CHAPTER II.

A DINNER AT THE GRANGE--A PAIR OF OWLS.

As we passed up the gravel walk of the Grange a face was trying its prettiest to look scoldingly out of the window, but could not succeed. When the eyes lighted upon my companion, face and eyes together disappeared. It was a face that I had seen grow under my eyes, but it had never occurred to me hitherto that it had grown so beautiful. Could that tall young lady, who did the duties of mistress of the Grange so demurely, be the little fairy whom only yesterday I used to toss upon my shoulder and carry out into the barnyard to see the fowls, one hand twined around my neck, and the other waving her magic wand with the action of a little queen--the same magic wand that I had spent a whole hour and a half--a boy’s long hour and a half--in peeling and notching with my broken penknife, engraving thereon the cabalistic characters “F. N.,” which, as all the world was supposed to know, signified “Fairy Nell”? And that was “Fairy” who had just disappeared from the honeysuckles. Faith! a far more dangerous fairy than when I was her war-horse and she my imperious queen.

I introduced my companion as an old school-fellow of mine to my father and sister. So fine-looking a young man could not fail to impress my father favorably, who, notwithstanding his seclusion, had a keen eye for persons and appearances. How so fine-looking a young man impressed my sister I cannot say, for it is not given to me to read ladies’ hearts. The dinner was passing pleasantly enough, when one of those odd revulsions of feeling that come to one at times in the most inopportune situations came over me. I am peculiarly subject to fits of this nature, and only time and years have enabled me to overcome them to any extent. By the grave of a friend who was dear to me, and in presence of his weeping relatives, some odd recollection has risen up as it were out of the freshly-dug grave, and grinned at me over the corpse’s head, till I hardly knew whether the tears in my eyes were brought there by laughter or by grief. Just on the attainment of some success, for which I had striven for months or years, may be, and to which I had devoted every energy that was in me, while the flush of it was fresh on my cheek and in my heart, and the congratulations of friends pouring in on me, has come a drear feeling like a winter wind across my summer garden to blast the roses and wither the dew-laden buds just opening to the light. Why this is so I cannot explain; that it is so I know. It is a mockery of human nature, and falls on the harmony of the soul like that terrible “ha! ha!” of the fiend who stands by all the while when poor Faust and innocent Marguerite are opening their hearts to each other.

“And so, Mr. Goodal, you are an old friend of Roger’s? He has told me about most of his friends. It is strange he never mentioned your name before.”

“It is strange,” I broke in hurriedly. “Kenneth is the oldest of all, too. I found him first in the thirteenth century. He bears his years well, does he not, Fairy?”

My father and Nellie both looked perplexed. Kenneth laughed.

“What in the world are you talking about, Roger?” asked my father in amazement.

“Where do you think I found him? Burrowing at the tomb of the Herberts, as though he were anxious to get inside and pass an evening with them.”

“And judging the past by the present, a very agreeable evening I should have spent,” said Kenneth gayly.

“Well, sir, I will not deny that you would have found excellent company,” responded my father, pleased at the compliment. “The Herberts. ..” he began.

“For heaven’s sake, sir, let them rest in their grave. I have already surfeited Mr. Goodal with the history of the Herberts.” Kenneth was about to interpose, but I went on: “A strangely-mixed assembly the Herberts would make in the other world; granting that there is another world, and that the members of our family condescend to know each other there.”

“Roger!” said Nellie in a warning tone, while my father reddened and shifted uneasily in his chair.

“If there be another world and the Herberts are there, it is impossible that they can live together _en famille_. It can scarcely be even a bowing acquaintance,” I added, feeling all the while that I was as rude and undutiful as though I had risen from my chair and dealt my father a blow in the face. He remembered, as I did not, what was due to our guest, and said coldly:

“Roger, don’t you think that you might advantageously change the subject? Mr. Goodal, I am very far behind the age, and not equal to what I suppose is the prevailing tone among clever young gentlemen of the present day. I am very old fogy, very conservative. Try that sherry.”

The quiet severity of his tone cut me to the quick. The spirit of mischief must have been very near my elbow at that moment. Instead of taking my lesson in good part, I felt like a whipped school-boy, and, regardless of poor Nellie’s pale face and Kenneth’s silence, went on resolutely:

“Well, sir, my ancestors are to me a most interesting topic of conversation, and I take it that a Herbert only shows a proper regard for his own flesh and blood if he inquire after their eternal no less than their temporal welfare. What has become of all the Herberts, I should dearly like to know?”

“I know, sir, what will become of one of them, if he continues his silly and unmannerly cynicism,” said my father, now fairly aroused. He was very easily aroused, and I wonder that he restrained himself so long. “I cannot imagine, Mr. Goodal, what possesses the young men of the present day, or what they are coming to. Irreverence for the dead, irreverence for the living, irreverence for all that is worthy of reverence, seems to stamp their character. I trust, sir, indeed I believe, that you have better feelings than to think that life and death, here and hereafter, are fit subjects for a boy’s sneer. I am sure that you have that respect for church and state and--and things established that is becoming a gentleman. I can only regret that my son is resolved on going as fast as he can to--to--” He glanced at Nellie, and remained silent.

“I know where you would say, sir; and in the event of my happy arrival there, I shall beyond doubt meet a large section of the Herberts who have gone before me--that is, if church and things established are to be believed. When one comes to think of it, what an appalling number of Herberts must have gone to the devil!”

“Nellie, my girl, you had better retire, since your brother forgets how to conduct himself in the presence of ladies and gentlemen.”

But Nellie sat still with scared face, and, though by this time my heart ached, I could not help continuing:

“But, father, what are we to believe, or do we believe anything? Up to a certain period the Herberts were what their present head--whom heaven long preserve!--would call rank Papists. Old Sir Roger, whose epitaph I found Mr. Goodal endeavoring to decipher this afternoon, was a Crusader, a soldier of the cross which, in our enlightenment and hatred of idolatry, we have torn down from the altar where he worshipped, and overturned that altar itself. Was it for love of church and things established, as we understand them, