her well for the favor, and how to reply, if she makes any objection.

“THE GREAT SINNER.”

Another letter is couched in these terms:

“O S. Aloysius Gonzaga! you see that I recommend myself to you every day, as I promised you. Now, obtain this grace for me, that mamma may look at me with a good face when I ask her for the cope for Father N., of your own society; but especially when I ask her for the first favor (permission to bestow the diamonds upon S. Aloysius), that she may say yes without hesitating; and that she may also allow me to give my photograph to Don Domenico (an old domestic in the family). But let mamma say _yes_ without difficulty. I ask you earnestly. Glory be to the Father.”

Here is another precious document:

“O S. Aloysius! my protector, I again recommend myself to thee. Give me light and obtain for me the grace that I may make my First Communion well. O happy day! O day that comes but once! O thrice happy day! Great Saint! give me thy faith, give me the faith of all the saints. Pray that I may not be ashamed to confess my sins. Meanwhile, I am thankful to thee for the favor which thou hast granted me in the clasp of diamonds, and for other favors, which I received from thee on other occasions. Pray for the most humble servant of God.

“M. I. OF B. (great sinner).

“_Postscript._--I recommend myself to thee, my dear protector; do me this favor: ask God to pardon me.”

The “thrice happy day” came at last, and on the 24th of December, 1865, she received Holy Communion from the hands of Cardinal Riario Sforza, in the same chapel in which her “dear Protector,” S. Aloysius, pronounced his vows. This chapel is in the Roman College, where S. Aloysius lived and died. It was beautifully ornamented for the occasion, and, besides the king, queen, and queen-mother, with their suites, a number of distinguished persons were present, and a score of little girls, dressed in white, assisted at the Mass, bearing lighted tapers in their hands. Every eye rested on Maria Immacolata, whose recollection edified all present. The smile which played around her mouth, and the blush which mantled her cheeks, were but faint indications of the happiness in her soul. What passed in that abode of purity and innocence is known only to herself and Him whom she loved. We can only narrate what we saw. Having obtained permission, she repaired with her governess, after thanksgiving, to the room of S. Aloysius, and with a face all aglow with joy, she placed a little casket on the altar. It was the clasp of diamonds. On leaving the room of the saint, she remarked to her companion that she was overwhelmed with gratitude towards God. “I must make him a present;” and before the day was over she had bestowed every coin in her purse upon his poor. Only one piece of gold was reserved, and that she sent on the following day to a conservatory, to clothe a little orphan girl of her own age, who was preparing for her First Communion. But of her boundless charity we will have more to say anon.

The summer of 1867 found the royal exiles at Albano, a charming country resort on the Appian Way, about fifteen miles from Rome. They had not been there long when the Asiatic cholera broke out with a violence unprecedented in the history of that terrible plague. The victims daily were numbered by hundreds. Not a family in the city was spared.

The first victim in the Bourbon family was the young Prince Gennarino, a bright little boy of eight years. At the first symptoms of the malady he asked for his confessor, and confessed with such compunction of heart that the good priest was moved to tears. He begged earnestly that he might receive Holy Communion; “for,” said the little fellow, “I want to die like a man.” Though he was so young, his request was granted. His First Communion was his Viaticum, and “like a man” the young Bourbon passed to another life. But death had singled out a more illustrious victim in the person of Maria Theresa, the Queen-Mother. Her whole life having been one of preparation, her death was that of the just. And here we would willingly stop to admire the character of that noble Christian mother, and worthy descendant of the great Maria Theresa of Austria; but we are restrained from doing so by the reflection that we cannot pay a more worthy or glowing tribute to her memory, than by sketching the life and character of her saintly daughter Maria Immacolata. To a heart so sensitive, so appreciative and affectionate, as was that of Immacolata, the death of a mother was a great blow, and it was a long time before she could be comforted. King Francis now became the natural protector of the orphans, and took them to his own residence in the Farnese Palace, in Rome. The habit of study had already been formed in the children by their saintly mother, and so they applied themselves with renewed vigor to the acquisition of knowledge. Maria Immacolata was gifted with talents of the highest order. Besides speaking her own language with captivating sweetness she spoke French and German fluently, and the facility with which she could pass from one language to another was surprising. Drawing was her passion, and her sketches in oil and water colors gave evidence of no inconsiderable genius. Wherever she went, she brought her drawing materials with her, and amused herself by sketching landscapes, palaces, villas, and the like. She was equally skilled in portraits, and the last production of her pencil, a beautiful picture of the Immaculate Heart, has been very much admired. Literature was another source of pleasure to her. Though she had a lofty appreciation of the beauties of the Italian language, and was passionately fond of reading, she was never known to indulge in light and promiscuous literature. While applying herself to the cultivation of her mind, she did not forget the more modest accomplishments which become her sex; and there are several beggars in Rome this day who will show, with no small pride, the coarse stockings which were knitted for them by the tiny hands of Maria Immacolata of Bourbon. But these and many other accomplishments were but as the gold which encircles a diamond of rare value and purity. Her richest treasure was her humility and modesty. Her conversation, though entertaining and lively, was modest; her deportment, though easy and graceful, equally so. The sweetness of her disposition was especially noticeable in her treatment of domestics.

In the October of 1867 the Eternal City was thrown into a state of excitement and trepidation by the news that Garibaldi, with his horde of desperadoes, was on the march for Rome. The little army of the Pope prepared to make a gallant defence, and a number of chivalrous Roman youths of the best families offered themselves to swell the ranks of the Papal legions. Francis II. and his two brothers were among the first to rush to the defence of the country--the only country which was now left them. Their two orphan sisters, Maria Pia and Maria Immacolata, were consequently left alone in the Farnese Palace. They did not remain long unprotected, for the Holy Father sent for the two princesses, and had them brought into the Vatican, where the magnificent apartment of the Countess Mathilde had been prepared for them. Here they remained until after the battle of Mentana, and the Papal troops returned in triumph to the city. While the children were in the Vatican, they assisted every morning at the Pope’s Mass, and received Holy Communion daily from his hands. Every day, when he went to take his usual walk through the galleries and corridors of the palace, he sent for the orphans, and by his sweet and consoling conversation made them forget the anxiety which tortured them about their brothers. During those days--the happiest of her life--Maria Pia conceived a veneration and love for the Holy Father which she cherished ever afterwards, and which, we may here remark, was characteristic of her mother, Maria Theresa. When the storm had blown over, the orphans returned to the Farnese Palace, and resumed their usually quiet and retired life. It did not last long. This time it was not the Garibaldian hordes that marched upon the city, but the well-disciplined troops of a king who called himself “the dutiful son of Pius IX.” To be brief, the year 1870 was one of woe to the Romans, but to none was it more sorrowful than to the poor persecuted Bourbons. Once more they were forced to fly, and in their flight the noble family was obliged to divide itself. Some of them fled into Bavaria, some to France, while Maria Immacolata went with her sister, now Duchess of Parma, into the Tyrol, and afterwards to Cannes, on the confines of France. She was accompanied by her governess Maria Laserre, her faithful friend and comforter in every trial.

But the cold climate of the mountains was too severe for Immacolata. She was a frail, delicate flower, and under the rough, inclement blasts of a northern winter she began to wilt away. What with her weak health and her strong affection for the Holy Father, she began to pine for Rome, her country, as she called it. All this passed within her own bosom. For the rest, she was patient, resigned, and more forgiving than ever towards those who were the cause of her exile, first from the land of her birth, and afterwards from Rome, to which her heart clung most lovingly. A soul so closely united to God as was hers, soon found the wherewithal to comfort her, and it was with a smile of heavenly joy in her countenance that she brightened up and said to her maid, “Ah! well, there is one consolation left me: the poor I have always with me.” From her infancy she had been noted for her charities. What little she possessed in childhood she gave to the poor joyfully. When she grew up and received a monthly allowance from her mother for ordinary expenses, she gave with such a liberal hand that her allowance used to be exhausted long before the end of the month came. The Queen-Mother had become so accustomed to the charitable prodigalities of her daughter that she used to say when she would hear a modest knock at her door, about the 20th of each month, “Here comes my little prodigal daughter; but, God bless her! she has not wasted her substance.” When the Queen died, and Maria Immacolata came into her inheritance, her charity was more a profusion than a giving; and it was remarked that no one knew anything of her charities. The gospel directed her to give in secret, and the Holy Spirit assured her that the “Father who seeth in secret” would reward her. It was her chief delight, when she went out to take a walk, to gather the young people around her, and ask them the catechism, and teach them how to pray; and in order to stimulate them to study the catechism thoroughly, she would give them rosaries, medals, and pictures, which she had sent to her at regular intervals from Rome. Whenever she met any one who was on the way to the Eternal City, she could not restrain her tears, as she thought of the happiness which was denied to herself; and, she would often remark, “It is _so_ cold here, that not only the body, but the soul too shivers for that warmth which can only be felt near the Vicar of Christ.”

About this time she became acquainted with Henry Bourbon, Count of Bardi, son of Charles III. of Parma, and nephew of the Count of Chambord. Her sister, Maria Pia, had already been married to Robert, Duke of Parma, and the nuptial blessing was pronounced by the Holy Father, in the year 1869. As her sister’s marriage was one of Christian love, not of political or worldly interest, contracted under the influence of religion, and not to keep up the “equilibrium of relationship,” as the saying is in Europe, so was the marriage of Immacolata with the Count of Bardi. Among other motives in favor of accepting his hand in marriage she was wont to adduce this one, that the fact of his having been educated in the college of the Jesuits at Feldkirch was an assurance to her that her marriage would be a happy one. As she had prepared herself for the reception of her First Communion, so by recollection and spiritual exercises did she dispose herself for the Sacrament of Matrimony, and on the 27th of November, 1873, she became the Countess of Bardi. The marriage was a modest celebration throughout. The domestics of the family and the poor of the city were the only merrymakers. As for the young spouses, they were destined only to drink the cup of tribulation. The lily of Bourbon was fast drooping, the color was fading from her cheeks, and the unnatural brilliancy of her eyes told, more clearly than words could, that Immacolata was not destined to live much longer. No one knew this better than herself. Still she was resolved to do her duty, as if she had long years before her. She began by studying the character of her husband. Prior to all, however, she had marked out for herself a simple line of conduct, which she couched in the two words, “affectionate submission.” In the heaven-given light of this resolution, she loved him, and by its influence and the discharge of all those kind and endearing offices which are the noble prerogatives of the gentler sex, she won his confidence, and strengthened his affection, as with a wall of granite. Having acquired a thorough knowledge of his character, she anticipated every desire of his, and executed his every wish with such readiness that he was afterwards known to say that he could not decide whose wish she accomplished, his or her own. In this way she obtained great influence over him, but she only exercised it in the things of God. Wherever she knelt down to pray, there he knelt at her side. When she was gone to her rest, he was heard to say of her, “She took me by the hand, and led me to God.”

On the day after their marriage the young spouses set out on a journey to Egypt. The voyage was long and ill-suited to her delicate constitution; but she went cheerfully, thinking not of herself, but only how she might please her consort. During the forty days they were sailing up the Nile, she lay prostrate with a malignant fever, which, together with the ravages of consumption, reduced her almost to the last extremity. It was hoped that she would rally during their voyage in Upper Egypt, but in vain. When they arrived there, she became weaker and weaker, until, finally, the most they hoped for was that she might live until their return to France. Setting sail from Cairo, they arrived at Marseilles in the March of 1874, where she rallied at the sight of her sister, Maria Pia, and her beloved governess, Maria Laserre, who had come to meet her. In a consultation of her physicians, it was resolved to bring her to Cauterets, a little village in the Upper Pyrenees, and celebrated for its sulphur baths. Maria Immacolata was delighted with the proposal, not because she hoped for any relief from the waters of Cauterets, but because in their journey thither they would pass Lourdes, to which she had long yearned to make a pilgrimage.

Accordingly, they set out for Cauterets, stopping at Lourdes on the way. The weary invalid’s heart throbbed with joy as she knelt for the first time in the holy grotto. For two whole hours she remained absorbed in silent prayer, giving no other sign of life than the long and affectionate gaze which she fixed upon the image of Our Lady. During their stay at Lourdes, she visited the grotto twice every day, and at each visit she prayed long and fervently. Twice she insisted on being immersed in the water, notwithstanding it was exceedingly cold. On being asked what she prayed for, she replied, “That God’s will be done.” The waters of Cauterets gave her no relief. The disease had taken deep root in her system, and was rapidly advancing to a fatal termination. An eminent physician was called from the city of Pau, who gave it as his opinion that it was useless to hope for her recovery. She might live for fifteen days more, and possibly might linger on for a month. The young count thought no longer of the great loss he was about to suffer, but only how he might make the remaining days of her short life as quiet and devoid of pain as possible. It was resolved to bring her to Pau, the principal city of the Lower Pyrenees, where she would receive better attendance, and, above all, have the consolations of her religion. As they carried her on a species of litter from the hotel to the carriage, she said to her husband, “Not long ago I could move about with ease; afterwards they carried me in an arm-chair; now it is a litter; the next will be a bier.” Her sufferings on the road between Lourdes and Pau were very great, but she bore them cheerfully, and only prayed that they would let her die in Pau. After their arrival in that city, she rallied a little, and her husband tried to raise her hopes by saying that she would recover. “Do not be deceived, dear Henry,” she said; “before another month passes away I shall be gone. Bring me a confessor.” One of the Jesuit fathers came immediately, and her first prayer was that they would erect an altar in her room at which Mass might be said on the following day. Meanwhile, she prepared to make a general confession of her whole life, and begged every one in the house to pray for her. Her first care was to fulfil a number of promises which she had made to the Madonna, and calling her husband to her bedside, she begged of him to make them good. Her jewels, wedding-dress, and crown had already been promised to Our Lady of Issoudun. After her death, the Duke of Parma and the Duchess, her sister, repaired to that sanctuary and made the offering. She had also vowed a silver heart to Our Lady of Einsiedeln, and a set of vestments to Our Lady of Lourdes. She had begun to embroider the chasuble herself, but was obliged from sheer weakness to lay it aside. She begged her sister to finish it, and carry it in her name to the holy grotto. In addition to these, she had also vowed to have two hundred Masses celebrated for the suffering souls in purgatory. Opening her purse to fulfil this promise, she found it empty. Indeed, that was its normal condition, and it was said of her that a heavy purse never wore a hole in her pocket. She asked her husband, with child-like simplicity, to give her six hundred francs, and having received them, ordered the sum to be distributed among the churches in the city according to her intention. On the following day, the 20th of August, she confessed and received Holy Communion with edifying fervor. Her only desire now was to remain quiet, that she might commune with God and prepare for her final departure. On the day mentioned, she was visited by Margherita, the wife of Don Carlos. But the dying princess turned her eyes lovingly on the visitor and said, “Pardon me, Margherita, but I must be alone with God.” The Princess Maria Pia and her governess remained by her bedside constantly, and prayed aloud with her. When her confessor entered the room she would say to him, “Must I live many days longer? Pray God not to tarry.” Then she would chide herself for a want of resignation, and say, “As thou wilt!”

It was no difficult task for one whose heart was detached from the things of this world to make a will, and that of the Princess Immacolata of Bourbon did not give her much anxiety. Still, she observed the legal formalities, and showed such clearness and precision in her dictation to the notary as surprised all present. With the exception of that part of the will which affects her natural heirs, the rest is but one long series of donations for religious purposes--foreign missions, religious houses, orphanages, and the like. She was not content with making a handsome provision for each of her domestics, but even made appropriations for their relatives. The poor are called in the will “my dearest heirs,” and to these, she left the sum of 20,000 francs in gold, the distribution of which she entrusted to her governess, Maria Laserre, begging her especially not to forget the poor families she knew in Rome, and elsewhere, during her wanderings. In short, after disposing of the enormous sum of 107,000 francs in gold, to be bestowed in Christian charity, this generous soul concludes her will in these terms: “I intend, moreover, that what remains, over and above, of my capital be all expended in purchasing sacred vessels and vestments for poor churches.” This last provision has already passed into effect, to our personal knowledge. Among the many charitable institutions which Rome possesses there is one whose members devote themselves especially to making vestments and procuring sacred vessels for poor churches. We know of one, composed of some eminent French ladies, who make it their duty to provide for the poor churches of Italy; only a short time ago, they exhibited a splendid assortment of vestments and church furniture, mostly all purchased on the strength of the donation of Maria Immacolata of Bourbon.

And now, having removed every earthly care from her mind, Maria Immacolata disposed herself to receive the Sacrament of Extreme Unction. She begged her confessor to read aloud from some ascetic work, that her soul might be drawn more closely to God. When he had read for awhile, she said, “Now I am ready,” and in the presence of her brother the Count of Bari, her sister the Duchess of Parma, the Princess Margherita, wife of Don Carlos, and her beloved governess, she received the last sacrament. It was then that her confessor informed her that the following day, August 23d, was the Feast of the Immaculate Heart of Mary, whereat she besought all present to pray that she might obtain the singular favor from God of dying on that day and of receiving the Holy Eucharist once more; and with the holy simplicity and fervor of her childhood, she recited aloud the following prayer: “Most Holy Virgin, I resign myself to suffer still more for your honor, and the glory of your divine Son. O my Mother! you who have permitted your daughter to bear your own sweet name of Immacolata, obtain for me the grace to receive once more the most Sacred Body of your divine Son, and to die on the Feast of your Immaculate Heart.” Both favors were granted. On the following day, Mass was celebrated in her room, and she received her Lord for the last time. Her husband also, her brother Count of Bari, the Duke and Duchess of Parma, the Princess Margherita, and all her maids and domestics, communicated. It was a touching scene that transpired after Mass, when the whole household gathered around the bed of the dying princess, and asked her blessing. A smile of angelic delight mantled her face, and, as she said herself, her soul seemed to be inundated with consolation. She no longer felt the oppression and pain which had tortured her an hour previous. Her sister Maria Pia, desirous of having a precious remembrance in after-life, held her own photograph to her lips, that she might imprint a kiss upon it. When she had kissed it, she asked for a pen, and wrote upon the card, in a trembling hand, “Living or dead, I shall always be near thee. Thy own Maria Immacolata”; and on the photograph which her governess presented to her, she wrote, “In heaven and on earth I shall never have but one heart with you. Your little Mistress.”

Calling every one of her domestics to the bedside, she gave each a souvenir of herself, accompanied with a few words of wise counsel. Turning then to the princes her brothers, her sister, and her brother-in-law, she besought them to live together in harmony, and to love one another for her sake. She then asked for her jewels, and choosing a ring, she put it on the finger of Margherita of Spain; another precious ring she put on the finger of her sister, and a third upon that of her governess. While doing this, she asked them to pray that she might be pardoned for the vanity of wearing those ornaments. She asked pardon three successive times of her maid, Maria Grazia, for all the annoyance she had ever given her, and taking another ring from her own finger, she held it out saying, “This is for your sister Francesca in Naples, of whom I ask pardon from afar.” But the Duchess of Parma had still one favor to ask--a blessing for her four little children in the Castle of Wartegg, in Switzerland. The dying sister answered, “Yes, I will pray for them in heaven,” and pronouncing the name of each she kissed the Crucifix and blessed them. The apostolic Benediction of His Holiness had already been sent to her, and now a second arrived, and with it the plenary indulgence _in the hour of death_. This was followed by a despatch from the Comte de Chambord which said, “We are in great affliction, and are praying.” While all this was passing, her eyes rested upon the form of her husband, who knelt by her side. But recollecting herself, she said, “My Madonna for Mademoiselle”--meaning her governess. “Now,” said she, “I have naught to give away but my soul, and that I give to God.” Turning to her young husband, she said, “Henry! O my Henry! I leave thee, to go where I am called by that God who made us companions for a few short months on earth; but I leave thee in good hands”; and holding in her right hand the crucifix and her rosary, and inclining her head towards a statue of the Blessed Virgin, as if saluting her, and recommending to her care him who knelt there in sorrow, she died.

NOTRE DAME DE LOURDES.

“THOU WEL OF MERCY, SINFUL SOULES CURE.”--CHAUCER.

Lourdes, apart from any religious interest, is well worth a visit, for it is an old historic place. “Bigerronum arx antiqua fuit Luparda, quæ nunc Lourda est,” says Julius Scaliger. It is associated with the Romans, the Moors, the paladins of Charlemagne, and the flower of French and English chivalry, and is celebrated by Gregory of Tours, Froissart, Monstrelet, and all the ancient chroniclers of the land. Situated at the entrance of the seven valleys of the Lavedan on the one side, and the rich sunny plains of Béarn on the other, under a sky as soft and bright as that of Italy, it is as attractive to the eye of the tourist as to the soul of the archæologist and the pilgrim.

We arrived at Lourdes in less than an hour after leaving Tarbes. The station is some distance from town, and at least a mile from the world-famous grotto; but there are always hacks and omnibuses eager to take the visitor to one of the numerous hotels. The depot is encumbered with luggage and crowded with pilgrims going and coming, and on the side tracks are long trains of empty cars that tell of the importance of the station--an importance solely due to the immense number of pilgrims, who sometimes amount to five hundred thousand a year.

On leaving the station, one naturally looks around to discover the renowned sanctuary of Notre Dame de Lourdes, but not a glimpse of it is to be seen. Nothing meets the eye but a gray picturesque town shut in by the outlying Pyrenees. Nothing could be lovelier than the fresh green valley in which it stands, framed by hills whose sides are blackened with _débris_ from the immense quarries of slate. It is only a pleasant walk to the town in good weather, which gives one an opportunity of taking in the features of the charming landscape. Flowers bloom in the hedge-rows, elms and ash-trees dot the grassy meadows, the hillsides beneath the quarries are luxuriant with vineyards and fields of waving grain. The way is lively with hurrying pilgrims, all intent on their own business and regardless of you; some saying their rosaries, others in a band singing some pious hymn, and many solitary ones absorbed in their own reflections.

We soon reach the town. The houses are of stone with slated roofs. Nearly every one is a hotel, or a lodging-house, or a shop for the sale of religious objects. The windows are full of rosaries, medallions inscribed with the words of the Virgin to Bernadette, miniature grottos, photographs--in short, everything that can recall the wonderful history of the grotto of Massabielle. The very silk kerchiefs in the windows, such as the peasants wear on their heads, are stamped with the Virgin in her niche. The old part of the town has narrow streets, without any sidewalks, paved with cobble-stones quite in harmony with the penitential spirit of a true pilgrim. They are mere lanes, fearful in muddy weather when crowded with people in danger at every step from the carriages.

The Hotel de la Grotte is the nearest to the church of Notre Dame de Lourdes, and very pleasantly situated at a convenient walking distance from it. At one of our visits to the place, we stopped at the Hotel des Pyrénées in the heart of the town, where we were made very comfortable; but the second time, it was in the height of the season, and there was not a room to be had in any of the hotels, and had we not providentially stumbled on a friend with a vacant room at his command, we might have been forced to spend the night in the church--no great penance, to be sure, in so heavenly a place, where Masses begin at midnight and do not cease till afternoon. The only safe way is to secure rooms beforehand, especially when the place is most frequented.

Lourdes is a small town of about five thousand inhabitants, mostly workers in marble, slate, etc., that is, those who do not keep a hotel, or a _café_, or a shop of some kind; for the good people seem quite ready to avail themselves of every opportunity of benefiting by the piety that brings so many strangers among them. They are shrewd, quick-witted, upright, and kind-hearted; attached to their ancient traditions, and firm in their faith as their rock-built houses. They have always been characterized by their devotion to the Blessed Virgin. Five of the chapels in the parish church are dedicated to her honor. The confraternities of the Scapular and the Rosary are flourishing, and the congregation of the Enfants de Marie is one of the oldest in the country. The dark-eyed women of Lourdes have a Spanish look, and are quite picturesque in their scarlet capulets or black capuchins, but the men have mostly laid aside the Bigorrais cloak, once so sought after that they were exported from the country, and mentioned by learned men. Pope Gregory I., in a letter to Eulogius, Bishop of Alexandria, thus alludes to them: “Sex minora Aquitanica pallia.” S. Paulinus of Nola, in a letter to Ausonius, says: “Dignaque pellitis habitas deserta Bigerris.” “Bigerricam vestem, brevem atque hispidam,” says Sulpicius Severus. And the poet Fortunatus, in his life of S. Martin, says: “Induitur sanctus hirsuta Bigerrica palla.”

These _Marlottes_, as Scaliger calls them, are now mostly confined to the mountaineers who cling to the old ways. The people of the valley, however, have not laid aside all their old prejudices with their cloaks. The natives of Lourdes are said to hold in proud disdain those who have had the disadvantage of being born elsewhere, in proof of which it is related that a prisoner of state, named Soulié, once confined in the castle for some offence, at last died from the effects of his captivity. His fellow-prisoners, desirous of showing him suitable honor, as well as giving proper expression to their own regret, paid the bell-ringer to toll a bell of the second class. It appears there were four bells in use for funerals; the first for the clergy; the second, for the grandees of the place; the third, for the common citizen, and the fourth for the poor. The inhabitants were so enraged that such an honor as a bell of the second class should be rung for a stranger, that they condemned the guilty sexton to prison. During his long confinement, he was frequently heard exclaiming with a groan: “Ah! detestable _Soulié_! Had it only been a _savate_,[157] I should not be here!”

This is a mere reminiscence of their ancient glory. It is always difficult to bring one’s self to the level of fallen fortunes. The title of stranger is still said to be an original stain that nothing can ever efface. Small and unpretending as Lourdes may now seem, it has its grand old memories. Its origin is lost in the obscurity of remote ages, but where history is at fault, fable generally comes to the rescue.

The glory of founding Lourdes is attributed to an Ethiopian princess. Tarbis, queen of Ethiopia, captivated by the valor and personal attractions of Moses, offered him her throne and hand. Wounded and mortified at his refusal, she abandoned her country to hide her disappointment in the obscurity of the Pyrenean valleys. She founded the city of Tarbes, and her sister Lorda that of Lourdes.

In the Middle Ages the Counts of Bigorre were the Seigneurs of Lourdes, and, like S. Louis under the oak of Vincennes, they seated themselves with patriarchal simplicity on a stone bench under an elm before the church to receive the homage of their vassals. Notre Dame de Bigorre! was then the battle-cry of the people. Then, as now, Mary was the Sovereign Lady of the valley. To her its lords acknowledged themselves vassals and paid tribute, and the arms of the town commemorate her miraculous intervention to deliver it from the hands of the Moors. But as this legend is connected with the history of the castle, we will give a brief sketch of that once strong hold.

The tourist, on his way to Pau, Cauteréts, St. Sauveur, or Bagnères, as he traverses the plateau which overlooks the fertile valley of the Gave, sees an ancient fortress on the top of an inaccessible cliff, that rises straight up from the banks of the river. This is the old citadel of Lourdes, the key of the Seven Valleys, the stronghold of the Counts of Bigorre in the Middle Ages. The eye of the traveller cannot fail to be struck by the antiquity of its gray battlements, crenellated towers, and picturesque situation, and he at once feels it has a marvellous history.

The castle of Lourdes is more than two thousand years old. Here the ancient inhabitants long held out against the attacks of the Romans; and here, when they were forced to yield, their conquerors built the fortifications whose indestructible foundation ages have passed over without leaving any trace. Several centuries later, the castle of Mirambel, as it was then called, was held by the Moors, and their leader, Mirat, defended it for a time against the hosts of Charlemagne, and at length, too haughty to yield to any earthly power, surrendered to the Queen of Heaven, who wrought such a miracle of grace on the proud painim’s heart that he and all his followers went with garlands of hay on their lances to swear fealty to Notre Dame de Puy, and resign all right to Mirambel. Mirat was baptized by the name of Lorus. He received the honors of knighthood, and gave the name of Lordum to the castle he now held in the name of the Virgin.

We are indebted to an English monk, named Marfin, for this legend, and though rejected by many, it was doubtless founded on the popular traditions of the country, which alone account for the arms of the town and the annual tribute the Counts of Bigorre paid to Notre Dame de Puy as long as they held possession of the castle.[158]

_Lo ric castel de Lorda_ having been taken possession of by the Albigenses in the XIIth century, the celebrated Simon de Montfort besieged it, but in vain. The castle remained in their hands till the end of the war.

No one of English origin can look at the hoary walls of this ancient fortress without the greatest interest, for it is associated with the memory of the Black Prince, and the time was when the banner of England floated from its towers and defied the efforts of the bravest knights of France to tear it from its hold.

Lourdes, as well as the whole province of Bigorre (which lay between Béarn and Foix), fell into the hands of the English by the treaty of Bretagne, and constituted a part of the Duchy of Aquitaine, which Edward III. conferred on his son, the Black Prince, who left England to take possession of his domains in 1363. He made Bordeaux his capital, and there, in the church of S. André, Jehan Caubot, consul of Lourdes, and the representatives of Tarbes and other towns, presented themselves at high noon before the most noble and puissant Lord Edward, Prince of Wales and Duke of Aquitaine, and, in the presence of many lords, knights, and citizens, swore fealty to the English prince, beseeching him to confirm the rights and franchises which they had hitherto enjoyed, which he solemnly promised.

The Count of Armagnac (John I.) gave so captivating a description of the beauty of Bigorre that the Black Prince was induced to visit his mountain province. He remained for some time at Tarbes, and while there explored the neighboring valleys, strengthened old fortresses and built several new ones. He was particularly struck with the castle of Lourdes, and the advantage of holding such a position. “It is the key of many countries,” said he, “by which I can find my way into Aragon, Catalonia, and Barcelona.” He strengthened its fortifications, and entrusted the command to Pierre Arnaud of Béarn, a cousin of Gaston Phœbus of Foix, saying: “Master Arnaud, I constitute and appoint you captain of Lourdes, and warden of Bigorre. See that you hold them, and render a good account of your trust to me and my father.”

Arnaud swore fealty to the Prince, who soon after broke up his court at Tarbes and returned to Bordeaux. He could not have left a better commander at Lourdes. Arnaud was one of those men who would rather face death a thousand times than be untrue to their word. He held the castle long after all the rest of Bigorre had been wrested from the English, and the exploits of the brave knights that took refuge here made it the terror of the surrounding country. Froissart’s account of their adventures is more like that of highwaymen than of chivalrous knights. They were continually coming down from their eyry at the head of a band, to scour the country and plunder all they could lay their hands upon. Sometimes they extended their ravages to Toulouse, Alby, and Carcassone, taking castles, robbing merchants and attacking knights, and then rushing back to Lourdes with their booty--cattle, provisions, prisoners they could ransom, etc. They only respected the rights of Gaston Phœbus, their captain’s kinsman.

It is related of Mongat that on one occasion he put on the habit of a monk, and with three of his men similarly attired, he took his way with devout air and mien to Montpellier, where he alighted at the Angel and gave out he was a lord abbot from Upper Gascony on his way to Paris on business. Here he made the acquaintance of the Sire Berenger, who was likewise going to Paris on some affair of importance, and was delighted to be thrown into such holy company. The pretended abbot led him by devious ways to Lourdes, where he ransomed him for a large sum.

In one of his adventures, Mongat came to his end. He had been to Toulouse with two other knights and one hundred and twenty lances, and on their way back with cattle, hogs, sheep, and prisoners, they were attacked by two hundred knights, with the brave Ernauton Bissette at their head, in a forest belonging to the Sire de Barbazan. The fury with which they fought was only equalled by their knightly courtesy. When exhausted, they took off their helmets, refreshed themselves at a stream, and then resumed the contest. Mongat and Ernauton fought hand to hand the whole day, and at length, utterly exhausted, they both fell dead on the field. Hostilities then ceased. Each party bore away its dead, and a cross was raised on the spot where they fell.

Of course the whole country around was eager to dislodge the English from their fortress. The Duke of Anjou, with the celebrated Du Guesclin, attacked it at the head of fifteen thousand of the best soldiers of France. All the other castles of Bigorre had been taken. Tarbes had been readily given up by the captain who had sworn to defend it. Mauvezin had gallantly held out for a time, and then honorably surrendered. Lourdes alone bade defiance to the enemy. The town, built on a slope at the east of the castle, resisted the duke’s army a fortnight. The inhabitants finally took refuge in the castle, and the French took possession of the empty houses, with great rejoicing. For six weeks they laid siege to the castle, but in vain. The duke now sought to obtain it by bribing Arnaud with vast sums of money, but the incorruptible captain replied:

“The fortress is not mine. It is the property of the King of England, and I cannot sell, alienate, or give it up, without proving myself a traitor, which I will not. I will remain loyal to my liege lord on whose hand I swore by my faith, when he appointed me governor of this castle, to defend it against all men, and to yield it to no one whom he had not authorized to demand it, and Pierre Arnaud will keep to his trust till he dies.”

Discouraged and mortified, the duke raised the siege and set fire to the four quarters of the town, which was wholly consumed, with all the titles of the ancient _fors_ and rights. He now determined to obtain the castle by some other means, and despatched a messenger to Gaston Phœbus to convince him it was for his interest to use his influence in driving the English from Lourdes. The count promised to do so and invited Arnaud to Orthez. Somewhat suspicious of his intentions, Arnaud, before leaving Lourdes, appointed his brother John commander of the fortress, making him swear by his faith and honor as a knight to guard it as faithfully as he had done himself, and never to yield it to any one but him who had entrusted it to their care.

John solemnly swore as he was desired, and his brother proceeded to Orthez, where he was graciously received by the Count of Foix. It was not till the third day he was summoned to give up the castle. Arnaud at once comprehended the danger of his situation, but undauntedly replied: “My lord, I doubtless owe you duty and regard, for I am a poor knight of your land and race, but the castle of Lourdes I cannot surrender. You have sent for me and can do with me whatever you please, but what I hold from the King of England, I will surrender to no one but him.”

“Ha, traitor!” cried the count in a rage, drawing his dagger, “do you tell me you will not do it? By my head, you shall pay for such a speech”; and he stabbed him to the heart.

Arnaud cried: “Ah! my lord, you act not as beseemeth gentle knight. You invited me here and it is thus you put me to death.”

This base act did no good. John was as faithful to his trust as his brother Arnaud. His appointment was confirmed by the King of England,[159] and the English flag was not taken down till the year 1425, when the citadel of Lourdes surrendered to John of Foix, the companion in arms of Dunois the brave, and the illustrious Barbazan, first to be styled _Sans peur et sans reproche_. Then the war-cry, “S. George for Lourdes!” was heard for the last time in the land, and the red flag of England taken down for ever.

Lourdes was attacked by the Huguenots in 1573. The town was taken by assault, pillaged, and partly burned, but they made no impression on the castle. A cry of alarm, however, resounded all through the Seven Valleys. The mountaineers of Lavedan knew the importance of the castle, which, once taken, would expose them to an invasion it would be impossible to resist, and they seized their arms and gathered under the banners of the lords of Vieuzac and Arras to defend the entrance to their valleys. The Huguenots, astonished at their determined resistance, were obliged to retreat to Béarn.

The union of Bigorre with the crown of France by Henry IV. was favorable to the prosperity and happiness of Lourdes, but fatal to the military importance of the castle. After being for ages the chief defence of the land, it now became the most unimportant fortress in the country.

In the XVIIIth century it was made the Bastile of the Pyrenees--a prison “created by despotism on the frontiers of liberty”--and was called the Royal Prison of Lourdes. Here, as the Comte de Marcellus says:

“Dans d’effroyables cachots, Entouré d’épaisses ténèbres, Plus d’un captif, couché sous des voûtes funèbres, Attendrissait leurs lugubres échos Par ses gémissements, ses pleurs et ses sanglots. … Sous ses sombres donjons, l’œil, d’abime en abime, Voit le Gave rouler et bondir furieux; Et les monts hérissés qui portent jusqu’ aux cieux De leurs rocs décharnés l’inaccessible cime, Redoublent la tristesse et l’horreur de ces lieux.”

Père Lacombe, the spiritual director, or rather disciple, of the famous Mme. Guyon, was confined in the castle of Lourdes in 1687. The see of Tarbes was vacant at the time, but when a bishop was appointed, in 1695, he obtained the deliverance of the poor prisoner, who did not, however, enjoy his liberty long. His mind became so affected that he was again confined at Charenton, where he died.

In the time of Napoleon I., Lord Elgin, the famous spoliator of the Parthenon, on his way back from Constantinople, came for the recovery of his health to the springs of Barrèges, where he was arrested by the government and brought to the castle of Lourdes. He characteristically profited by his confinement here to strip the fortress of all the antiquities he could secure, and carry them off to his residence in Fifeshire.

The castle ceased to be a prison at the restoration of the monarchy. It is now a military post, and accessible to the tourist, who enters a postern gate at the east, and ascends the cliff by a winding stone staircase, at the top of which he comes out on a court with a clump of trees and a few flowers, guarded by a sentinel ferocious-looking enough to strike terror into the heart of the fearless Barbazan himself, but whom we found to be the mildest of warriors, and the most accommodating of guides around the old _château-fort_. Unless you looked at him, you would never have supposed him brought up on the marrow of lions!

From the battlements there is a magnificent view of the valley of the Gave. Never was fairer picture framed among majestic mountains. The river flows directly beneath, through a meadow of wonderful freshness. On the right bank stands the spacious monasteries of Mt. Carmel and S. Benedict, not yet completed, and the other side, directly in front of the castle, rises the new fortress of Our Lady of Lourdes--stronghold of the faith--where the whole world comes, like the ancient Barons of Bigorre, to pay tribute to Mary. It is high time to turn our steps thither.

Leaving the town of Lourdes by a narrow street to the west, we come out into the open valley in full view of the Gave--a clear, broad stream, fed by mountain torrents, which rushes impetuously over a rocky bed towards the Adour and the ocean. It comes from the south, but here turns abruptly away from the cliff--that rises straight up from its banks to the height of three hundred feet, crowned with its old historic castle--and flows to the west. In this sharp bend of the river is the cliff of Massabielle, from the side of which rises before us into the clear blue heavens a tall spire with a golden cross. It is the celebrated church of Notre Dame de Lourdes, a pure white edifice worthy of the spotless Virgin whose immaculate purity it commemorates--the object of so many vows, the spot to which so many hearts are turned, and so many feet are wending, from every part of the Christian world.

The road between the town and church is bordered by small booths for the sale of rosaries, medals, and every conceivable object of devotion, including pilgrims’ staves and scallop shells, and stacks of tall candles to burn before Our Lady of Lourdes. There are over two hundred of these little shops, altogether too many for the place, though there is a pretty brisk trade during the season of pilgrimages. At every step you are called upon to buy, just as at Loretto, the owner advertising his wares with the volubility and something of the style of the London apprentices in the time of Lord Nigel. Crossing the bridge, we stop to look down into the clear, green, turbulent waters of the Gave. The mountaineers say reproachfully to their troublesome wives: “Maridat lou Gabé, que staré”--Marry the Gave, and it will remain quiet. However refractory this virgin stream may be, the valley is peaceful enough to bring the heart and soul into harmony with the place we are approaching. All along the wayside are the blind and the lame in every stage of horrible infirmity, appealing to the charity of the passers-by in the name of the _Sainte Vierge_ of Lourdes, which no one can resist in the very sight of her altar, and we stop every now and then to buy, in this way, “a pennyworth of paradise,” like the prudent M. Géborand, of _miser_able memory. We pick our way along through the crowds of pilgrims, going and coming with arms full of tapers and great wooden rosaries, and a bleeding heart upon their breasts, like a decoration. We are thrust aside by a procession hurrying off to the station, joyously singing some song of praise, and we turn for a moment into a soft green meadow on the banks of the river, with pleasant winding paths among umbrageous trees, leading to an immense ring with rustic roof and open sides, provided with seats and tables of beautiful Pyrenean marble--where pilgrims can rest and take their lunch--the gift of M. Henri Lasserre, the author of “Our Lady of Lourdes,” so admirably translated for THE CATHOLIC WORLD. At one end of the meadow is a pretty _châlet_ given the Bishop of Tarbes by some pious individual for his residence when he comes to Lourdes. Turning into the road again, we come to a fork--one path leading up over the cliff to the church, and the other along the shore of the river beneath. Taking the latter, we find a chain stretched across the way, beyond which no vender of holy wares can go, or carriage pass. We keep on beneath the cliff of Massabielle, crowned with its fair white church far above our heads. The few rods that separate it from the Gave is crowded with people. We hurry on. A slight turn brings us suddenly before the Grotto of the Apparition, towards, which every eye is turned.…

“O Light Divine! Thy Presence and thy power were here.”

No words can express the emotions of the heart at the very sight of this place of benediction. You at once feel it has some mysterious connection with the unseen world. A thousand memories of its history, its eighteen apparitions, its countless miracles, come over you. You forget the crowd around you. Like the rest, you kneel on the pavement to adore and pray.…

The grotto has wisely been left to nature. It stands open, facing the Gave, tapestried with ivy, and rosebushes, and pretty ferns that grow in the clefts of the rocks. The birds that build their nests among the vines undisturbed are flying to and fro, their songs filling the air above the hushed crowd. On one side of the grotto in a small niche--the very place where Bernadette beheld the Marvellous Vision--is a statue of the Virgin of pure white Carrara marble, standing with folded hands, palm to palm, and uplifted eyes. A blue girdle is tied around the waist, a crystal rosary hangs from her arm, and JE SUIS L’IMMACULÉE CONCEPTION, in silver letters, form a glory around her head.

The grotto is all aflame with an immense pyramidal stand of tapers. Enormous wax candles, several inches in circumference, burn on the pavement among pots of lilies. The sides of the cave are hung with innumerable crutches, canes, shoes, models of hands and arms, etc., etc., in pious commemoration of the wonderful cures wrought here. The pavement is strewn with bouquets of beautiful flowers and more practical offerings in the form of money, voluntarily thrown in to aid in the construction of the church. Letters peep out of the clefts of the rocks, each with its tale of suffering, its prayer for aid.

Of course every pilgrim wishes to enter the grotto, examine it, touch it with his hands, and kiss it with profound respect. He wishes to pluck a branch from the vine around the niche of the Virgin, and even appropriate a fragment of the walls. The necessity will at once be seen of placing some bounds to the manifestations of a piety praiseworthy in its nature, but serious in its results. To protect the grotto, therefore, a solid iron grating bars the entrance, but allows a clear view of the interior. It is unlocked from time to time to admit a knot of pilgrims, so all can have an opportunity of praying in so sacred a place. Before the grating kneel countless pilgrims in the open air, on the cold pavement which extends to the very edge of the Gave, thrust back from its course to give additional space. There are a few benches for the weary and infirm. The different classes of people gathered here, the variety of costumes worn by peasants from different provinces, and the clergy and sisters of various orders, to say nothing of the fashionable dresses of the upper classes, are a study for the artist who has set up an easel before the stone bench along the banks of the river. Beyond is a long avenue of trees furnished with seats where pilgrims are gathered in knots around huge lunch-baskets. At the left of the grotto are several faucets over a long stone basin, fed by water from the miraculous fountain. Over them is the inscription: “_Allez boire à la fontaine et vous laver._” Around are crowded people drinking the healing waters, or filling their cans and bottles to carry away. Close by is a room furnished with cans of all dimensions for the accommodation of the pilgrim. Beyond are the bathing rooms, to so many a pool of Siloam where the angel is never weary of troubling the waters. Around these doors of hope is always a sad array of the blind, the deaf, the lame, and the paralytic.

No wonder miracles are wrought here. There is such simple, unbounded faith in the divine mercy and power, that mountains might be moved. What would be marvellous elsewhere, only seems the natural order of things here. Dr. Dozous, a physician of the place--who often accompanied Bernadette in her visits to the grotto, and has watched with interest the gradual development of the devotion to Notre Dame de Lourdes; and witnessed a great number of miracles of all kinds, including the cure of those who had been blind, or deaf and dumb, from their birth--says, in a book he has recently published:

“The cures of which I have so often been the ocular witness, and which I am about to relate, have convinced me, beyond the possibility of doubt, of the importance of Bernadette’s visits to the grotto of Massabielle, and the reality of the visions she was there favored with.”

M. Artus, an Alsace refugee at Bordeaux, whose niece had been miraculously cured of a serious malady by recourse to Notre Dame de Lourdes, has offered ten thousand francs to any one who will prove the falseness of any of the statements in M. Lasserre’s book, but, though two years have since passed, no one has been found quite ready to take up the offer.

Miracles are so constantly wrought here, that not half of them are recorded. Five occurred the day before our arrival, one, a deaf-mute to whom the faculty of speech was instantaneously given. We dared not hope to witness anything of the kind, nor did we need it to increase our faith in the power of Omnipotence, though human nature is always seeking some sign. But the piety of the multitude around obtained the grace we should not have ventured to ask for ourselves. We were praying one morning in the grotto, when suddenly there was an unusual movement in the crowd without, and an increasing wave-like murmur that broke at last into a tumultuous shout. A gentleman beside us seemed to catch the meaning, for he sprang up and exclaimed at the top of his voice, _Vive Marie!_ which was answered by hundreds of voices. The effect was electrical, and the feeling that came over us was something new in our experience. Tears sprang to the eye. We hurried out of the grotto, and the movement of the crowd brought us close to a young girl raised above the excited multitude, pale, smiling with joy, and waving a hand covered with the marks of ineffectual human remedies, and that had been utterly paralyzed an hour before. Every one crowded around her to see, examine, test the use of her arm, and assure themselves of the truth of the case. She had been fourteen months in a hospital at Marseilles, and had come with a large number of pilgrims from that place who were ready to testify to her previous helplessness. The whole scene was thrilling. Bands of pilgrims with blue badges of the Virgin sang hymns of joy. A wave of excitement every now and then passed over the crowd and found vent in repeated _vivas_. The girl was finally released from the examination and admitted into the grotto, when the Magnificat was intoned.

The cliff of Massabielle has been cut down and levelled off to serve as the foundation of the church, which stands on the top at a distance of seventy or eighty feet directly above the grotto. The title of minor basilica was conferred on it by His Holiness Pius IX., in March, 1874. A path leads up to it from the shore, its windings along the edge of the cliff forming the monogram of Mary, among hedges of roses and arbor-vitæ, glistening with dew, and overhung with acacias and evergreens--a charming ascent, each step of which leads to a rarer atmosphere, a lovelier and more extended view, and nearer the altar of Mary.

There are two churches, one above the other; the lower one, dim and solemn with penitential gloom; the upper, radiant with the light and purity that ought to surround

“Our tainted nature’s solitary boast.”

Let us first enter the crypt. In the vestibule is a statue of S. Germaine of Pibrac with her crook and legendary apron of roses, and a lamb at her feet--the gift of a band of pilgrims from Toulouse. An arched passage leads each side of the crypt with banners hung over the confessionals in the recesses. Passing through one of these, we found ourselves in a low, gloomy nave crowded with columns to support the upper church. It is chiefly lighted by the numerous lamps hanging on every side, and the large stands of candles that burn before the Virgin, who is over the altar embowered among roses. The pavement is covered with kneeling forms--ladies, soldiers, peasants. You hear the whispered prayer, you catch glimpses of devout faces, quivering lips, and upturned eyes. Everything here is solemn and mysterious, and inclines one to serious reflection. On the pillars hang the different scenes of the great Passion in which we all had so sad a part. They strike new terror into the soul in this sepulchral church that seems hewn out of the living rock.

“Low I sit, In sorrow, penitence-stricken, and deep woe, ’Mid shades of death, thine arrow drinks my blood; For I thine innocent side have piercéd deep. I dare not look upon thy bleeding brow, For I have circled it with thorny crown, Thou Holy One, and here I sit and weep, Bowed with the o’erwhelming burden down to earth.”

The carved confessionals at the end suggest comforting thoughts. There

“The great Absolver with relief Stands by the door, and bears the key O’er Penitence on bended knee.”

There are five chapels--a mystic number associated with five sorrowful mysteries--each with two small windows pierced through the thick walls, looking like the loop-holes of a fort. Their sides are covered with votive pictures and small marble tablets with inscriptions, some of which we copy:

“Reconnaissance éternelle à la toute puissante Notre Dame de Lourdes pour la grace qu’elle m’a obtenue.

Paris, 30 Juillet, 1872.

“M. M.”

* * * * *

“Amour et reconnaissance à Notre Dame de Lourdes. Deux cœurs guéris et consolés.”

* * * * *

“A Notre Dame de Lourdes, Colonel L. S.

“6 Aout, 1870.”

* * * * *

“Reconnaissance éternelle à Notre Dame de Lourdes qui a guèri notre fille.”

There is a countless number of similar inscriptions, which are so many leaves torn from domestic histories, extremely touching and suggestive to read. They are eternal expressions of gratitude, which are doubtless pleasing to the Divine Benefactor, who is not regardless of one who returns to give thanks.

Our last visit to the crypt will never be forgotten. We had arrived at Lourdes the evening before, in a pouring rain, which still continued when we went at half-past four in the morning to attend the Mass of a clerical friend. It was with difficulty we made our way into the nave, crammed with pilgrims from Bretagne and La Vendée. The five chapels were filled with priests waiting for their turn to say Mass. Our friend had been there since two o’clock, and it was nearly seven before he found a vacancy at the altar. Masses likewise had been continually succeeding each other since midnight in the fifteen chapels of the church above. The place, it will be seen, is one of perpetual prayer.

Our devotions over at a late hour, we ascended a flight of twenty-six steps, which brought us to a broad terrace before the upper church commanding a lovely view of the valley, with the picturesque old castle directly in front. The sun had come out after the rain, and nothing could be more fresh and enchanting. On the terrace stood the four bells given by the Prince of Viana, and not yet hung. They were baptized August 11, by Cardinal Donnet of Bordeaux, in presence of a numerous crowd, including Don Sebastian de Bourbon, Infante of Spain, the Duc de Nemours, and the Prince of Béarn and Viana.

Before entering the church, we pause in front of the Gothic portal to look up at the representation of our Saviour over the central arch. His face is turned towards Lourdes, a cruciform nimbus surrounds his head, the Alpha and Omega are at the side, and his right hand is raised to bless the pilgrim beneath. At each side are the winged emblems of the Evangelists. And lower down is the Virgin Mother, her hands crossed on her breast, her face,

“The most resembling Christ,”

sweet and thoughtful. She seems to be awaiting all who seek through her the Divine Redeemer, who by her has been given to mankind. _Felix cœli porta_, we say as we pass beneath.

Entering the church, we are at once struck with its immaculate purity. It is in the style of the XIIIth century. The height is about double the width, which makes the arches seem loftier than they really are. The spotless white walls are relieved by the beautiful banners hanging on every side. There are about four hundred of these banners, richly embroidered with religious symbols and devices, and the arms of different cities and provinces. Conspicuous among them are the banners of Alsace and Lorraine bordered with crape. They were wrought in secret, and brought over the frontier in the night to escape the vigilance of the Prussian police. They were presented by faithful Christians, one of whom was a valiant officer whose breast was covered with decorations, and received by the Archbishop of Auch (to whose province Lourdes belongs), who wept as he pressed them to his lips, affecting the vast crowd to tears.

Around the nave of the church is an unique frieze of votive golden hearts, so arranged as to form inscriptions in immense letters, taken from the words of the Virgin to Bernadette: “VOUS PRIEREZ POUR LA CONVERSION DES PÉCHEURS. ALLEZ BOIRE À LA FONTAINE ET VOUS Y LAVER.--ALLEZ DIRE AUX PRÊTRES QU’IL DOIT SE BÂTIR ICI UNE CHAPELLE, ET QU’ON DOIT Y VENIR EN PROCESSION.”

The main altar in the centre of the choir is dedicated to the mystery of the Immaculate Conception. It is of pure white marble, and on the front are five compartments on which are sculptured the Annunciation, Visitation, Assumption, Coronation, and the Apparition of the Blessed Virgin in the grotto. The altar is adorned with white lilies. Over it in a golden niche is a statue of Mary Most Pure, “above all women glorified,” the very embodiment of purity and love. Above her, like a crown, is a constellation of beautiful lamps of filigree and enamel. Rich votive offerings are fastened to the walls--crosses of the Legion of Honor, epaulettes, swords crossed above flags, a miniature ship, the mitre of Mgr. Lawrence, etc. On the keystone of the arch are sculptured the arms of Pope Pius IX.

The main altar with its Madonna is the central object in the church, and the focus of its splendor. Around it, like so many rays around the Immaculate Conception, are five apsidal chapels. Directly behind it is the chapel of the Sacred Heart, where of course the Blessed Sacrament is kept. At the left is Notre Dame du Mont Carmel, in honor of the last apparition to Bernadette, which took place on the festival of that name. Next is the chapel of Notre Dame des Victoires, in commemoration of the celebrated archconfraternity at Paris, which has effected so many conversions, wrought so many miracles, and prepared the way, as it were, for the triumph of the Immaculate Conception.

At the right of the chapel of the Sacred Heart is that of Notre Dame du Rosaire, recalling the rosary the Virgin held on her arm in all her apparitions to Bernadette. Then, Notre Dame de la Sallette, reminding us that the tears the Mother of Sorrows once shed over the woes of France in the mountains of Dauphine, have been succeeded by the smiles of Marie Immaculée in the grotto of the Pyrenees.

Each of these five chapels recall the Holy Trinity by the number of their windows, as the rose window in the façade is typical of the Divine Unity. These windows are of stained glass--the gift of the Prince of Viana. The main altar and the statue of the Immaculate Conception are from an anonymous benefactor, and many of the other altars are the gifts of private individuals.

Ten lateral chapels open out of the nave, and communicate with each other for convenience. The four nearest the choir bring around Mary the principal members of her family: S. Anne, S. Joachim, S. Joseph, and S. John the Baptist. Then come the chapel of S. Peter, still living in our “Pope of the Immaculate Conception,” who so glorified Mary on the 8th of December, 1854; S. John, the beloved disciple, who was appointed her son on Mt. Calvary; S. Francis of Assisi, the patriarch of the Seraphic Order that has always been the advocate of the Immaculate Conception; S. Francis Xavier, patron of the Society for the Propagation of the Faith, one of the glories of this age of Mary; S. Bertrand, the illustrious bishop of Commines and the patron saint of Mgr. Lawrence, whose name will ever be associated with the church of Notre Dame de Lourdes; and S. Germaine, the humble shepherdess of Pibrac, so like the little _bergère_ of Lourdes.

Thus four of the great religious orders of the church are represented before the Virgin’s throne--the Carmelite, Dominican, Franciscan, and Jesuit. Each chapel, sacred to some holy mystery, has its beautiful altar, its carved oaken confessional, its circular golden chandelier, its station of the cross, its banners, and its statues.

The carved oak pulpit on the left side of the nave was given by the Bishop of Marseilles.

The windows of the side chapels, that await a donor, will depict the history of Notre Dame de Lourdes, beginning with the first apparition and ending with the consecration of the church. And the clerestory windows will represent the history of the devotion to the Immaculate Conception. The decoration of the church is by no means complete. It is to be in harmony with the architecture, so pure in outline and light in form. In the seventy-six arcatures of the triforium the saints most devoted to the Immaculate Conception are to be represented on a gilt ground.

To see this beautiful church crowded with devout pilgrims, priests at every altar of the fifteen chapels, a grand service going on in the choir with all the solemn pomp displayed in great cathedrals, the numerous clergy in the richest vestments, and to hear the grand music of Palestrina executed with perfect harmony and exquisite taste--the whole congregation heartily joining in the chants, and the peal of the trumpets contrasting admirably with their earnest voices--is to the ravished soul like a vision of the heavenly Jerusalem. The lofty arches seem to sway with the undulations of the music, sometimes soft as the murmur of a rivulet, and again as deep as a mountain torrent falling over rocks. The eye is never weary of gazing at this fair temple with its pure outlines, so harmonious in all its parts, the soft light coming in floods through the lofty windows and mingling with the brilliancy of the lights and flowers; the immense oriflammes hanging from the arches to give testimony to the glory of the Immaculate Conception and the Pontiff who crowned that glory; the mysterious words on the wall that fell from the smiling lips of the Virgin in the grotto; and the Most Pure herself, unveiled to all eyes, standing in the midst of all this splendor above the altar, in a golden atmosphere, raising heavenward her look of inspiration, her hands joined in prayer, her heart swelling with love--adoring love for Him who dwells in the tabernacle; and maternal love for her children gathered around the fountain opened for the salvation of the world. O Immaculate One! we here feel thy sweet presence, and the creative power of thy word: “Go, tell the priests I wish a chapel to be built on this spot.”

Never was greater miracle wrought by humbler instrumentality--never was the Divine Hand more manifest than in the upspringing of this mountain chapel--the lily of the Immaculate Conception, sweetest flower of this age of Mary. Human intelligence is confounded at what has been effected by the mouth of a poor peasant girl of this obscure valley. It grasps at the assurance of faith in Mary who has wrought it. Before her the Gave that beat against the cliff has fallen back--image of the torrent that approached Mary at the moment of her creation, and, just as she was about to receive the fatal stain, the wave of corruption, that bears all of us poor children of Eve on its impure waters, fell back before the ark of the new covenant, Fœderis Arca.

The very cliffs have bowed down at her presence, and these stones, these walls, these columns, these arches, and the fountain of indisputable potency that has sprung out of the bowels of the earth, bear witness to her wonderful apparitions and power.

One of the most imposing spectacles at Lourdes is a procession of pilgrims, especially when seen, as we saw one, from the mount above coming from the town--a very forest of crosses, banners, and lanterns, borne by thousands of people with that slow, measured, solemn, harmonious step that is in itself a prayer. We thought of good Mother Hallahan and her delight in nine miles of prayer. Here were whole leagues of praise.

“On the ear Swells softly forth some virgin hymn; The white procession windeth near, With glimmering lights in sunshine dim.

Mother of Purity and Peace! They sing the Saviour’s name and thine: Clothe them forever with the fleece Unspotted of thy Lamb Divine!”

From one end of the immense procession to the other rose chants without discord--here from a band of maidens and innocent children, yonder from harmonious choirs of maturer years. From time to time a peal of trumpets drowned the murmur of the Gave and awoke the echoes of the mountains. In the procession were hundreds of men organized into pious confraternities as in the Middle Ages. They follow the path taken by Bernadette, when she was irresistibly led on to the place of the wondrous vision. They all stop to make a genuflection where she knelt before the Beautiful Lady, and begin the Litany of Loretto in the sweet plaintive air peculiar to the country. It is delightful to hear Mary’s name swelling along the valley and up the rocky heights! Thus chanting they ascend the winding path on the cliff, forming a living monogram of the Virgin’s name, among roses that give out their perfume, through cedars of Lebanon and other rare trees that bend down their branches laden with dew. And above this verdure, these perfumes, and these chanted supplications, the white marble Church of the Immaculate Conception sends heavenward the silent prayer of its gleaming walls, its pillars, its turrets and pinnacles. They wind around the church like a wreath and disappear within its sculptured portal chanting: _Lætatus sum in his quæ dicta sunt mihi_--I was glad at the things that were said to me. We will go into the house of the Lord.… Our feet were wont to stand in thy courts, O Jerusalem! Jerusalem which is built as a city that is at unity with itself.… Plenteousness be to them that love thee!

At the particular request of the Prince of Viana, one of the greatest benefactors to the church, his Holiness Pope Pius IX. has granted a partial indulgence to all who visit the church, and a plenary indulgence to those who here approach the sacraments and pray for concord among Christian princes the extirpation of heresies, and the exaltation of our holy Mother the Church.

A winding road leads from the church by gentle ascent up the picturesque mount behind, along which are to be built fifteen chapels in honor of the Mysteries of the Rosary, where the words once spoken by the angel will ascend the mountain side in one long and incessant Ave Maria! Along this holy way will continually ascend and descend the pious votary in “pilgrim’s cowl and lowly weed”

“Dropping on each mystic bead To Mary, Mother Mild, a contrite tear.”

A certain party, desirous of bringing pilgrimages into disrepute, and inclined to seek some human cause for everything supernatural, attributes a political object to this great crusade of prayer which the impious instinctively tremble before, and not without reason. M. Lasserre thus closes an address to the visitor to Notre Dame de Lourdes:

“Pilgrims of France! Your politics at the grotto of Lourdes is to pray, to begin a new life, to sanctify yourselves, and to become in this corrupt age the chosen righteous who are to save the wicked cities of the land. It is thus you will labor efficaciously for the prosperity of your country and bring back its past splendor and glory. A nation desirous of salvation in heaven, is a nation saved on earth.”

We close by echoing one of the acclamations sung alternately by clergy and people at the solemn celebration in this place of benediction:

V. Omnibus nobis peregrinantibus, et universo Christiano populo, Fidei, Spei, et Charitatis augmentum et gaudium æternum.

R. Amen. Amen. Salvos fac servos tuos, Domine, et benedic hæreditati tuæ, et rege eos, et extolle illos usque in æternum.

Fiat. Fiat. Amen.

THE HOUSE OF JOAN OF ARC.

I am writing these lines in a small inn of Domrémy, on the evening of my pilgrimage to the lowly dwelling of Jeanne d’Arc. My table is an old coffer, shakily placed on the rugged and disjointed paving stones which form the floor, and my only companion a kitten gambolling in the red rays of the setting sun. I thus begin my account of that house which has been well called the _santa casa_ of France.

Arriving at Domrémy while yet its green valleys were enveloped in the white vapors rising from the Meuse, my first sight of the place was through the mist of early morning.

It is a small village of Lorraine, near the confines of Champagne. God, who so often wills to choose a mere nothing through which to exercise his power, chose it as the starting-point of his work for the deliverance of France. For Domrémy was a little village also in the year 1425, when there the heavenly light appeared, there the angel descended, and the voices not of earth were heard.

The mutilation of this province by the German invasion has only rendered Domrémy more _lorrain_ than ever: and the Vosges Mountains raise their blue summits along the horizon and lengthen their shadows as if the better to guard the home of her who was the good angel of her country.

The village consists of scarcely more than a hundred houses, clustered round the venerable church and the old walls of the cottage which sheltered the infancy and youth of the daughter of Jaques d’Arc and his wife Isabelle Romée.

This church, to which her earliest steps were bent, the place of her prayers and inspirations, where she armed her soul with virtue and heroism before arming her breast like a brave warrior preparing for battle--this church is more than lowly, it is poor; and it is matter for wonder that, if no one else does so, at least that the maidens of France do not organize themselves into an association which should make it their chosen sanctuary, and by which they would engage themselves not only to provide it with what is necessary and fitting, but with pious generosity to enrich and beautify their privileged altar.

At the threshold of the church stands a ridiculous statue of Jeanne d’Arc. It seems a sort of sacrilege so to have misrepresented the features of the Maid; and the best way to dispose of this image would be to throw it into a furnace and melt it down in company with the still more objectionable equestrian statue recently erected in the Place des Pyramides at Paris, which insults the modest virgin by placing her astride on her charger, in a complete suit of armor, instead of the steel breastplate which alone she wore over her womanly apparel. Then, out of the metal of these molten caricatures might be struck medals of worthier design, to be distributed in the country.

Among the trees at a few paces from the church is a little Greek monument supported by four columns, beneath which is a bust of Jeanne in white marble. Facing this little monument, about a stone’s throw off, stands her dwelling. This house is separated from the road by two pavilions connected by a railing of gilt arrows. Trees envelop its walls with their overshadowing branches, and a third part of the roof is covered with ivy. Above the door, which is low, are three shields of armorial bearings, the Arms of France, charged with a sword, and those of the family of D’Arc; or, to speak more exactly, the door is surmounted by three escutcheons, namely, that of Louis XI., who caused the cottage to be embellished; that which was granted to one of the brothers of Jeanne, together with the name of Lys; and a third, which bears a star and three ploughshares, to symbolize Jeanne’s heavenly mission and the lowly condition of her parents. Two inscriptions in uncial Gothic are graven on the stone: “_Vive Labeur!_”--the motto of Jeanne and the _resumé_ of her history; and “_Vive le Roi Loys!_”--the _resumé_ of her great work.

On the left of the door is a lattice window with diamond-shaped panes. Two rooms constitute the whole of the house. Jeanne was born in the first and larger of the two; the second and inner one is dimly lighted by a small window opening towards the church. Here it was that Jeanne listened to the heavenly voices, and here she heard the church bells summoning to prayer, or sounding the tocsin, when the village was attacked by marauding bands who came to sack the place and cut down the partisans of the throne of France.

On several occasions fugitives were concealed by her in this obscure chamber. She gave up her bed to them, and went to rest in the hayloft.

Facing the hearth in the entrance room is a statue in bronze, reduced from the expressive figure by the Princess Mary of Orleans.[160] Garlands of moss surround this statue, and rose-leaves are scattered at its feet. The nuns who are in charge of the house assemble every evening in this room with the young girls of the village, to sing hymns. On the wall hangs a crucifix, and beneath it stands an image of the Blessed Virgin; and here the nuns with their little flock keep the month of Mary, celebrating the praises of the Royal Virgin of Judah, who was so dear to the heart of the virgin of Domrémy.

Here and there upon the walls are _ex votos_, slabs of marble and bronze relating facts worthy of remembrance in honor of Jeanne, or recalling historic dates. The beams and rafters of the ceiling are dinted by axe and sabre strokes given by the Prussians in 1814, not by any means from disrespect, or motives of jealousy, but merely from an outbreak of destructive devotion. They entered the house, silent, and with their hats off, but they did not wish to leave it without taking from it some relics to carry into their own country.

Numerous pilgrims have been guilty of the low and objectionable proceeding of carving their names on the stones of the house, although a register is kept at hand on purpose to receive the visitors’ names and impressions. The piece of furniture on which the volumes are placed was presented last year by a prince of France, and accompanied by the gift of a piece of Gobelin tapestry representing the entry of King Charles VII. and _Jehanne la bonne Lorraine_ into the city of Rheims.

The latest volume of the register commences in 1871, after the disasters and misfortunes of France. To every name inscribed in its pages, whether of aristocrat or commoner, officers of the army or men of the rank and file, thoughts are elaborated of more or less pretension to literary merit, in prose or verse, but the dominant idea is prayer to God for the salvation of France, and grateful love to Jeanne d’Arc; while here and there are appeals to the Sovereign Pontiff for the beatification of the young patriot martyr, or at any rate for a solemn affirmation of the miraculous nature of her call and the sanctity of her life.

A touching incident occurred not quite a year ago. One evening in the month of May, two English ladies, nuns of the Order of Servites, visited the house, accompanied by a priest of Vaucouleurs, and had no sooner crossed the threshold than, falling on their knees, they burst into tears, entreating God to pardon England, guilty of the death of Joan of Arc, and making a fervent act of reparation for their country, their ancestors, and themselves. Nor did they rise before they had kissed the floor of that lowly cottage where she had so often knelt in prayer to God and in converse with his glorified saints, and where she had lived in the fulfilment of the daily duties of her lowly estate.

On another occasion a band of volunteers, on their way to join the army, came to ask _La Pucelle_ to help them to be good soldiers, and begging her blessing on themselves and their arms as they would that of a canonized saint. A cavalry officer made a visit to Domrémy expressly to remind her that one of his comrades in arms died at Gravelotte repeating her name. A great number of officers who made their escape from Germany also came hither direct from the frontier, to return thanks for their safety, before returning to the homes where their families were anxiously awaiting them.

A great pope has said, “France will not perish, for God has always a miracle in reserve to save her.”

The miracle came in the middle of the XVth century, in the person of Jeanne d’Arc. It may come again through her instrumentality; not this time leading on the victors at Orleans, Patay, Troyes, Rheims, Compeigne, Paris, or dying at Rouen amid the flames, but crowned a saint upon the Church’s altars, as a powerful intercessor for her native land. Mgr. Dupanloup has given a great impetus to the desire for forwarding her cause at the infallible tribunal of the Catholic Church.

Gerson, the great and pious chancellor, and the contemporary of Joan of Arc, ardently desired the same cause, which is now taken to heart, not only by the illustrious bishop, but also by the clergy, the magistrature, and the army in Orleans, who are at the head of various commissions employed in obtaining the evidence necessary for aiding the judgment of the Sovereign Pontiff. He will have a pleasant task who may be entrusted to collect the popular traditions which linger like a fragrance at Domrémy, of the innocent and holy life of Joan of Arc, and to him the very walls of her cottage birthplace will be eloquent: _lapides clamabunt_.[161]

SONNET.

Mark yonder gentle doe! her one loved fawn Close at her side, just where the leafy wood, With all its summer charms of solitude, Steps o’er the verdant edges of our lawn! Mark their shy grace at this chaste hour of dawn! While culling spicy birch-twigs, their cropped food Dew-drops impearl, and morning shadows brood O’er dells, towards which their timid feet are drawn. Thus have I seen, within a cloister’s shade, A widowed mother and one tender child Close at her side; one habit on them laid; Both, by a kindred exaltation mild, Led to the service of the Mother Maid, With her to seek Heaven’s peace through pathways undefiled.

DOMINIQUE DE GOURGUES,

_THE AVENGER OF THE HUGUENOTS IN FLORIDA, A CATHOLIC_.

The traveller between Bordeaux and Bayonne who takes an eastward train at Morcenx, will arrive in less than an hour at Mont-de-Marsan, a small town of four or five thousand inhabitants, on the borders of the Landes, at the confluence of the Douze and Midou, which form the Midouze. Some say it was founded on the site of an old temple of Mars, by Charlemagne, on his return from Roncesvalles. If so, the place was afterwards destroyed by the Saracen or Norman invaders, for the fifth Vicomte de Marsan, desirous of purging the forest of Maremsin of the robbers who endangered the lives and property of the merchants and pilgrims who passed that way, built a castle at the junction of the two rivers, on a spot which bore a name of ominous meaning: _Maü-pas_, or _Mauvais-pas_--doubtless a bad place to fall into, on account of the frequent robberies. Around this castle gathered the vassals of the neighboring abbey of S. Sever for protection. They came from the parish of S. Pierre-du-Mont, and brought their devotion to S. Peter with them. The arms of the town are still two keys _en pal_, between the letters M. M. (Mons Martianus); and the parish church that stood till the Revolution, was dedicated to S. Peter, where the mayor, before entering on his functions, took the following curious oath in three languages--the Gascon, Latin, and French:

Per Diu et per aquet monsegné Saint Pé, Jou juri que bon et lejau a la bille jou seré Lous bens daquere jou proucureré, Et lous maux esbiteré. Las causes doubtouses dab conselt jou feré, Justice tan au petit com au gros jou faré, Com an heit lous autes maires et millou si jou sé, Ansi me adjudé Diu et monsegné Saint Pé.

Per Deum et sanctum Petrum juro Quod urbi bonus et legalis ero, Ejus bona procurabo, Ejus mala vitabo: Dubia faciam cum consilio, Et justitiam tam parvo quam magno, Sicut alii magistratus et melius si scio, Sic non ero sine Dei ac sancti Petri adjutorio.

Je jure par le Dieu vivant et par Saint Pierre, Que jè seray bon et légal à la ville; Que j’en procureray les biens et eviteray les maux, Que je ne feray jamais les choses douteuses sans conseil, Que je feray justice, au petit comme au grand, De même que les autres maires, et mieux si je scay; Ainsi me puisse toujours ayder mon Dieu et Saint Pierre.[162]

In 1256, the town passed into the possession of the lords of Béarn, and to keep it in due subjection Gaston Phœbus built the castle of _Nou-li-bos_, _i.e._, _You-do-not-wish-it-there_, referring to the opposition of the inhabitants--a name that recalls the famous _Quiquengrogne_ erected by Anne of Bretagne to keep the town of S. Malo in check, and the _Bridle_ built by Louis XII. at the entrance of the harbor of Genoa.

Calvinism, of course, took some root here in the time of Jeanne d’Albret. Theodore Beza sent preachers to win over the people, but the Catholics organized under the Seigneur de Ravignan and for a while kept the Huguenots from any excesses. Montgomery, however, soon swept over the country, sacking all the churches and monasteries, many of which he razed to the ground. Among these was the convent of Bayries, a community of Clarist nuns in the vicinity of Mont-de-Marsan, founded in 1270 by Gaston Phœbus and his wife Amate, which numbered Catherine d’Albret, a cousin of Francis I., among its abbesses. Marie d’Albret, another relative of the king’s, was abbess when the marriage between him and Eleanore of Austria took place here, July 6, 1530. This house of historic interest was stripped of every valuable by the Huguenots, and then burned to the ground, the nuns barely escaping with their lives.

The redoubtable Monluc soon avenged all these sacrileges by taking Mont-de-Marsan, and despatching all who opposed the passage of his troops. The few Huguenot soldiers left, he threw from the windows of the formidable _Nou-li-bos_, to avenge, as he said, the brother-in-arms, whose officers were treacherously butchered by the Huguenots after the capitulation of Orthez.

This castle of terrible memory has a pleasanter association, for in it passed the early childhood of the poet François Le Poulchre, the king’s knight, and lord of La Motte-Messemé, who boasted of descending from the ancient Roman consul, Appius Pulcher, who displayed such conspicuous valor under the famous Lucullus,

“Un Appius Pulcher, gentilhomme Romain, Duquel s’est maintenu le nom de main en main Jusques au temps présent, jusqu’à moi qui le porte.”

He took for his device: _Suum cuique pulchrum_, in allusion to his name.

As his father was superintendent of the household of Margaret, queen of Navarre, sister of Francis I., François Le Poulchre had the honor of having that king for his godfather, and Margaret for his godmother. The latter conceived such an affection for him that she kept him at her castle at Marsan, and made him eat at her table as soon as he was old enough. He says himself:

“J’eus l’honneur pour parrain d’avoir le roi François, Pour marraine sa sœur, Royne des Navarrois, Qui me favorisa jusque là elle mesme Me tenir sur les fons le iour de mon baptesme, Faict par un grand preslat l’evesque de Loron. (Oloron). … “Me faisant mesmement à sa table manger En présence des siens, ou de quelque estranger Qui peut y arriver, ne changeant onc de place.”

With little taste for study Le Poulchre left college at an early age to embrace the profession of arms.

“Avecque ce grand duc, non moins vaillant que bon, Race de Saint Louis, dit Louis de Bourbon,”

--that is to say, under the great Condé. He has given us his own life and adventures under the title of _Les honnestes Loisirs du Seigneur de la Motte-Messemé_, which is divided into seven books bearing the title of the seven planets, as the history of Herodotus bears the name of the nine muses, and the poetical Zodiac of Marcellus Palingenesis bears the names of the twelve signs of the zodiac. To compose it, he retired to the Château de Bouzemont in Lorraine. We trust he was more skilful in the use of the sword than of the pen. One of his sonnets, however, is pleasing. It is like a single flower in a barren parterre. It is addressed to the _dame de ses pensées_, to whom, after acknowledging she hears Mass devoutly, fasts with due strictness, goes to confession regularly, and is always charitable to the poor, he says:

“Vous faictes tout cela, mais ce seroit resver De croire que cela tout seul vous pust sauver. Ne vous y arrestez pas, je vous prie, Madame; D’aller en Paradis le plus certain moyen C’est de rendre à chacun ce que l’on a du sien: Rendez-moi donc mon cœur, vous sauverez vostre ame;”

--You do all this, but it is a dream to suppose this alone can save you. Do not stop here, madam, I pray you; the surest means of gaining paradise is to restore to every one what belongs to him: Give me back my heart, then, and you will save your soul!

Among other historic memories evoked by Le Poulchre in his seven cantos, he relates how, going to kiss the hand of the young King Charles IX., Anne d’Este,

“Veufve du grand Lorrain, Qu’avait meschantement d’une traisteresse main Blecé d’un coup de plomb Poltrot, son domestique,”

--came not to seek vengeance on Poltrot, for he had already been drawn and quartered before St. Jean de Grève, but on Coligny, whom, in the presence of the king, the Cardinal de Guise, and others, in the nave of the chapel of the château de Vincennes, she accused of being an accomplice in the crime of February 18, 1563.

It was not long after this the king,

“Se hastant de traverser les Lanes Pour aller voir sa sœur la Reyne des Espagnes,”

stopped at Mont-de-Marsan, where he made Le Poulchre _escuyer d’escuyrie ordinaire_, as the poet does not fail to record, and shortly after he received the collar of knighthood from the same royal hand.

The château of Gaston Phœbus, which had received so many princes and princesses within its walls, and been the witness of so many tragedies, was, after being taken anew from the Huguenots, totally demolished by the order of Louis XIII A charming promenade, called the _Pépinière_, surrounded by the Douze, is now the spot.

Mont-de-Marsan was formerly a centre of considerable trade, and the entrepôt of the country around. Wine, grain, turpentine, wool, etc., were brought here to be sent down the Midouze. This was a source of considerable revenue to the place, and explains the extensive warehouses, now unused in consequence of the railway and the diversion of trade. There is still a little wharf, where are moored several barks laden with wood or turpentine, but there is not business enough to disturb the quietness of the place. No one would suppose it had ever been the theatre of terrible events. The most striking feature is a peculiar oblong court, surrounded by houses of uniform style, with numerous balconies for the spectators to witness the bull-fights occasionally held here--an amusement that accords with the fiery nature and pastoral pursuits of the people around, and is still clung to in several places in the Landes and among the Pyrenees. This square is, by a singular anomaly, called the _Place St. Roch_, from a saint regarded throughout the region as the patron of animals; and they certainly have need of his protection in a place where they are exposed to such cruelty.

Such are some of the characteristics and memories of the small inland town in which was born Dominique de Gourgues, the leader of the celebrated expedition against the Spaniards in Florida. He was the third son of Jean de Gourgues and Isabella de Lau, his wife.

He was born in the year 1537, in an age of religious conflict, when party spirit ran too high for any one to remain neutral, whatever their grade of piety. It might therefore seem surprising there should ever have been any doubt as to the religious convictions of De Gourgues. Because he was the avenger of the massacre of the Huguenots in Florida, he has often been identified with the Protestant party. Because he lived in an age when provincial and sectarian spirit often prevailed over patriotism, it has been taken for granted that sympathy with the religious sentiments of the victims of the Spaniards could alone have induced him to sell his property to provide for a distant and dangerous expedition that would never repay him even if successful. In a work entitled, _La France Protestante_, by MM. Haag, a kind of dictionary of Protestant celebrities in France, issued in 1853 by a proselyting press, whose works are everywhere to be found, De Gourgues is made a Huguenot. No proof is given, no doubt expressed--the surest and shortest way of carrying one’s point in these days. Assurance always produces a certain effect even on the thoughtfully-minded. They take it for granted it has some real foundation.

The _Revue Protestante_[163] makes the same assertion, appealing to De Thou and other historians.

Francis Parkman, in his _Pioneers of France in the New World_, says: “There was a gentleman of Mont-de-Marsan, Dominique de Gourgues, a soldier of ancient birth and high renown. That he was a Huguenot is not certain. The Spanish annalist Barcia calls him a terrible heretic; but the French Jesuit, Charlevoix, anxious the faithful should share the glory of his exploits, affirms, that, like his ancestors before him, he was a good Catholic. If so, his faith sat lightly upon him, and Catholic or heretic, he hated the Spaniards with a mortal hate.”

The English made the Catholic Church responsible for the massacre of the Huguenots. The account of Le Moyne, published in England under the patronage of Raleigh, inflamed anew the public mind against Catholicity, and the terrible words of the Spanish leader, _El que fuere herege morira_, were regarded as the echo of the church. Consequently the avengers of the deed were supposed to be necessarily Protestants--not only De Gourgues, but all his followers. Nor is this all. The whole family of the latter is said to have been converted to Calvinism in the XVIth century.

M. le Vicomte de Gourgues, the present representative of the family, desirous of vindicating the orthodoxy of his ancestors, and, in particular, of so illustrious a relative as Dominique de Gourgues, has given to the public incontrovertible proofs that the whole family was eminently Catholic, that Dominique lived and died in the faith, and that his expedition to Florida was a patriotic deed in which religious zeal had no part. He felt the anger of a man of honor against the cruelty of the Spaniards. A great national injury was to be avenged, and he was too good a soldier not to wish to be foremost in the conflict. And perhaps some private motives excited him to vengeance, for he had been taken himself by the Spaniards, and narrowly escaped death at their hands, and could therefore feel for these new victims of their barbarity. Moreover, his expedition was the expression of public sentiment in France concerning the massacre--the mere outburst of the electric current that ran over the country at such an insult to the honor of France. The assertion that De Gourgues was a Protestant is a modern invention without a shadow of foundation. None of the old French historians express any doubt as to his orthodoxy. Even the romances in which he figures represent him as a Catholic, as if his religion were a prominent feature in his character. Some years ago, a novel was published in the _Siècle_ called “La Peine du Talion,” of which the Chevalier de Gourgues is the hero, and on his Catholicity turns the interest of the story. He is represented as a brilliant cavalier who has served in the wars of Italy, and is now an officer in the service of the Duke of Guise, whose favor he enjoys. An attachment is formed between him and Estiennette de Nérac, whose hand he requests in marriage. The Seigneur de Nérac expresses great surprise that Messire Dominique should forget the insuperable abyss there is between an ardent Catholic in the service of the house of Lorraine and his Protestant daughter.

But for more serious proofs. And first let us examine the orthodoxy of Dominique de Gourgues’ family.

That his parents were Catholics is proved by the list of those who appeared in the ban and arrière-ban at Mont-de-Marsan, March 4, 1537. “Noble Jean de Gourgues, Seigneur de Gaube and Monlezun, present at the convocation held in this town by order of the king.” And Isabella de Lau, his wife, requests in her will “to be buried in the church of the convent of the Cordeliers at Mont-de-Marsan,[164] before the chapel of the Conception where the ancestors of the said De Gourgues are buried.” It is sure, therefore, that Dominique was baptized in the Catholic Church at Mont-de-Marsan.

Dominique and his brother Ogier left their native place in early life and established themselves at Bordeaux. The former was never married, and seems to have made his home with his brother, to whom he was greatly attached. At the château de Vayries there were, a few years ago, four old evergreen trees of some foreign species, at the corners of the lawn before the terrace, said by tradition to have been planted by the hero of Florida.

Ogier became king’s counsellor in the council of state, and president of the treasury in Guienne, and, after serving his country faithfully under five kings, died full of years and honors at his house in Bordeaux, “without leaving the like of his quality in Guyenne.” He took part in all the affairs of the province, in the accounts of which we find many things significant of his religious convictions. Monluc mentions him in his _Commentaries_, as offering to procure wheat and cattle from the Landes, on his own credit, when it was proposed to fortify the coast to defeat the projects of the Huguenots. He placed his property as much as possible at the disposal of the king. He manifested great interest in the reduction of La Rochelle, and lent twenty-three hundred livres to enable the Baron de la Gardie to despatch his galleys to the siege, as is shown by the following letter from the king:

“For the payment of my galleys which I have ordered Baron de la Gardie, the general, to despatch promptly to the coast of Bretagne on a service of great importance, … I write praying you to advance to Sieur Felix the sums I have assigned for this purpose, … trusting that, as in the past you have never spared your means and substance in my service, you will spare them still less in this urgent necessity. I have been advised, however, by the said Sieur de la Gardie that you have not yet lent your aid, which I am persuaded proceeds from want of means; but well knowing the credit you have in my city of Bordeaux, and trusting to your good-will, I send this line to beg you, in continuation of the good and acceptable services I have heretofore received from you in public affairs, and on other occasions which have presented themselves, to do me likewise this other in so extreme a need, to advance and place in the hands of the said Felix the sums I have assigned in aid, not only of the said Sieur de la Gardie, but the other captains of my said galleys, which I will pay and reimburse you, or those who by your favor and credit shall have advanced them.… (Hoping) that you have lessened in no way the extreme affection you have had till the present, in all that relates to my service, which I will not forget in due time or fail to recognize, … to gratify you in every way possible, … I finish praying God, Sr. de Gourgues, to have you in his holy keeping.--Given at Gaillon the 24th of May, 1571.

“CHARLES.”

The appeal was not in vain, as we have said.

Máréchal de Matignon, in a letter to the king in 1585, renders the following fine testimony concerning Ogier de Gourgues:

“Sire, the pestilence in this city continues to such a degree that there is not a person, with the means of living elsewhere, who has not left it, and there are now only the Srs. Premier President and De Gourgues, who remain out of the special affection they have for your service.”

Ogier de Gourgues had two sons, Antoine and Marc Antoine. Antoine, the elder, presumed by MM. Haag and others to be a Protestant, is thus spoken of in the _Chronique Bourdeloyse_, published in 1672:

“The château de Castillon, in Médoc, having been surprised by some troops, has been restored to the obedience of the king and the Seigneur de Matignon in eight days by Capt. de Gourgues, _mestre de camp_ of a French regiment, and cousin of him who attacked the Spaniards in Florida.”

And in another place: “And after some sorties from the garrison of Blaye, in which Capt. de Gourgues, while fighting valiantly, was wounded, and after some days died, the said Seigneur de Matignon raised the siege.”

Of course, Marshal de Matignon’s lieutenant could not be a Huguenot. Besides, the account of the expenses at the grand funeral services of Capt. Antoine de Gourgues, attended by all the religious communities in Bordeaux, is still extant. By this we find seven livres are paid the Carmelite monks for their services three days, and the use of several objects for the funeral; three crowns to the canons of St. André for High Mass and the burial service; twenty sols to the Brothers of the Observance for three days’ assistance and the use of robes; four crowns to the religious of the Chapelet for aiding in the three days’ service; five sols to the Brothers of Mary for the same; two crowns to twenty-four priests who recited prayers around the bier; fifty-one sols each to four women who dressed the body and remained with it day and night; one sol apiece given to three thousand poor on the day of burial, and six deniers the following day, etc., etc. There is a _chapelle ardente_, hung with mourning, emblazoned with the family arms, the bells are tolled two days, and all the clergy and poor follow him to the grave, with the most solemn rites of the Catholic Church.

Marc Antoine, the second son of Ogier de Gourgues, was a zealous defender of the Catholic faith. He travelled all through Europe in his youth, studied theology at the Roman college, and, gifted with uncommon eloquence, though he did not take Orders, held public controversies against Calvinism and a discussion with Scaliger, as is shown by the eulogy at his funeral, which took place at Bordeaux. Some years after those public vindications of the Catholic faith, he went to England, where he was received with great distinction by Queen Elizabeth, a fact worthy of notice, as the favor she manifested to Dominique has been considered as an argument in proof of his Protestant proclivities. She liked to gather around her men of certain celebrity, and those who were in her good graces were not always in sympathy with her religious notions, as is shown in the case of Marc Antoine.

Marc Antoine became Premier President of the Parliament of Bordeaux, and was charged with all the preparations relative to the fulfilment of the marriage between Louis XIII. and the Infanta of Austria--a difficult mission, because the Huguenots, opposed to the alliance, were resolved to frustrate it. M. O’Reilly, in his _Histoire de Bordeaux_, says: “They endeavored to seize the person of the king in the environs of Guitre, but he arrived at Bordeaux without any disaster, thanks to the excellent arrangements made by President de Gourgues.”

Marc Antoine not only made foundations in favor of the Jesuits and Carmelites, but his second wife, Olive de Lestonnac, left thirty thousand livres to the Recollects of Sainte Foy, to build a residence where they could labor for the conversion of the Huguenots. It would seem as if every member of the family were animated with a particular zeal for the Catholic religion.

In 1690 we find Jacques Joseph de Gourgues Bishop of Bazas.

After the foregoing proofs, no possible doubt can be felt concerning the stanch Catholicity of the De Gourgues family. As for Dominique, but little is known of his life previous to his expedition to Florida. Though he afterwards belonged to the royal navy, it appears that he first served on land and took part in the Italian campaign under Maréchal de Strozzi. His last feat of arms in Italy, says one of his biographers, was to sustain a siege, in 1557, with thirty men against a corps of Spanish troops. The fort held was taken by assault, and the garrison all slaughtered, except De Gourgues, who was spared, to be sent ignominiously to row on the galleys. His boat being captured by the Turks on the coast of Sicily, he was taken to Rhodes and thence to Constantinople. But his fate was not changed; he continued to serve in the galleys. Again putting to sea, he was taken and set at liberty by Mathurin Romegas, commander of the galleys of Malta and Knight of S. John of Jerusalem. The deliverer of the future hero of Florida was likewise a Gascon. His tombstone may still be seen in the nave of the nuns’ church of Trinità de’ Monti at Rome, the inscription half effaced by the feet of the worshippers.

Dominique now returned to France, and after a voyage to Brazil and the Indies, he entered the service of the house of Lorraine, who employed him on several private occasions against the Huguenots. His expedition to Florida did not take place till the year 1567. We have seen him fighting against the Spaniards in Italy, and subjected by them to the utmost degradation. It is not surprising he burned to avenge the murder of his companions-in-arms and the severe treatment he had endured, as well as to wipe out the stain on the national honor caused by the massacre of his fellow-countrymen in Florida. He had too narrowly escaped the Spanish sword himself not to feel the deepest sympathy in their fate. He afterwards drew up himself an account of his expedition, which is full of thrilling interest. It has been published, but the original is in the Bibliothèque Impériale at St. Germain.

The establishment of a French colony in Florida grew out of the civil and religious contests of the XVIth century. Admiral de Coligni, with the view of providing his co-religionists a safe asylum beyond the seas, induced Charles IX. to allow five or six hundred Huguenots under Jean Ribault to embark at Dieppe, Feb. 18, 1561, in order to establish themselves in Florida. They landed at the mouth of the Rio San Mateo on the 1st of May, and built a fort on an island, which they called Fort Charles, in honor of their sovereign. The return of Ribault to France led to a relaxation of discipline, and the consequent ruin of the colony. Other companies, also favored by Coligni, were sent in 1564 and 1565, under Laudonnière and the same Ribault, to place the colony on a better footing. Laudonnière secured the friendship of the Indians, whose chief, Satirova, hastened to offer his support. But the destitution to which the colony was reduced weakened the attachment of the natives, and some acts of piracy exasperated the Spaniards, who regarded them as intruders, and resolved on their destruction.

Pedro Melendez appeared with six vessels before Fort Caroline and summoned Laudonnière and Ribault to surrender, promising to spare those who were Catholics, but declaring all heretics should be put to death. They defended themselves valiantly, and even took the offensive, and had it not been for a tempest, perhaps bravery would have won the day over the number of the enemy. But we need not give details which are familiar to all. The fort fell into the hands of Melendez, and all, except Laudonnière and one of his companions who evaded the search, were put to death, “not as French, but as heretics,” if we are to believe an inscription left on the spot. Nothing could be more horrible than this atrocious murder of four hundred inoffensive colonists. The Spaniards even tore out the eyes of their victims, stuck them on the point of their daggers, and hurled them against the French on the water. The skin of Ribault was sent to the King of Spain. And to crown so barbarous a deed, they heaped together the bodies of the men, women, and children, and kindling a great fire, reduced them to ashes, with savage howlings.

Whatever the zeal of the Spanish for the Catholic religion, we may naturally suppose it was not the only motive that animated them on this occasion. Their eagerness to take possession of the country and fortify it, instead of requesting Charles IX. to send a Catholic colony to replace the Huguenots, shows that other motives influenced them. Religion was only a cloak. Moreri, in his _Dictionnaire Historique_, 1712, says: “They hung the French under the pretext they were Lutherans.”

Laudonnière, who escaped, brought the fearful details of this butchery to France. The rage was universal. Notwithstanding the antipathy of the court to the religion of the majority of the victims, it has been too strongly asserted that all sense of national honor was lost in view of the religious aspect of the case. The government of Charles IX. was too weak to insist on complete reparation, but his letters to the French Ambassador at Madrid prove he demanded Philip II. should chastise those who were guilty of the massacre.[165] No reparation, however, was made, and the cruelties of Melendez not only remained unpunished, but he was loaded with honors.

Père Daniel, in his _History_, says: “This inhumanity (of Melendez), instead of being punished by the government of Spain when complaint was made, was praised, and those who had a share in it rewarded. The unhappy state of affairs in the kingdom (France), in consequence of the civil wars, prevented the king from taking vengeance, and three years passed away without the court’s thinking of exacting justice. Capt. Gourgues, a man who sought to distinguish himself, and loved glory more than anything else, resolved to avenge the insult to the French nation, and without looking for any other reward but success and renown, undertook the expedition at his own expense in spite of the danger and every expectation of being disavowed at court.… This deed, that may be numbered among the most memorable ever done of the kind, wiped out the affront inflicted on the French nation.”

And the account from the Imperial library says: “The traitors and murderers, instead of being blamed and punished in Spain, were honored with great estates and dignities. All the French nation expected such an injury to the king and the whole nation would soon be avenged by the public authorities, but this expectation being disappointed for the space of three years, it was hoped some private individual would be found to undertake a deed so essential to the honor and reputation of France. There were many who would have been glad of the renown to be won by such an enterprise, but it could not be undertaken without great expense; the result, for many reasons, was uncertain, hazardous, and full of peril; and even if successfully executed, it might not be exempt from calumny. And it was difficult to find any one willing to incur this calumny by the loss of his property, and an infinite number of difficulties and dangers.”

It was not Laudonnière who went to take vengeance on the Spaniards. It was no agent of Coligni’s. It was not even one of the Huguenots, though their brothers’ blood cried from the ground, who lent his ear to the terrible appeal. No; the brave heart who atoned for the weakness of the sovereign belonged to a devoted Catholic family of the Landes. It was a soldier who had served under the Strozzi in Italy, and afterwards under the Guises in France, who lost sight of religious distinctions in view of his country’s disgrace, and nobly resolved to become the avenger of the Huguenots.

Dominique de Gourgues began his preparations early in the year 1567. He sold some of his property, or, as stated by others, his brother Ogier advanced the money necessary for fitting out the expedition. He armed two vessels small enough to enter the large rivers, and a patache which, when there was lack of wind, could be propelled by oars. He manned them with eighty sailors and one hundred and fifty soldiers, among whom we find some of the noble, as well as plebeian, names of Gascony. Monluc, the governor of Bordeaux, allowed him to depart on a pretended expedition to the coast of Africa. It was the 22d of August. De Gourgues even concealed the object of the voyage from his followers, which shows how unreasonable it is to regard them as Protestants going to avenge a Protestant cause, as many suppose. The names of only a few of them are known, and nothing in particular of these. Capt. Cazenove, of a noble family near Agen that still exists, commanded one of the vessels. Another is called Bierre by MM. Haag, and De Berre by M. de Barbot, and one of the captains of the Baron de la Gardie’s galleys was named Loys de Berre, of course a stanch Catholic. But we see no reason for religious distinctions in the case. The important thing was to have brave, resolute men. And it is certain they knew nothing of the object of the expedition till they arrived at Cape St. Antoine. It is said when they learned it, “they were at first surprised and dissatisfied,” which does not look much like sympathy for slaughtered co-religionists. Parkman says: “There (in Cuba) he gathered his followers about him and addressed them with his fiery Gascon eloquence.… He painted with angry rhetoric the butcheries of Fort Caroline and St. Augustine. ‘What disgrace,’ he cried, ‘if such an insult should pass unpunished! What glory to us if we avenge it! To this I have devoted my fortune. I relied on you. I thought you jealous enough of your country’s glory to sacrifice life itself in a cause like this. Was I deceived? I will show you the way; I will be always at your head; I will bear the brunt of the danger. Will you refuse to follow me?’ The sparks fell among gunpowder. The combustible French nature bursts into flame.”

There is not a word in this address of their being Huguenots, though free to express his sentiments at such a distance from their native land. The only appeal is--glory and France.

It is unnecessary to relate the wonderful _coup-de-main_ by which the three forts of the Spanish were taken. Every one knows how he hung up the thirty Spaniards who were left, on the same trees on which his fellow-countrymen had been hung, and in place of the inscription left by Melendez, he graved with a red-hot iron on a pine slab: “This is not done to Spaniards, but to treacherous robbers and assassins.” One of these victims confessed the justice of the act, as he had hung five of the Huguenots with his own hand.

The _Revue des Deux Mondes_ calls the retaliation of the bold Landais “savage,” and certainly grave moral reasons can be brought against such a proceeding. But everything was exceptional in this historic episode, and we must not regard it according to the ideas of the present age. The disinterested and heroic daring of De Gourgues cannot be denied, nor can any one help applauding his patriotic wish to repair the injured honor of the nation. That he looked upon his deed as one of righteous vengeance is sure. How solemn and religious is his language in addressing his followers after his victory:

“My friends, let us give thanks to God for the success he has accorded to our enterprise. It was he who saved us from danger in the tempest off Cape Finibus Terræ, at Hispaniola, Cuba, and the river of Halimacany! It was he who inclined the hearts of the savages to aid us! It was he who blinded the understanding of the Spaniards, so they were unable to discover our forces, or avail themselves of their own! They were four to our one, strongly intrenched, and well provided with artillery, and supplies of food and ammunition. We only had justice on our side, and yet we have conquered them with but little trouble. It is not to our strength, but to God alone we owe the victory. Let us thank him, my friends, and never forget the benefits we have received from him. Let us pray him to continue his favor towards us, to guide us on our way back and preserve us from all danger; pray him also to vouchsafe to dispose the hearts of men so that the many dangers we have incurred and the fatigues we have endured may find grace and favor before our king and before all France, as we had no other motive but the service of the king and the honor of our country!”

They set sail May 3, and arrived at La Rochelle the 6th of June. De Gourgues went immediately to Bordeaux to render an account of his voyage to Monluc, who, as Père Daniel says, loaded him with praises and caresses, which, with his antipathy to Huguenotism, he would hardly have done had De Gourgues been a Huguenot in the service of Huguenots. If the latter did not inform him before his departure of the object of his expedition, it was because he knew Monluc was anxious to avoid all occasion of rupture with Spain. MM. Haag say Monluc had received orders to forbid all expeditions of the kind. And though De Gourgues did not doubt the approbation of the governor, he did not wish to compromise him in the eyes of the king.

De Gourgues received not only a flattering welcome from Monluc but the acclamations of the entire nation. The wish for vengeance had been universal, and he was applauded for realizing it. Perhaps it was this outburst of patriotism that forgot all religious animosities which led that sagacious diplomatist, François de Noailles, at this very time Bishop of Dax, a place not far from Mont-de-Marsan, to assure the king the best means of putting an end to the civil dissensions of the country was to declare war against Spain.

Had De Gourgues been a Huguenot he would probably have disposed of his war prizes at La Rochelle, where he first touched, thereby rendering his party a service by supplying them with arms. Instead of that, he took them to Bordeaux, and Monluc bought them to arm the city against the Huguenots, as is shown by existing documents estimating their value, dated Aug. 27, 1568.

“This day appeared before me Capt. Dominique de Gourgues requesting the appraisement of nine pieces of artillery, one cannon, a culverin, and three _moyennes_, which he has brought to this said city from the voyage he has lately made, and taken in the fort the French had built, but which was afterwards seized by one Pierre Malendes, a Spaniard.… Presented themselves before us to make the said appraisement and valuation: Antoine de Cassagnet, lord of Cassagnet and Tilhadet, Knight of the Order of the King, and governor of the city and country of Bordeaux in the absence of Sr. de Monluc; Jehan de Monluc, Knight of the Order of St. John of Jerusalem, gentleman in ordinary of the king’s chamber, and colonel of the infantry of Guienne; Jacques Descar, Knight of the Order of the King, captain of fifty men-at-arms of his ordinance, captain and governor of the Château du Ha in the said city and province of Guienne; Charles de Monferrand, also Knight of the Order of the King; Pierre de Savignac, also Knight of the same order; and Loys de Lur, Seigneur d’Uza, whom, etc.”

All these persons to whom De Gourgues thus confided his interests were Catholic lords of Guienne, whose religious convictions could not be doubted, and with whom he must have been on intimate terms to induce them to take the trouble to estimate the value of his war-prizes.

But it is said Charles IX. and his court condemned De Gourgues’ act. M. de Lacaze, in his biography, says: “He received from his compatriots the liveliest testimonies of admiration and gratitude; but it was not the same at court, where his courage and achievements were rewarded by ingratitude and persecution. The Spanish ambassador demanded his head, and the heroic Frenchman was obliged to conceal himself at Rouen to escape death. He was living in a state bordering on want when Queen Elizabeth offered him command of a fleet she was going to send to the assistance of King Antonio of Portugal; but enfeebled by age, chagrin, and fatigue, Gourgues was unable to profit by so brilliant an offer. He died on his way to London.”

Many of these statements need to be greatly modified, as we shall show.

De Thou says: “At his return he is badly received by the court, which is _wholly Spanish_. The king treats him as a disturber of the public peace.”

There is no doubt the king feared a rupture with Spain, in consequence of the civil dissensions in his kingdom. M. de Monluc, in his _Commentaries_, alluding to his son’s expedition to Africa, expressed a fear of its leading to disturbance with Spain. Personally, he desired war, but did not wish him to draw upon himself the censure of the government. What he says explains the reception of De Gourgues at a court where Spanish influence predominated, and leaves no doubt the latter was only received as the son of Monluc himself would have been, had he given cause for war with Spain. He was, however, soon honorably received into service, for we find him, in August, 1568, attached to the royal navy; so he could not, as he states, go to Dax, being “prevented by the affairs of the king and the service of the galleys.”

We find De Gourgues’ vessel, the _Charles_, named in an act of October 22, 1568, in which it is said that Loys de Lur, Vicomte d’Uza, was “general-in-chief of the army, and of the vessels _Charles_, _Catherine_, etc., which will at once set sail by order of M. de Monluc.” These vessels were to guard the mouth of the Gironde.

There are still several documents in the archives of the department of the Gironde which refer to De Gourgues’ official duties at this time. From them we give the following extracts:

“Know all men that on this 14th of March, 1572, appeared before me, Jehan Castaigne, etc., for the purpose of selling by these presents to Dominique de Gourgues, squire and gentleman in ordinary of the king’s chamber, … four hundred quintals of biscuit, good and salable, for the sum of six livres and fifteen sols for each of said quintals.[166]…”

Arcère speaks of an armament fitted out at Brouage by Philip de Strozzi, as if to ravage the Spanish coasts of America--a cloak to his real design. He provided this fleet with provisions, munitions of war, etc., with no appearance of haste, though so late in the season. Coligni, therefore, was warned.

We find a letter from Charles IX. to Dominique de Gourgues on the subject, written fifteen days after St. Bartholomew’s Day, when there was no need of concealing his real designs:

“CAPTAIN GOURGUES: As I have written my cousin, the Sire de Strozzy, to approve his appointing you to go on a voyage of discovery, with the general consent of the company, I trust this letter will find you ready to set sail. I beg to warn you, before setting out, not to touch at any place belonging to my brother-in-law, or any prince friendly to me, and with whom I am at peace. Above all, fear to disobey me if you desire my approbation, and the more, because I have more need than I once had of preserving the friendship of all my neighbors. Conduct yourself, therefore, wisely, and according to my intentions, and I will remember the service you do me. Praying God, Captain Gourgues, to have you in his keeping.

CHARLES.

“PARIS, September 14, 1572.”

This letter proves the king’s serious intention of sending the fleet abroad, and contains a somewhat severe warning not to repeat his bold deeds in Florida.

D’Aubigné declares that these vessels were really intended to attack the Spanish settlements in America, but their destination was changed, and they served at the siege of La Rochelle, “to the great displeasure of those who were hoping for a voyage at sea.”

Arcère, in his _Histoire de la Rochelle_, thus speaks of the _Charles_ at the siege of that city: “The king’s fleet was composed of six galleys and nine vessels. The largest of these vessels was called the _Charles_. The admiral’s, named the _Grand Biscayen_, was under the Vicomte d’Uza, commander of the fleet in the absence of the Baron de la Gardie. Montgomery advanced as if to engage in combat, but he encountered full fire from the enemy’s fleet; the vessel he commanded, pierced by a ball, would have sunk without speedy assistance, and he decided to retreat.”

That Dominique de Gourgues was in command of the _Charles_ on this occasion is proved by a document in possession of the present Vicomte de Gourgues, which states that Dominique, by an act signed by the king in council, August 10, 1578, was paid the sum of seven thousand crowns “for services rendered at and before the siege of La Rochelle with his vessel, the _Charles_, and a patache called the _Desperada_.”

This is the latest known document referring to the public services of Dominique de Gourgues. There is, however, another letter from the king referring to another service a few years previous, and confirming the fact that the _Charles_ was under his command: “Capt. Gourgues: After deliberating about using some of the largest and best vessels of my navy before the city of La Rochelle--in the number of which is the _Charles_, which belongs to you--for the embarkation of four thousand soldiers intended for Poland, I have concluded to send you this present to notify you at once of my intention, praying you above all, as you love the welfare of my service, to give orders that your vessel be equipped as soon as it can be done, and ordered to Havre de Grace, where it is necessary to arrive by the 12th or 13th of August next; and, that you arrive with greater security, it will be expedient for your vessel to join the others ordered on the same voyage, that you may go in company to said Havre. I beg you, therefore, to proceed for this purpose to Bordeaux, where the Sire de Berre is to despatch twelve cannons and other arms, that are also to go to said Havre with all speed. Endeavor to render the service I expect of you in that place. Praying God that he have you, Captain Gourgues, in his holy and safe keeping,

“CHARLES.

“GAILLON, July 2, 1573.”

Such are some of the records of the public services of Dominique de Gourgues after the Florida expedition. Of course his achievements were not rewarded as they should have been. Pedro Melendez was created marquis for his barbarous deed and enriched with estates. The brave Landais, who took vengeance, merited far more. But, as we have shown, he still remained in the king’s service, and retained, or regained, his confidence. And his exploit has always been regarded as one of the most brilliant episodes of French history. Châteaubriand, blaming the author of the _Henriade_ for having recourse to threadbare examples from ancient times, says “the Chevalier de Gourgues offered him one of the most thrilling of episodes.”

We find a private paper dated January 14, 1580, in which Dominique de Gourgues gives Romarine de Mesmes, _damoyselle_, his aunt, power and authority to receive the fruits, profits, and emoluments of all his cattle and real estate in the Vicomté de Marsan, which shows that he did not sell all his property to provide for the expedition to Florida, or die in want, as has been stated.

Queen Elizabeth of England offered him command of a fleet to aid Don Antonio of Portugal in the war against Spain; but this honor is no proof of his being regarded by her as a Protestant, but rather of his well-known hatred of the Spanish, for it was to aid one Catholic nation against another. It was on his way to take command of this fleet that he fell ill at Tours, in which he died in the year 1583. He was buried with honor in the abbatial church of S. Martin of Tours--the crowning proof that Dominique de Gourgues was a genuine Catholic.

THE LADDER OF LIFE.

There are a great many rounds in the ladder of life, though simple youths have always fancied that a few gallant steps would take them to the summit of riches and power. Now the top-round of this ladder is not the presidency of any railroad or country, nor even the possession of renowned genius; for it oddly happens that when one sits down upon it, then, be he ever so high up in life, he has really begun to descend. Those who put velvet cushions to their particular rounds, and squat at ease with a view of blocking up the rise of other good folks, do not know they are going down the other side of the ladder; but such is the fact. Many thrifty men have, in their own minds, gone far up its life-steps, when, verily, they were descending them fast; and poor people without number have in all men’s eyes been travelling downward, though in truth they have journeyed higher by descent than others could by rising. So many slippery and delusive ways has this magical ladder that we may say it is as various as men’s minds. One may slip through its rounds out of the common way of ascent, and find himself going down when he ought to be going up; and vain toilers have ever fancied that they were mounting to the clouds when everybody else must have seen they were still at the same old rounds. Ambitious heroes have made the same mistake, if indeed the particular ladder which they have imagined for themselves has not itself been sliding down all the while they have been seeking vainglory by its steps.

The ladder of life is an infinite ladder. It is full of indirections to suit the abilities, and of attractions to suit the tastes of climbers. You may work at a forge, or sail the sea, or trade in money and goods, or hear operas, or write romances, or wander over mountains, or go to church, while living thereon; but you must go up or go down, and, anyway, you will have some toiling to do. Everywhere on the ladder is trouble save in careful steps, and since human progress is so illusory, many honest persons rather feared to fall than aspire.

NEW PUBLICATIONS.

THE SPIRIT OF FAITH; or, What must I Do to Believe? Five Lectures delivered at S. Peter’s, Cardiff, by the Right Reverend Bishop Hedley, O.S.B. New York: The Catholic Publication Society. 1875.

When we noticed these lectures last month, we had not found time to do more than glance at them. But having since discovered their very uncommon merit, we feel bound to let our readers know it.

Never--we do not say seldom, but never--have we seen such a happy combination of simplicity with force. The bishop’s English, by itself, is a treat. His style has all the ease of conversation; here and there rising into eloquence, or delighting us with master-strokes of description and illustration. Then, as to the argument of his book, it is so amiable and courteous that no one can take offence; yet the points are put with stern fidelity and driven home with ruthless cogency.

The title speaks for itself. The “_spirit_ of faith” is precisely what is least understood by non-Catholics; and again, “What they must _do_ to believe” is the thing they most need to be shown.

When accused of being “mental slaves,” etc., we justly reply that, on the contrary, we are the freest of the free, that “truth” alone “makes free”; but perhaps we are apt to forget--or rather, we fail to insist--that the “spirit of faith” is, nevertheless, “a spirit of lowliness” (as the bishop says)--“of childlike obedience, and of ‘captivity’”; that there must be “a taking up of a yoke, a bowing of the head, a humbling of the heart.” It will therefore do Catholics good, as well as Protestants, to read the second of these lectures on “What faith is.” So, again, when allowing for the strength of prejudice in alienating the Protestant mind, we are in danger of false charity--by forgetting that prejudice may easily be _a sin_; and that _wilfulness_ plays a large part in popular “ignorance” nowadays. The third and fourth lectures, on “Prejudice” and “Wilfulness” as “Obstacles to Faith,” are the best of their kind we remember to have seen, and we are sure that many Catholics need to read them--nor only for the sake of their Protestant friends.

But, of course, it is chiefly for the sake of Protestant friends that we wish to see these lectures in the hands of our readers. The book is something for an earnest man to go wild about. Its cost is little; and we hope it will soon be scattered broadcast over the land.

RELIGION AND SCIENCE IN THEIR RELATION TO PHILOSOPHY. An Essay on the Present State of the Sciences. Read before the Philosophical Society of Washington. By Charles W. Shields, D.D., Professor of the Harmony of Science and Revealed Religion in Princeton College, N. J. New York: Scribner, Armstrong & Co. 1875.

The trustees of Princeton College have deserved commendation and given a good example to other colleges by establishing the chair filled by Dr. Shields. The learned doctor is evidently applying himself with zeal and industry to the studies which will fit him to teach with ability in his important branch of science--one which demands an almost encyclopædic knowledge of many sciences specifically different from each other. He informs us that he is preparing an extensive work on the topics presented in the essay before us, which is certainly a most laudable undertaking, and one in which we hope he may achieve a successful and useful result. In the present essay the author shows a very considerable amount of reading and thought, some skill in generalization, and a good deal of that felicity of diction which is requisite in making such abstruse themes as those which relate to natural and theological science attractive and intelligible even to the mass of cultivated persons.

The distinctive and principal thesis defended by Dr. Shields is, that philosophy is the only umpire to determine controversies in which the opposing parties advocate what are professedly revealed and professedly scientific facts or truths, respectively, in a mutually destructive or hostile sense to each other. To a certain extent, and in a correctly defined sense, we cordially agree with him, and in this sense the high office of philosophy, as the queen of all rational science, is affirmed and defended by all Catholic philosophers and theologians worthy of the name. The five primary natural sciences--physics, mathematics, metaphysics, logic, and ethics--are certainly none of them subaltern one to another, yet the other four are subordinate to metaphysics, because its object has a precedence in the order of the knowable, and its principles furnish the other sciences with their rational foundation. Nevertheless, it is evident, and must be admitted by every one who believes in a certain, clear, and surely ascertainable revelation of facts and truths by God, which is supernatural, that there is a science above metaphysics in excellence--viz., theology, which dominates over it in so far that the latter science cannot reject any of its dogmas. The sciences cannot therefore properly be said to be separate from each other, although they are really distinct. All rational sciences are subalternated to one or more of the five primaries, and thus subordinated to metaphysics, which is subordinated to theology. We consider that the author is mistaken in asserting that a “healthful separation and progress” marked the first stage of the history of the sciences since the Reformation. If by separation he means distinction only, and the free development in each science of its own proper principles by its proper methods, this distinction was recognized and acted on before the Reformation, as may be seen by consulting the great master of the schools, S. Thomas. Some of the sciences have made great progress since that event, not by means of, but partly notwithstanding, their violent and unnatural separation from metaphysics and theology. In respect to metaphysics and ethics, the Reformation has produced one only direct result, which is a miserable decadence and retrogression, which seems to have nearly reached its lowest term. The sciences can only progress with full liberty towards the perfection of human knowledge when they exist in the due harmony and subordination which their nature demands and God has established. The exposition of the order and relation of scientific facts, principles, and deductions in the universal realm of truth, as a universal or encyclopædic science, must, therefore, always place each one in its due subordination, and cannot admit of the umpirage of an inferior over a superior science, much less of a revolt on the part of the inferior. It is absurd to suppose that the inferior tribunal of human reason can judge a case in which the judgment of God, who is the supreme reason, or of an authority which God has made supreme, comes up by appeal. Dr. Shields objects that the great problems in question cannot be settled by the determination of Scripture, councils, the Holy See, or any kind of ecclesiastical decisions, because there is no agreement respecting the true sense of Scripture, or universal recognition of a competent and unerring tribunal. To this we reply that the construction of certain and complete science is one thing, and the communication of this science to the ignorant or erring is another. Questions may be really and definitively settled, though great numbers of men may remain in culpable or inculpable ignorance or error. The _Syllabus_ has settled all that it was intended to settle, so far as the right of the matter is concerned, and for the whole body of men who submit to the infallible authority of the Vicar of Christ. Our knowledge is not in any way impaired by the ignorance of those who are deprived of the benefit of that instruction which Catholics enjoy. But, when we come to controversy, we cannot, of course, attempt to convince or confute the ignorant or erring by simply appealing to an authority which the antagonist or objector, or uninstructed inquirer, does not know or recognize to be an authority. We cannot assume the authority of God with an atheist, of the Christian revelation with an infidel, of the Catholic Church with a Protestant. One of the fathers says, _Qui fidem exigit, fidem astruat_, and Catholic theologians have always acted on that maxim. Dr. Shields, as a Protestant, has no rational idea of a positive, theological science. It is all mere controversy, and we apprehend that his philosophy will be found to be something equally unsettled and incapable of settling itself. It is a very dangerous thing for any kind of dogmatic Protestantism to concede the rights of reason, and especially so for Calvinism. Princeton appears to be losing the old, Presbyterian, Calvinistic spirit, and going the way of the rest of the world towards rationalism. We are not sorry for it, because we hope that the cultivation and exercise of reason will prepare the way for a great number of intelligent and educated young men to submit their minds to the rightful and ennobling dominion of divine faith. Notwithstanding the defects of Dr. Shields’ essay, we are glad to see him advocate the study of philosophy and exalt its dignity; for the search after the true philosophy may lead many to find it, and the true philosophy is the handmaid of the true theology, and leads her votaries to the feet of her mistress.

AN ELEMENTARY TREATISE ON PHYSICAL GEOGRAPHY. By D. M. Warren. Revised by A. von Steinwehr. Philadelphia: Cowperthwait & Co.

This book is one which Catholic teachers should never think of using, and against which Catholic children should, as far as possible, be specially warned, should it be introduced in any school which they are obliged by circumstances to attend.

It is probable that the chapter on ethnography, which is specially objectionable, is the composition of the reviser. At least we should so infer from the stupid arrogance which crops out in its last sentence, and which is characteristic of the Prussia of to-day, intoxicated with a temporary success which was, as any careful student of history will conclude, intended for the purification of France rather than for the exaltation of her opponent. “The present historical period,” he says, “is directed by the Germanic Aryans, who are the leaders of modern Christian civilization.” Comment is unnecessary. We venture to say that few of our or anybody else’s readers have ever come across anything more impudent or absurd. It is an insult to the American people, Catholic or non-Catholic, to palm off on them such stuff as this.

He also implies in another place that the German nation “worked out its own civilization.” We have not heard of any nation that has done that, but that the Germans did not is too manifest to admit of argument.

The principal objection to the chapter, however, is the publication, without note or comment of course, of two heresies with regard to the origin of the human race, as being equally entitled to acceptance with the Mosaic account. One of these is its origin from different original pairs, the other what is commonly known as Darwinism.

It is not worth while to give a more extended notice to a book of this sort. This species of book can be turned off by any person with a smattering of science who has the leisure for authorship, and who can find a publisher. The market is flooded with such. We should not have said anything about it had not our attention been called to it by a friend on account of its dangerous character.

It is high time that we had a complete series of really Catholic text-books which would need no correction, either in their matter or in the spirit in which they are written. We could put up even with inferior ones for the sake of religion and the faith of our young people; but we should not have to try very hard to come up to the standard of such books as the one just noticed.

NEW PRACTICAL MEDITATIONS for Every Day in the Year, on the Life of Our Lord Jesus Christ. Chiefly intended for the use of Religious Communities. By the Rev. Father Bruno Vercruysse, S.J. The only complete English translation. New York and Cincinnati: Benziger Brothers. 1875.

We have seen several books of meditations, but none so _business-like_ as this. The practice of mental prayer is by no means easy to everybody, and needs much explanation and suggestive aid. Now, many of the manuals which are offered as guides prove unsatisfactory to the user by either suggesting too little or making the meditation for him. In the work before us we see nothing of this kind to regret. The plan is in many respects new. Indeed, the author calls special attention to the preface in which he explains his method.

Though “chiefly intended for religious communities,” these meditations are well adapted for private individuals, both ecclesiastic and lay. Moreover, a single “point” of each meditation will be found sufficient by itself for those who have not time for more. The work is also “enriched by several Novenas and Octaves; Meditations for the First Friday of every month, and for the days of Communion; … a new method of hearing Mass, and practical remarks on the different parts of meditations; a plan of Jerusalem with a map of Palestine, showing the different localities mentioned throughout the work, and an alphabetical table of contents, and of meditations on the Gospels of the Sundays.” Also, for religious, “Exercises preparatory to the renewal of vows, and for a retreat of eight days.”

Lastly, the approbation of his eminence Cardinal Deschamps, Archbishop of Mechlin, speaks in unequivocal terms of the work’s merit. “These Meditations,” he says, … “are remarkable for the solidity of doctrine, the happy choice of subjects, and unctuous piety. The use of them cannot fail to be very profitable to religious communities, to ecclesiastics, and to those pious persons in the world who aspire to perfection.”

Annexed also is the approbation of Father Charaux, S.J., Superior-General of the Mission of New York and Canada; together with extracts from three letters of Father Beckx, the General of the Jesuits, to the author.

MADAME DE LAVALLE’S BEQUEST: Counsels to Young Ladies who have Completed their Education. Translated from the fourth French edition by a Sister of St. Joseph. Philadelphia: P. F. Cunningham. 1875.

There is no doubt that this book, written in a tone of genuine affection and interest, and addressed to young ladies who have completed their education, is one that might profitably be put into the hands of those for whom it was written and translated. The only question seems to be how best to commend it to their attention; for in these days of varied and indiscriminate reading, the advice or recommendation of older people is seldom asked, and a hurried glance at the contents of a book is often sufficient to cause its rejection, as prosy or unattractive.

To young ladies, also, who enjoying in a happy home the merited confidence of their parents, and accustomed to few restrictions from them, the minute and careful instructions and directions found in some of the chapters might perhaps seem superfluous and a little amusing. Yet, when they read the dedication, and recognize the fact that the book was written under the eyes, as it were, of the Blessed Virgin, with the approbation of her who was the truest lady as well as the purest woman in the world, they will be disposed to accept with more humility and gratitude suggestions which they must feel, if followed, would render them more truly her imitators, more worthy of the name of her children.

To those who have had the privilege and happiness of a convent education, this book is of course appropriate. It will bring to their minds the gentle teaching of those peaceful days, and act as a kind of charm in recalling holy aspirations and resolutions. Especially will they welcome it as proving the tender interest of their former teachers, which, though no longer folded around them like a mantle, now attracts their attention, as a signal waved from a secure haven, to encourage their frail barks, as they push out on the uncertain waves of life.

Thoughtful minds are glad to find in a book a companion and friend; to such, and as such, we recommend this valuable Bequest.

HERBERT’S WIFE: A STORY FOR YOU. By Minnie Mary Lee. Baltimore: Kelly, Piet & Co. 1875.

We again welcome the author of _The Heart of Myrrha Lake_ to the field of Catholic literature. The writer possesses many of the qualifications most essential to a writer of fiction--skill in the construction of plots, ability to read character at sight, and a certain raciness and vivacity of style, which holds the reader’s attention from first to last, and gives her the preference over some writers of greater artistic finish. In this is indicated our chief criticism and regret--that one so well qualified should neglect that attention to detail which characterizes the perfect artist. Not that we would advocate anything stiff or “artificial,” for true art is always in harmony with nature. It is precisely these exuberances and inaccuracies which cause the writer subsequent annoyance, and for which the critical eye is needed, to prune and correct. The plot of _Herbert’s Wife_, though simple, abounds in vivid pictures of real life, and its incidents serve the moral purpose of the story admirably. We do not doubt that each succeeding effort will exhibit less and less of the defect alluded to.

BREAKFAST, LUNCHEON, AND TEA. By Marian Harland. Author of _Common Sense in the Household_. New York: Scribner, Armstrong & Co. 1875.

This is decidedly the most sensible, and, we may add, entertaining book on domestic economy we remember to have met. “Marian Harland” has evidently availed herself of her skill as a novelist in sugar-coating a subject supposed to be unpalatable to those for whom the book is intended, the instructions being conveyed in the form of “Familiar Talks with the Reader.” If the writer succeeds in inducing her fair countrywomen to become proficients in the art she teaches, much will have been added to the substantial comfort of households, and a truer appreciation reached of the services of good domestics.

LINGARD’S HISTORY OF ENGLAND, ABRIDGED: With a Continuation from 1688 to 1854. By James Burke, A.B. And an Appendix to 1873. The whole preceded by a Memoir of Dr. Lingard, and Marginal Notes. By M. J. Kerney, A. M. Baltimore: J. Murphy & Co. 1875.

This is a library edition of the abridgment heretofore issued by the same house, printed on better paper, and making a handsome octavo of 688 pages.

Lingard’s is still considered the standard English History by Catholic, and by an increasing number of impartial non-Catholic, students, and as it is probable that comparatively few readers will consider they have time enough for the entire work, this edition is likely to be a favorite one with book-buyers.

THE CATHOLIC PREMIUM-BOOK LIBRARY. First Series, 8vo. New York and Cincinnati: Benziger Brothers. 1875.

The six volumes we have seen of this series seem to be creditable specimens, both in matter and illustrations, and the publishers are to be commended for their contributions towards a class of literature which needed attention. We cannot well have too many books which are attractive in style and healthful in tone at the same time. The works having been taken from the French, the translations have been made by competent hands, and the pictures have much greater pretensions to being termed illustrations than many which are made to do duty in that capacity. We think, however, that the publishers’ American printers and binders could have produced better work than the letter-press and “imitation cloth” binding of these volumes.

The same publishers also issue a duodecimo and an 18mo series of the same library.

WANN SPRICHT DIE KIRCHE UNFEHLBAR? ODER: NATUR UND ZWECK DES KIRCHLICHEN LEHRAMTS. Von Thomas Franz Knox, Priester des Oratoriums in London. Regensburg: Georg Joseph Manz. 1874.

We are glad to see that Father Knox’s work has met the appreciation in Germany of which this translation is the evidence. The publication may also, we presume, be taken as an indication of the feeling which a community of interests and dangers engenders, and which is drawing the members of the one fold in different lands into closer relations and sympathies.

BOOKS AND PAMPHLETS RECEIVED.

From D. & J. SADLIER & CO., New York: Rose Leblanc. By Lady Georgiana Fullerton. 16mo, pp. 220.--The Two Victories. By Rev. T. J. Potter. Third edition. 16mo, pp. 170.--Olive’s Rescue, etc. 18mo, pp. 149.--True to the End. 18mo, pp. 150.--The Little Crown of St. Joseph. Compiled and translated by a Sister of St. Joseph. 24mo, pp. 347.

--The Double Triumph: A Drama. By Rev. A. J. O’Reilly. Paper, 16mo, pp. 66.--The Foundling of Sebastopol: A Drama. By W. Tandy, D.D. Paper, 16mo, pp. 70.

--A Politico-Historical Essay on the Popes as the Protectors of Popular Liberty. By Henry A. Brann, D.D. 8vo, pp. 30, paper.

From G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS, New York: Philosophy of Trinitarian Doctrine. By Rev. A. J. Pease. 12mo, pp. 183.

From LEE & SHEPARD, Boston: Socialistic, Communistic, Mutualistic, and Financial Fragments. By W. B. Greene. 16mo, pp. 271.

From KELLY, PIET & CO., Baltimore: Emmore, etc. 18mo, pp. 99.--Trouvaille, etc. By Lady Georgiana Fullerton. 18mo.--Reparation, etc. Same author.

From the AUTHOR: Mansions in the Skies: An Acrostic Poem on the Lord’s Prayer. By W. P. Chilton, Jr. 12mo, pp. 27.

From ROBERTS BROTHERS, Boston: Through the year: Thoughts Relating to the Seasons of Nature and the Church. By Rev. H. N. Powers. 16mo, pp. 288.

From BAKER, GODWIN & CO., New York: Reports of the Board of Directors and the Committees of the Xavier Union, New York, etc. 1875.

From J. W. SCHERMERHORN & CO., New York: The Mosaic Account of the Creation, the Miracle of To-day; or, New Witnesses of the Oneness of Genesis and Science. By Chas. B. Warring. 1875.

From HENRI OUDIN, Paris: Les Droits de Dieu et les Idées Modernes. Par l’Abbé François Chesnel. 8vo, pp. xxxix., 394.

From the AUTHOR: The Proposed Railway across Newfoundland: a Lecture. By Rev. Father Morris. 8vo, pp. vi., 46, paper.

THE CATHOLIC WORLD.

VOL. XXI., No. 126.--SEPTEMBER, 1875.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1875, by Rev. I. T. HECKER, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C.

THE RIGHTS OF THE CHURCH OVER EDUCATION.

FROM LES ETUDES RELIGIEUSES, ETC.

Of all the questions which preoccupy--and justly--public opinion, and on which war is declared against the Catholic Church, one of the most vital is that of education.

“It is certain that instruction is, in fact, the great battle-field chosen in our days by the intelligent enemies of the faith. It is there they hope to take captive the youth of France, and to train up future generations for impiety and scepticism. And it must be admitted that they conduct this war with a skill which is only equalled by their perseverance.”[167]

We endeavored to point out, in a former article, the intentions of the enemies of the church, the depth of the abyss they are digging for Christian society, and the infernal art which they have shown in combining their plan of attack.[168] Since then, a first success has befallen them to justify their hopes and inflame their ardor. We may expect to see them increase their efforts to carry the fortress. Why should they not succeed when they have opposed to them only divided forces?

Happen what may, however, we must remain true to ourselves. It is our duty to hold fast the standard of our faith, in spite of the contradictions of human reason; and to oppose to the pagan error, that the state is master of education, the Christian truth, that the church alone is endowed with the power to educate the young.… The opponents of the church on this point are of two classes. One consists of those who never belonged to her, or who do so no longer; the other, of those who still call themselves her children. The former are principally Protestants, and those philosophical adversaries of revelation who deny, with more or less good faith, Catholic doctrine, and pretend to find nothing in it but illusion and blind credulity. These are, it must be owned, consistent with themselves when they refuse to the church the rights she claims over education. Their logic is correct; but it is the logic of error, and to contend with such adversaries we should have to begin with a proof of Christianity. That is not our object. Whatever may be their error, however, on the subjects of Christian revelation and the church, we hope to be able to convince them that a spirit of encroachment and ambition of rule has no part in the pretensions of the church, in the matter of the education of the young. Rather, they ought to acknowledge, with us, that therein we only fulfil a duty the most sacred, the most inviolable--that of conducting Christian souls to their supreme and eternal destiny.

But what is far less excusable is the inconsistency of certain Catholics. They are persuaded, they say, of the truth of the Catholic religion; they profess to believe her doctrine, to submit to her authority; and yet one sees them make common cause with the enemies of their faith in repudiating all control of the church in questions of instruction and of education. It is for these especially we write, in the hope of convincing them that, in challenging for herself not only complete liberty to teach her children divine and human science, but also the moral and religious direction of all Christian schools, the Catholic Church claims nothing but what is her right, and pretends to nothing more than the legitimate exercise of a necessary and divine power. Would that they could understand, in short, that no Catholic can, without inconsistency and without a kind of apostasy, assent to the exclusion of the Church from the supervision of instruction, and to the whole of it being directed by the sole authority of the civil power!

I.--THE PRINCIPLES OF SOLUTION IN THE PRESENT QUESTION.

The whole Christian theory of education rests on the following twofold truth taught by the Catholic Church: that man is created by God for a supernatural end, and that the church is the necessary intermediary between man and his supreme destiny. These two points cannot be admitted without admitting, also, that the church is right in all the rest. Unfortunately, nothing is less common than the clear understanding of these truths, essential as they are to Christianity. It will, therefore, not be unprofitable to take a brief survey of them.

The Christian religion does not resemble those philosophical theories which an insignificant minority of the human race have been discussing for three thousand years without arriving at any conclusion, and which have no practical issue for the rest of mankind. Its aim, on the contrary, is essentially practical. From the first it addresses itself, not to a few persons of the highest culture, but to all indifferently, rich and poor, learned and ignorant. It is designed for every one, because every one has a soul, created in the image of God, and because this soul religion alone can save--that is to say, conduct to its ultimate end, by rendering it at last conformable to its divine type, to the infinite perfections of God. But especially is Christianity practical, because, without any long discussions, it says to every one of us, “I am the voice of God revealing to men truths which it is their duty to believe, virtues which it is their duty to practise in this life in order to deserve, after death, everlasting happiness in the very bosom of God. Here are my credentials; they affirm the mission I have received from on high. Believe, then, the Word of God; practise his precepts, and you will be saved.” Her credentials having been verified, it comes to pass that multitudes of men yield faith to the teachings of Christianity as coming from God; they place themselves under her obedience, and the Christian society is founded, with its hierarchy, its object clearly defined, and its special means determined by Jesus Christ, its divine founder.

But is it all, and will it be sufficient to call one’s self Christian, to be enrolled in the number of believers, to have received baptism, and to practise with more or less fidelity the precepts of the divine and ecclesiastical law? To suppose that it is, is the fatal error of a number of modern Christians, as unacquainted with their religion as they are lukewarm in fulfilling its duties. Thus understood, would Christianity have done anything but add to the religions of the philosophers incomprehensible mysteries, exceedingly troublesome practices, and ceremonies as meaningless to the mind as useless to the soul? Far from this, Christianity is itself, also, radical after its fashion. It deprives man of nothing which constitutes his nobility; it enriches it rather. It does not oppose his legitimate aspirations for what is great, for what is beautiful; it hallows them rather. It does not deny him the gratification of any of his loftier and more generous instincts; it only supplies them with an object infinitely capable of contenting them. In a word, it does not destroy nature; it transforms and deifies it, by communicating to it a supernatural and divine life.

What is life in mortal man but the movement of all his powers in quest of an object which gives them happiness? Well, then, Christianity lays hold of these human powers, and, in order to transform them, it infuses into them a new principle, which is grace--that is, the virtue of God uniting itself to the soul; it places a higher end before them--the possession of God in his own essence, an infinite object of knowledge and of love; it enables them, indeed, to bring forth works not possible to our frail nature without a divine illumination which enlightens the intelligence, and without a holy inspiration which strengthens and assists the will. It is a completely new man grafted on the root of the natural man. It is a new way of living, wherein, under the influence of a supernatural and divine principle, our feelings become purified by finding their source in God, our knowledge enlarges, because it penetrates even into the mysteries of the divine essence, and our love becomes limitless as God himself, the only true good, whom we love in himself, and in his creatures, the reflex of himself.

We know well that rationalistic philosophy, when it hears us speak of a divine life, of union with God by a higher principle than nature, shrugs its shoulders, and with superb self-complacency rings the changes on the words illusion, mysticism, extravagance. But what matter? Has it ever, like us, had any experience of this second life of the soul, so as to understand its reality and its grandeur? Its God, silent and solitary, exists only for reason. He will never issue from his eternal repose. He will not meddle with his creatures to constitute their happiness. This is not the God to satisfy our nature, thirsting for the infinite. He is not the God of Christianity whom we have learned to know and to love.

But to return to the church. Manhood is not the work of a day. Thirty years at the least pass away before the human being arrives at maturity, passing successively through the stages of infancy, boyhood, and youth. What care, what pains, and what active solicitude are needed for his education! A mother, a father, a master, devote themselves to it by turns. Fortunate if, after all, these efforts are crowned with success! Is it to be said that it costs less time and labor to bring a soul to spiritual maturity, to raise it to the perfection of this divine life? A day, a year--will they suffice to enlighten the intelligence with truths it must believe, to instruct it in obligations it must fulfil, but, above all, to form in it a habit of all those virtues it is bound to practise? Or is its education so different from the natural education that it can dispense with an instructor? Will the child, unaided, raise itself to God--we mean to the highest degree of moral perfection, of Christian sanctity? It would be folly to suppose it. It needs, therefore, a master; some one charged with the duty of teaching it truth, of forming it in virtue. Who is this instructor? Is it any other than that one to whom Jesus Christ, the divine but invisible Master, once said, “As my Father has sent me, I send you. Go then, teach all nations; teaching them to observe my whole law.” This instructor is the church, represented by her pastors, the lawful successors of the apostles.

This principle must be borne in mind, this indisputable truth of revealed doctrine. We shall see the consequences of it presently. We assert that the church, and the church alone, has received from Jesus Christ the power of forming the supernatural man--the Christian in the full force of that term. No one else can pretend to it. Not the state, with its power; not private individuals, with their knowledge, however great; not even the father or mother of the family, great as is the authority over their children’s souls with which God has invested them. And wherefore? Because the church alone possesses the means indispensable for a Christian education.

These means are of three kinds. In the name of God, the church gives truth to the understanding; she imposes a law on the will; and she dispenses grace, without which the Christian would lack power to believe the truth and to fulfil the law. Withdraw these things, and Christian education ceases to exist. You deliver up the understanding to human opinions; therein it loses faith. The will becomes a law to itself; that is to say, it has no other law to guide it than its own caprices and passions; and then, the moral force disappearing, man in the face of duty is oftener than not powerless to fulfil it. Now, who is it whom God has charged with the duty of preserving amongst men, and of communicating to every generation the treasure of revealed truths? Who is it who represents on earth the divine power, and has the right of enlightening consciences on the subjects of justice and injustice, of right and wrong? Whom, in short, has Jesus Christ appointed minister of his sacraments to distribute to souls the supernatural succors of grace? The church, and the church alone. To her have all generations of mankind been entrusted throughout the progress of the ages, in order that she may bring them forth to spiritual life, and form in them Jesus Christ, the divine model whom Christian education ought to reproduce in every one of us. It is, then, true that the formation of the supernatural man, of the Christian, is the proper ministry of the church; that this ministry constitutes a part of her essential functions; that it is, in a sense, her whole mission on earth; so much so, that she could not abdicate it without betraying her trust, without abandoning the object of her mission, and overthrowing the whole work of Christianity.

This is a fundamental principle which no sincere Catholic could think of rejecting, so solidly is it based on revelation, and so conformable is it to the principles of faith. There remains, consequently, only to deduce from it its consequences, and to point out how the whole claim of power over the instruction and education of Christian youth which the church asserts flows from it as a necessary and logical deduction. Now the church herself having been careful to determine the rights which belong to her, it is her word we shall take for our guide, it is her doctrine we propose to defend. It is clearly annunciated in the Encyclical _Quanta Cura_, and in the _Syllabus_, the most authentic exposition of the mind of the church on all the disputed questions of the day, as it is the most assailed.

II.--POSITION OF THE QUESTION.

For nearly three centuries the government of France has labored with indefatigable persistency and energy to concentrate in its hands all the social powers, and to constitute itself, as it were, the universal motive-cause in the state. Autonomy of provinces, communal franchises, individual or collective precedence in certain great public services, all have successively disappeared before the continual encroachments of the central power. Thus the state is no longer a living organism of its own life, at once manifold and ordered. It has become a huge mechanism, whose thousands of wheels, inert and powerless of themselves, move only at the impulse of the centre of the motive forces. To make of society a kind of human machine may be the ideal of a certain materialist and socialist school. It has never been the idea of Christianity. We Christians have too much regard for our personal dignity, we know too well the limits of the functions of the civil power, thus to abdicate all spontaneity, all precedence of our own, and to consent to become nothing but mere parts of a machine, when we can be, and ought to be, activities full of life and movement.

In the matter of education especially, what errors have not been committed, of what usurpations has not the civil power incurred the guilt? By the creation of an official, pattern university, monopolizing instruction, and subject exclusively to the direction of the government, all the authorities to whom belonged formerly the instruction and education of youth have been suppressed at one blow. There is no longer any right recognized, any action suffered, but that of the state, master both of school and pay. Everything by the state, everything for the state, this through long weary years has been the undiscussable maxim against which Catholic consciences, little disposed to sacrifice their right to the usurped power of the government, struggled in vain.

At last, thanks to the persistent protest of those consciences, so long despised; the principle has lost its pretended obviousness, and the fact itself has received its first check--sure prelude of its approaching disappearance. The moment seems to have arrived when those who have the right ought to claim their legitimate share in the exercise of a function eminently social. Now all have a right here. The government has its rights; as responsible for the good and evil which befall society; for the evil, to check and prevent it; for the good, to help in effecting it. The church has her rights, because she is the great moral power in society, and there is question here, pre-eminently, of a moral function. The family has its rights, for it is its fruit which has to be reared and instructed. Individuals, even, have their rights--the right of devotion and sacrifice in behalf of a holy work, and of a ministry which, more than any other, stands in need of those graces.

Here are, assuredly, enough of rights, despised for three-quarters of a century, and swallowed up in the insatiable power of the state. It would be a deed worthy of our generation to re-establish all in their original and proper order. It is being attempted, we know, and already the National Assembly[169] has begun to concede an instalment of justice to the family and to individuals. But the church! Why is silence kept concerning her? Why is it sought to exclude her from the debate, and to treat her claims as null and void? We Catholics cannot accept this disavowal of our rights. It concerns us to ascertain what place they propose to assign to our church in the modern state. We should like to know whether we still belong to a Christian society, or must prepare to defend the rights of our conscience in a state decidedly pagan.

What are these rights? What do we demand for the church? What position, in short, do we wish to see her assume in all that concerns the education of youth? Such are the questions we propose to solve. We will state them with yet more precision. When there is question of the rights of the church in communities, three hypotheses are possible according to the different conditions of those communities. We may suppose a state religiously constituted--that is to say, wherein the gospel and Christianity are not only the rule of life and the religion of individuals, but, besides, the foundation of legislation, the worship adopted in the manifestations of public piety; whatever may be, in other respects, the general aspect of the relations established, by common consent, between the church and the state.

In opposition to this first hypothesis there exists another--that of a civil society, wherein the religious authority and the political authority have the appearance of ignoring one another; wherein the state affects indifference with regard to all religions, fosters no one of them, and, limiting its action exclusively to the material interests of the community, leaves individuals to embrace and practise whichever of the worships suits them best. To borrow the popular formula, such a constitution would realize “a free church in a free state”; or, more exactly, “a state separated from the church.”[170]

Lastly, modern times have given birth to a third kind of political constitution, a mean between the two preceding ones, in which Catholicity is no longer the base of the social edifice in preference to every other religion, and is only one of the public worships recognized by the state; at times that of the majority of the citizens, and observed as such in the religious solemnities in which the government takes a part. In this hypothesis, the state remains religious, but it is neither Catholic nor Protestant. A Christianism vague and general enough to lend itself to all communions, a kind of rational deism, rather, inspires its legislation; honor is done to ministers of recognized worships, and when government feels a need of betaking itself to God, in order to implore his mercy, or to give him thanks for his blessings, it orders prayer in all the places of worship without distinction. Manifold, as may be supposed, are the shades of difference in the manner of constituting a state of such indefinite religious forms. It is nevertheless true that the greater number of our modern constitutions reproduce, more or less, the type we have just sketched. Are we to see in this merely a kind of transition between ancient communities, which almost all realized the first hypothesis, and the communities of the future? Or will the state, separated from the church, organize itself and govern itself in a complete independence of all religion? This is the dream of our free-thinkers. For the happiness of humanity, we hope it will not be realized.

In addition to these three hypotheses there remains the state persecutor of the church. But although this is by no means uncommon in these days, it does not enter into our present subject; which is limited to determining the rights and action of the church in a tranquil and, up to a certain point, regular state of things.

Further, Christianity being to us truth, and the Catholic Church the only true Christianity, it evidently follows that the first hypothesis constitutes the normal state of society, that in which it attains its end with the greatest perfection by the most abundant and most appropriate means. Religion, in short, is as necessary to communities as to individuals; and of all religions, only the true one can be a real element of the prosperity of states.

The problem to solve, then, is as follows: First to examine and determine the rights which belong to the church in a well-organized society--that is to say, in a Christian or Catholic society. Then, when we know the better, the more perfect, to lay down the necessary and the possible, in communities where human passions have made for the church an inferior position, but little favorable to the full exercise of her rights.

III.--CHRISTIAN EDUCATION IN A CHRISTIAN STATE.

The Jews in this resembled, to a certain extent, a Christian--that is a Catholic--people; namely, that amongst them one of the tribes had been chosen by God to be wholly consecrated to his service, and to be devoted exclusively to the ministry of the altars. So also, but with the difference demanded by the new conditions of the priesthood, God chooses amongst the faithful his clerics, divinely called to exercise the sacerdotal functions; for under the New Law, as under the Old, no one can pretend to this honor unless he be called of God. Here, then, are two categories of individuals in the nation; those who, by divine vocation, are destined for the service of the church, and those who continue in the ordinary condition of Christians--the ecclesiastics and the laics. The distinction is necessary, because the church does not claim the same rights in regard to both.

_The Rights of the Church over the Education of Clerics._--The education of clerics--of young men, that is, who devote themselves to the ecclesiastical ministry--has always been the object of the liveliest solicitude of the church. Solely anxious to see the knowledge of the faith and true piety flourish among the faithful entrusted to her care, could she forget that people conform themselves to the model of those who govern them, and that the essential condition for enlightening understandings in the truths of religion, as well as for inclining their hearts to the practice of Christian virtues, is first to fashion a clergy solidly instructed and sincerely pious? In Thomassin[171] may be found innumerable examples testifying to the solicitude of the church on the subject of schools wherein young clerics are instructed. But the most solemn act, and the most prolific in happy results, that has been accomplished for this object, is, without contradiction, the decree of the holy Council of Trent, directing all the bishops, metropolitans, and other pastors charged with the government of the church to erect, each in their respective dioceses, a house or seminary for the purpose of lodging there, of instructing in ecclesiastical science, and bringing up in ecclesiastical virtue, the children of the town, diocese, or province, who shall show signs of a true divine vocation.[172]

At the same time that it directs the institution of seminaries, the council is at the pains to explain their great usefulness, the necessity, even, of them for the church, as the only efficacious means of always providing zealous as well as solidly instructed ministers. It lays down also the way of life which should be observed within them, the studies to which especially the young men should devote themselves, the means to be employed by the masters for the complete education of their pupils, and even the resources of which the bishops will be able to avail themselves to help to defray the expenses of these precious schools.

It may have been already remarked how the council regulates everything of its own authority and without asking aught of secular powers. It proves the church’s right to herself alone institute and organize her ecclesiastical seminaries. But that which decisively manifests her mind on this point is the care which the Council of Trent takes to place the entire administration of these schools in the hands of the bishops, assisted by two of the oldest and most prudent of the cathedral chapter, chosen by them under the inspiration of the Holy Ghost.[173] Such is the authority to which belongs exclusively the right of regulating all that concerns the education of clerics. Neither can the lay faithful, nor Christian families, nor, still less, governments, meddle at all with this work, which is exclusively the affair of the church. Accordingly, in the forty-sixth proposition of the _Syllabus_, the Sovereign Pontiff, Pius IX., has reproved, proscribed, and condemned the doctrine of those who pretend “to subject to civil authority the method to be followed in the theological seminaries.”

The church claims, then, complete liberty to choose her ministers herself, and to form them in the manner which seems to her most desirable. This is no privilege which she asks of the state, it is a right which she holds from Jesus Christ, and by his divine appointment: the right of existing, the right of perpetuating herself upon earth by keeping up her hierarchy of teaching pastors and faithful taught, and in recruiting from among the latter those whom God himself calls to the honors of the priesthood.

And, in truth, to what rights over the education of clerics can a civil government pretend? Is it to judge of the knowledge which is necessary for the ministers of the altar? But is not the church appointed by Jesus Christ the sole guardian of revealed truth, and has not she alone received the mission of teaching the peoples? Can it be, indeed, to discern in the subjects who present themselves a divine vocation, and the degree of virtue requisite for a priest? But for such discernment, has, then, the civil power the special illumination of the Holy Ghost? Does it know the mysterious action of grace in the soul, and does God reveal to it his secrets? Or can it be, as some governments have not been afraid to do, to determine the number of young men who ought every year to respond to the call of God and enrol themselves in the sacred army? Impious and sacrilegious pretension! which says to the Spirit of God, “Thus far shall your inspirations go, and no farther.” As if the state, and not God, were the judge of the church’s needs! As if the civil power had received from Jesus Christ the commission to fix annually in the budget the effective of men employed in his divine service, after the same fashion as it regulates the annual contingent of soldiers called to the service of the state!

But no, not one of these pretensions is tenable. The state has no power whatever over the education of clerics; and the church, by its divine institution, is alone competent for this work, necessary above all to its existence and the perpetuity of its action in the world.

Such are the rights of the church in this first department of education. They are absolute, exclusive, and inalienable. What have we next to say of those she possesses in the education of the laity?

_The Rights of the Church over Public Education._--That which certain Catholics refuse to the church, even in a community Christianly constituted, is not the right of giving instruction in the public schools, and making her influence felt there to the advantage of the morality and good education of the youth. No one but a rationalist or free-thinker can deny the necessity of making religion the foundation of all education, if we would bring up Christians, and not unbelievers. More than this, these same Catholics acknowledge, besides, that the church by her priests, and her religious devoted to the education of youth, enjoys the right possessed by all citizens of opening public schools and teaching, not only the verities of the Catholic faith, but letters and human science in all its branches. They are generally advocates of freedom of instruction to its utmost extent; and the power they accord to the humblest citizen they do not commit the folly of refusing to those whose character, knowledge, and disinterestedness best qualify them for those delicate functions.

Here, then, are two acknowledged rights of the church, on which we need not insist further. First, the right of providing religious instruction for the youth at school, and their education according to the principles of Christian morality. Secondly, the right of giving, herself, to children and to young people, whose families entrust them to her, a complete education, embracing instruction in letters and in the secular sciences; the right, consequently, of founding religious congregations entirely consecrated to the ministry of instruction and Christian education; the right of establishing these institutions, providing for their recruitment, and for their material means of existence. All this, it is acknowledged, constitutes the normal condition of the church in communities which concede a just share of influence to the Catholic religion, to its ministers, and to all those who are inspired with its spirit of devotion to the general welfare. But observe the points of divergence between the Catholics of whom we are speaking and those who are more jealous to preserve intact the rights conferred by Jesus Christ upon his church. According to the former, a distinction must be made between religious education and literary or scientific education. The former, by its object and by its end, escapes from the competence of the state to re-enter what is exclusively the province of the church. It is different with literary and scientific instruction. That, they say, is a social service which belongs, like other services of a similar kind, to the jurisdiction of the city or nation. The exercise of the teaching ministry is undoubtedly free. Private individuals are entitled to devote themselves to it without let or hindrance. But the direction of this ministry should be ascribed to the state, the only judge of whatever affects the present and the future of society. Guardian of order, of justice, and of morals in the community, it is the duty of government itself to regulate the discipline of public schools, the instruction which is given there, the academic titles which open the way to certain civil or administrative careers, and the choice of masters; who, at any rate, should not have incurred any of the disqualifications determined by the law. Moreover, since its functions impose on it the duty of encouraging, as much as possible, useful institutions, and such as are essential to public prosperity, the government is bound to support schools founded by private individuals; and even, if there be not enough of them for the needs of the people, to institute others by its own authority, and out of the public funds. This, according to them, belongs to the domain of the state. Here it reigns supreme, without having to share its power with any other power, civil or religious. Public instruction is a branch of administration on the same grounds as war or finance.

Thus think and speak Catholics of the modern political school. Unluckily for them, such is not the doctrine of the church. Pius IX., in the forty-fifth proposition of the _Syllabus_, explicitly condemns the opinion we have just described, and which he formulates in the following terms: “The whole direction of public schools, in which the youth of a Christian state is brought up, with the exception, to a certain extent, of episcopal seminaries, can be and ought to be vested in the civil authority, and that in such a manner that the right of no other authority should be recognized to interfere with the discipline of those schools, with the curriculum of studies, with the conferring of degrees, or with the choice or approval of masters.” This, however specious, is thus erroneous, and no Catholic can maintain it. It is, in fact, false in a two-fold point of view--false in a merely natural point of view, because it ascribes to the state a function which, in default of the church, belongs exclusively to the family; false also, and especially, in a supernatural point of view, because it separates what ought to be united, the temporal consequences of education, and its supernatural end. We will expose this twofold error.

Under the empire of a nondescript philosophical paganism, our modern politicians have a striking tendency to enlarge more and more in society the circle of governmental privileges. One would suppose, to listen to them, that it was the function of power to completely absorb all the organic elements which go to make a nation, and to leave no longer existing side by side of it, or beneath it, aught but inert individualities, social material capable of receiving impulse and movement only from it. Healthy reason protests against a theory so destructive of the most indispensable elements of social prosperity. Families collecting into cities forfeited none of their natural rights; cities, in associating themselves in nations did not pretend to abdicate all their powers. What both sought, on the contrary, in association, was a stronger guarantee of those very rights; it was the maintenance of the most inviolable justice in human relations; it was, in short, an efficient protection against violence and oppression, whether from within or without.

What! Are we to admit that the right and the duty of educating children sprung from society, and was originated by it? The bare thought is folly. From the first creation of the family, God willed that the infant should come into the world in feebleness and impotence; that, physically, intellectually, and morally, it should have need of a long and toilsome education before becoming a complete man. On whom was it, then, that he imposed a natural obligation of undertaking and accomplishing its education? Certainly not on society, which did not then exist. It was on the family itself, on the father especially, who is its responsible head. The power of engendering human beings includes of necessity the duty of not leaving such a work incomplete--the duty, consequently, of guiding the infant up to full manhood.

The family thus, by virtue of a law of nature, possesses the power of instructing and educating the understanding and will of the child born of it; and this power the family does not lose by being associated with others in social life. For, we repeat, the state is not instituted to absorb into its collective life all pre-existing rights. The act of union merely consecrates those rights by placing them under the protection of public authority. But when this authority, instead of protecting the rights of the family, proceeds to take possession of them, it commits an usurpation, it breaks the social pact, by making itself guilty of the very crime which it ought to prevent.

Nothing less than the utter and ruinous confusion of ideas introduced by the philosophy of the last century, and by its absurd theories about the Social Contract, could have caused principles so clear and so indisputable to be lost sight of, and all the usurpations of the liberty and rights of families and individuals by the civil power to be legitimized. But, be the errors of the time what they may, it is not fitting that we Catholics should be either their accomplices or their dupes. Enlightened by faith, our reason must hold fast those principles on which human society is based, and were we to be their only defenders, it would be to our honor to have maintained them against all the negations of the spirit of system. To judge, then, only by reason, the state has not those rights over the education of youth which a certain school ascribes to it.

We asserted, moreover, that the opinion of this school is also false in a supernatural point of view, because it separates what ought to be united, because it makes the inference the principle, and despises the one in order to attach itself exclusively to the other. And here we touch the pith of the question.

It is alleged, a public education good or bad, has very serious consequences for society. Its security or its ruin may depend on it, and, anyhow, nothing more vitally affects its peace, strength, and prosperity. The power, therefore, with which the government of a community is invested cannot be a matter of indifference in education. It ought, then, to superintend and direct it, and to place itself at its head, as it naturally does of every social function. We shall presently see how much this reasoning is worth. It includes three things--a principle, a fact, and an inference. The principle is as follows: Whatever is for society an element of strength and progress, and can cause its prosperity and decay, is within the competence of the civil authority and ought to be subject to it. The fact is affirmed in the premises of the argument, to wit, that public education, according as it is good or bad, is naturally of serious consequence to the state. Whence the inference, that it ought to be subject to the civil authority--that is, to the government.

The principle we dispute; the fact is explained and vindicated in another way, and the inference is inconsequential.

First, it is not true that whatever affects the prosperity of the state ought of necessity to belong to the jurisdiction of the civil power, and to be subject to its direction and control. Are not commerce and manufacture elements of national prosperity? Is it necessary, on that account, that the government should assume the direction of them, and that nothing should be done in those two departments of social activity except by it. No. In these the office of power is limited to causing right and justice to be respected in industrial and commercial transactions, to intervene in contentions to decide what is just, to secure the observance of positive laws enacted by it for the purpose of applying to every particular case the general principles of the natural and of the divine law. The rest is an affair of individual enterprise among citizens. Thus, in the question which engages us, that the education of youth ought to contribute much towards the prosperity of a state is not sufficient reason to induce us to resign the whole of it into the hands of the civil power. We must further inquire if there is not some one in the community authorized, by the law of nature or by divine right, to assume its direction and control. If this be so, it will not do to invest the state with a right which belongs to another.

In the second place, the happiness and prosperity of a state are certainly the result of a good education of its youth; of a complete education, that is, well conducted; such, in a word, as gives to the young man all the qualities of perfect manhood. Now, this education is, of necessity, Christian education, in which the state can do nothing--the church, and the church alone, as we have endeavored to show, everything.

What, once more, is education? We have already defined it: the work of fitting a man to fulfil his destiny; to place the faculties of man in a condition of sufficing for themselves, and of pursuing, with the help of God, the end which is allotted to them. Such, clearly, is the work of education; such the end it must of necessity propose to itself. Suppose that in educating a child this consideration of his final destiny should be neglected, that he was brought up with an eye solely to a proximate and terrestrial end, beyond which he could do nothing. Could such an education be called complete? Could it be called sufficient? Would it deserve even the name of education? Undoubtedly not. That child would not have been educated. He would never become a man, _vir_, in the full sense of that term, because the vision of his intelligence would never reach beyond the narrow horizon of this world; because his powers of well-doing would necessarily be extremely limited; because, at last, he would miss the end which every man is bound to attain, and would be compelled to remain for ever nothing but an immortal abortion.

Such is the necessity of recognizing man’s final end in education. That must be its aim, that only, under pain of compromising all the rest. Is there any need of mentioning the guarantees afforded by generations thus educated, for the peace and happiness of communities? Has not true and sincere piety, in the words of the apostle,[174] promise of this life as well as of that of eternity? Is it in any other way than in practising the virtues which make man a social being that we can hope to achieve immortality? Thus to labor to render ourselves worthy of the destiny which awaits us is, also, to prepare ourselves to become good citizens of the earthly city, is to give to society the best possible security of being useful as well as loyal to it. The greatest men of whom humanity is proud, were they not at the same time the most virtuous?

Now, we must repeat to Catholics who forget it, that there are not two last ends for man, but only one; and that is the supernatural end of which we treated at the commencement. Created by God to enjoy his glory and his happiness through eternity, in vain would man seek elsewhere the end of his efforts and of his existence. Everything in him tends towards this end. It is his perfection, and in order to exalt himself to it, he ought to give to his faculties the whole power of development of which they are capable. Woe to him, but much more woe to those who have had the responsibility of his education, if, through their fault, he does not find himself on the level of his destiny; if, instead of gravitating towards heaven in his rapid passage across life, he drags himself miserably along the ground, wallowing in selfish interests and sensual passions!

But if this be so, what can the state do to guide souls to heights which surpass itself? There is nothing to be done but to apply the principle formulated by S. Thomas: “It is his to order means to an end, in whose possession that end is”--_Illius est ordinare ad finem, cujus est proprius ille finis_.[175] The supernatural transformation of the soul into God, and eternal beatitude, which education ought invariably to propose to itself, are not the objects of human society any more than of the civil power which regulates it. That power is consequently incapable, of itself, of ordaining the means which contribute to this supernatural end. It cannot afford the very smallest assistance to education in this respect, nothing to form the man, and to adapt him to the grand designs of God in his behalf. In a word, education is not within the jurisdiction of earthly governments. It is above their competence.

What, then, is the power in the Christian communities commissioned with the sublime ministry of the education of souls? Who has received from God the divine mission of begetting them to the supernatural and divine life, rough-drawn on earth, perfected in heaven? There is, there can be, but one reply. The church! When he founded that august spiritual society, Jesus Christ assigned to it as its end, to guide men to eternal happiness; and on that account he endowed it with all the powers necessary to ordain and to put in operation the proper means for this end. Education conducted in a spirit fundamentally Christian--such is the universal, indispensable mean, over which, consequently, the church has exclusive rights.

See then, established by Jesus Christ, the great instructress of the human race--the only one which can rightfully pretend to direct public education in Christian communities! That superintendence, that direction, are an integral part of the pastoral ministry. The church cannot renounce it without prevarication.

Her reason, therefore, is obvious for insisting, with such obstinate persistency, in claiming, everywhere and always, the exercise of a right which she holds from God himself. Obvious is the reason for which the Sovereign Pontiffs have so severely condemned a doctrine which is the denial of this inalienable right for which, in the concordats concluded with Catholic powers, a special clause invariably reserves for the church the faculty of “seeing that youth receive a Christian education.”[176]

Nothing is more clear than that, when the Catholic Church, in a Christian state, claims for itself the ministry of public instruction, it is no monopoly which it seeks to grasp for the profit of its clerics. It has but one object, to wit, that instruction should have as wide a scope as possible; and for this object she appeals to all devotedness. Laymen and ecclesiastics, seculars and religious, all--all are besought to take a part in this work of instructing the peoples. Whoever offers himself with the necessary qualifications, a pure faith, Christian manners, and competent knowledge, is welcome. To such an one the church opens a free scope for his energies, to cultivate the rising generations under her shelter and in co-operation with her, in order to enable them to bring forth the fruits of knowledge and of virtue. What she does not assent to, what she cannot assent to, is that, under the pretext of liberty of instruction, the ravening wolf should introduce himself into the fold, in the person of those teachers of errors and falsehood who lay waste the flock by bringing into it discord and war; that, under the guise of science and intellectual progress, they should sap the religious belief of a people, assault Christian truth, and infect the young understanding with the deadly poison of doubt and unbelief. No, indeed! Such havoc the church can neither sanction nor allow them an opportunity to accomplish. She remembers that she has received from Christ the care of souls, that the salvation of his children has been entrusted to her keeping, and that God will demand of her an account of their blood shed--that is to say, of their eternal perdition. _Sanguinem ejus de manu tua requiram_ (Ezech. iii. 18). As a watchful sentinel she keeps guard over the flock, and so long as the criminal violence of human powers does not rob her of her rights, neither the thieves nor the assassins of souls can succeed in exercising their ravages.

By way of recapitulation we will enunciate, in five or six propositions, the whole of this doctrine of the rights of the church over education, and thus place the reader in a better position for judging of its full force and extent.

1st. The education of clerics destined to ecclesiastical functions is the exclusive right of the church. She alone regulates everything connected with it, whether the erection of seminaries, or their interior discipline, or the appointment of masters, or the instruction in letters and science, or the good education of the pupils, or their admission into the ecclesiastical body.

2d. The church implicitly respects the right of families to provide a private education for their children by whomsoever and in whatever manner they prefer. Only she imposes on the consciences of Christian parents the obligation of seeing to it that that education be religious and in conformity with the faith they profess.

3d. The superintendence and direction of the public schools, as well of those wherein the mass of the people are instructed in the rudiments of human knowledge, as of those where secondary and higher instruction are given, belong of right to the Catholic Church. She alone has the right of watching over the moral character of those schools, of approving the masters who instruct the youth therein, of controlling their teaching, and dismissing, without appeal to any other authority, those whose doctrine or manners should be contrary to the purity of Christian doctrine.

4th. Subject to the condition of being able to guarantee pure faith, irreproachable manners, and competent knowledge, entire liberty is left to private individuals, ecclesiastics and laity, seculars and religious, to devote themselves to the ministry of teaching and education of youth, to form associations for this object, to found academies and universities wherein the sciences are taught, and which govern themselves by their internal discipline, the choice of masters, and the regulation of the studies, programmes, examens, etc. The church only reserves to herself, in their case, her right of superintendence in the matters of morality and the integrity of the faith.

5th. The church not only does not refuse the co-operation of the state in education, but, on the contrary, she solicits it, whenever private enterprise and her own resources do not suffice to enable her to extend instruction as much as she would wish and as the welfare of peoples demands. She then appeals to the communes, to the provinces, to the nation, in order that everywhere the co-operation of the two powers may effect the foundation of schools, the increase of the number of masters, and may come to the aid of the indigent parents. But even in these schools established with the concurrence of the civil power, if the state may superintend the administration of material interests, the right of direction and superintendence of teaching remains with the church.

6th. Lastly, the power, nevertheless, which the church exercises over public instruction does not hinder governments, if they deem it expedient, from establishing schools where professors chosen by them may give a special training to young people who devote themselves to administrative and military careers. The administration and the army belong, in fact, exclusively to the jurisdiction of governments. It is but just, therefore, that they should be able to give to those who are to belong to them the especial knowledge required for their employment. Only, here, the civil or military authority contracts the same obligations as those which bind the consciences of individuals, to wit, to watch that there be nothing in those schools contrary to religion and to good morals.

Such is the whole doctrine of the Catholic Church with regard to the education of youth in Christian states. Is there not in this organization an ideal which one may justly long to see realized, since it would be the solution of a certain number of problems which strangely perplex our insecurely founded and badly balanced modern communities? Two authorities, each having a distinct object, but united and being mutually the complement one of the other, have the guardianship of human interests--interests of time and interests of eternity. One, the civil authority, has for its direct domain, temporal affairs. The other, the religious authority, commands and directs in all that concerns the supernatural life. The latter, having the responsibility of guiding man from his birth up to his entrance into eternity, educates him, instructs him, and transforms him into a perfect man, into a Christian worthy by his virtues of the destiny which awaits him. The former benefits generations thus formed, and out of these elements, so well prepared to fulfil all the duties of the present life, it constitutes social communities as so many provisional countries, where justice and charity, loyally practised, present an image of the true and final country--Heaven. Thus, the two powers lend to one another a mutual support; the civil power, by securing to the spiritual power a complete liberty of action; and the spiritual power, in its turn, by forming for the state honest and perfect citizens. Thus peace and concord reign throughout the entire society, interests harmonize, justice is loved, order exists everywhere from the highest to the lowest step of the social ladder, and every one, content with his position here on earth, because his hopes are on high, is more intent on making himself better than on overthrowing existing institutions that he may raise himself on their ruins.

Where is to be found, once more we demand, an ideal more grand and more true than this conception of Christian society? The middle ages were not far from realizing it. Unhappily, a work so well begun at the inspiration of the church, first legists, courtiers of the civil power, afterwards Protestantism and its direct off-shoot, rationalism, were fain to interrupt it, and gradually to throw us back into a state of things which threatens to become worse than paganism or barbarism. There is yet time to return to truth, to right and order, which are impossible to be found except in a society based on Christian principles. But will peoples and legislators have a sufficiently clear perception of their duty and their interest to stay themselves at once on the incline down which they are gliding, and dragging us with them, towards a dark and tempest-threatening future?

IV.--CONDUCT OF THE CHURCH IN NON-CHRISTIAN COMMUNITIES.

In the eyes of the Catholic Church, Christianity is the divine afflatus, breathing upon human society to give it a soul and infuse life. Without her there can be in it no true nor prolific life, and every social organization which is not inspired by Christianity is, of necessity, defective and abnormal. The church cannot regard such an organization as a benefit, much less as a progress beyond Christian communities.[177] She deplores it, on the contrary, and she endeavors to persuade people that it would be better for them to submit absolutely to religion, and to take it as the guide and regulator of their social interests. Never has the church concealed her desire, not to lord it over, but to direct communities, to penetrate them with her spirit, to recover the salutary influence over them which is their due, and which they cannot reject without serious injury. The church has never made any mystery of this ambition. Her enemies themselves are witnesses to it, even when they permit themselves, as they too often do, to travesty and calumniate her motives in order to render them odious.

Lamentable, however, as may appear to her to be the inferior position which is allotted to her in modern communities, she does not abandon herself to useless regrets. Without renouncing her inalienable rights, she sets out from a fact which it is not in her power to change, and exhausts her ingenuity in making the best she can of it for the good of souls. The little liberty and influence left to her, she employs to fulfil her ministry; her zeal is inventive to supply by redoubled vigilance the want of her ordinary means in the spiritual government. Must not the work of God be accomplished on earth, in spite of the difficulties, in spite of the impediments of all kinds devised by hell?

Such, then, is the principle which regulates the conduct of the church in states where her authority is disowned. To take into consideration circumstances, established facts; to do nothing brusquely, but using whatever power still remains to her, to exert every effort to ameliorate the situation, to make herself more useful to the faithful and to society. Let us see how she applies this rule to education in non-Christian communities.

We find first the communities wherein the constitution proclaims the liberty of all worships, and their equality before the law. Here, the Catholic Church has ceased to be the religion of the state, which no longer lives in her spirit, no longer accepts her direction in matters of religion and morality, but prefers independence to all the advantages of a union with which it thinks it can dispense. How will the church act in this novel position? In the name of liberty, and of the equal protection accorded to every worship, she demands, first of all, the right of recruiting her ministers, and that of training them according to her own laws; the establishment of large and small seminaries, as well as their administration by the bishops exclusively. This is the first need to satisfy. It is her right, included in her claim to existence.

She demands, moreover, that in the public schools created or authorized by the government, religion be invariably the foundation of education; that the pupils be instructed in the verities of the faith, and that neither atheism nor religious indifferentism be taught there. She demands that at least the primary schools remain denominational--that is to say, specially appropriated to the children of every religion, and that the Catholic clergy have free admission to the schools for Catholics. The preservation of the faith in those young hearts is at stake here; for the church knows by experience the doleful effects of an early education in which religion has not had the principal part. Thus she may, with good right, claim of a government, Christian in name, that it leave to the religions protected by the law this legitimate amount of influence in the education of the people. From the same motives, the church positively rejects the system of non-denominational schools, in which eventuates a jumble of religions fatal to the faith and piety of children. Assuredly Catholics know how to recognize and respect the rights of dissenters, nor do they dream of doing violence to the conscience of any one. Is it not, then, simply common justice that no advantage should be taken of the liberty and equality of the several religions before the law, to hand over Catholic children to a manifest danger of religious perversion and moral ruin?

But this is not all. The principles on which the communities of which we speak rest, permit Catholics to require more. True liberty for a religion consists in its being able to be not only practised by its adherents, but also transmitted in its integrity to succeeding generations, with its beliefs, its precepts, its exterior forms, and, above all, its interior spirit. Now, that is only possible by means of education. It is, then, permitted to the church to demand that liberty be left to families to choose themselves masters worthy of their confidence, and whom they can trust to instruct and educate their children in the principles of the Catholic religion. When the national constitution has already embodied the liberty of instruction in every stage, Catholics make as extensive use of it as they can, and as their peculiar property, imitating in that the shipwrecked man who collects together the waifs saved from the wreck, and out of them tries to rebuild his shattered fortune. If, on the contrary, the monopoly in favor of the state should be embodied in the law, they arm themselves with maxims of natural right, at times even with the commonly accepted ideas of liberty, wherewith to beat down this scandalous monopoly. They know how to set in motion all legal means; and without having recourse, like many of their adversaries, to insurrection or corruption, they succeed, sooner or later, in bringing over public opinion to the side of justice and truth, and in recovering, thus, a portion of the rights which belong to their church, the right of making instructed and conscientious Christians. After that, the church can await from the divine benediction and her own efforts the return of a happier era, for which she exerts all the means at her disposal, by a solid Christian education given to youth, by preaching, and by good example. She will, at least, have neglected nothing to acquit herself of her mission, and to make herself useful even to the communities which repudiate her.

There remains, lastly, the third hypothesis, that of a state separated from the church--that is to say, organized wholly out of the religious idea, a “lay state,” in the full force of that phrase.

We observe, first, that there is more than one degree in this secularization of the state. The first realizes the rationalist idea, according to which governments, respectful towards religion, and allowing absolute liberty, leave the church to organize herself after her fashion, to preach in her temples, to teach in her schools, and to govern the consciences subject to her authority, whilst themselves govern according to the right of rationalism, and without asking counsel of any religious power. It is the dream of more than one liberal, simple enough to believe a perfect equilibrium of human passions to be possible in society, by the sole force of nature and reason. But experience soon dissipates the illusion of so fair a dream. All the degrees of separation between religion and society are soon traversed up to the last, wherein the state, no longer acknowledging creed, church, or religion, announces itself atheist, and forces consciences to the inflexible level of an impious legislation. From thence there is but a step to the proscription of Catholics, and to open persecution.

However, in the conditions of an existence so unpromising what is the conduct of Catholics? What can they do save invoke the common right, and turn against their adversaries the weapons by which the latter dispossessed them? The lay state proclaims liberty for all to speak, write, and teach, as seems good to them. It is in the name of this pretended principle that the church saw herself robbed of almost all her rights and driven from society. Do not imagine that she approves or that she will ever adopt so monstrous an error. But this liberty of speaking, writing, and teaching which you do not refuse to error, is it forbidden to claim it for truth? Truth! It is herself; and her right to speak to the world she holds, not from false maxims inscribed in modern constitutions, but from Jesus Christ, her divine founder. Strong in this right, superior to human constitutions, the church never hesitates to assume in communities the whole space they leave her to occupy, and to extend her action to the uttermost. If they claim to exclude her, she fashions a weapon out of common right. She summons the governments to admit her to the benefit of the universal liberty inscribed in the law, and too profusely lavished on teachers of error. What exception can be taken to this conduct, at once so loyal and so right?

But they charge it against us as an unworthy manœuvre, that we claim for ourselves, in modern communities, and in the name of their principles, a liberty we shall refuse to our adversaries the moment we regain power. In presence of this accusation, the more exalted liberals demand that preventive reprisals be employed in our regard, and that liberty be denied us. The more moderate, affecting a sort of confidence in the stability of their work--or rather, in the impossibility of modern communities ever again returning to the yoke of religion--prefer to show themselves generous, and to vote for liberty even although it be that of Catholics. Touching self-sacrifice, and which it must be owned is no longer in unison with the temperament of contemporary liberalism!

Be that as it may, the accusation is sheer calumny, as facts prove. Neither in the small Swiss cantons, nor in Belgium, where Catholics govern, are dissenters oppressed. If persecution rages anywhere in the two hemispheres, it is where liberalism has planted its banner, and against Catholics. It is something more than ignorance which can accuse us of persecuting tendencies at this time of day. The truth is that social peace has no firmer supporters than Catholics.

We have before asserted, but it is well to repeat it, that the Catholic Church professes and practises the most absolute respect for acquired rights, for conventions concluded and accepted. Thus, for the sake of peace, certain governments have felt themselves obliged to recognize the right of dissenters to live in the state, retaining their beliefs and their religious forms. Liberty of conscience has been proclaimed, the public exercise of all the worships authorized. It is, doubtless, a misfortune that religious unity in society should be broken. The church regrets this misfortune, and her most earnest desire is to see, some day, unity re-established. But is that to say that she wishes violently to change a situation imposed on her by circumstances? that she meditates seizing again, at a blow, and in contempt of acquired rights, the power she enjoyed in better times? By no means. The liberty which the various sects enjoy, for the sake of peace, the Catholic Church respects and knows how to maintain. Dissenters may continue to practise publicly their religion, provided that they trouble neither order nor the tranquillity of the state. Equality of civil and political rights is guaranteed to all citizens, Catholic or not. The same liberty is conceded to them to open schools, and to educate their children according to their beliefs. Nothing, in short, which is just and equitable among fellow-citizens is refused by Catholics to those who do not share their faith. What more do they want? And what is lacking in this conduct to constitute true toleration in mixed communities?

Of Catholics who have become the depositaries of power in these communities the church demands complete liberty to fulfil the duties with which she has been charged by Jesus Christ--the right of organizing herself according to her own laws; of recruiting the sacerdotal ministry and exercising all its functions; of watching over the good education of Catholic youth; of founding and directing schools, colleges, and universities; of having her religious congregations consecrated to prayer, preaching, or education; of being able, in short, to exercise her salutary influence in society, and of being free to devote herself to rendering the people better, better instructed in their duties, and more resolute to fulfil them. As regards non-Catholics, she demands of the government not to substitute license for liberty, but to use its utmost efforts to banish from society two things which are the most hostile to its prosperity and to its happiness: we mean immorality and irreligion. If, later on, differences disappear, if all hearts should unite in the profession of one same faith, it will then be a source of regret to no one that the church resumes her rank, and that society is once more Christian and Catholic.

ARE YOU MY WIFE?

BY THE AUTHOR OF “PARIS BEFORE THE WAR,” “NUMBER THIRTEEN,” “PIUS VI.,” ETC.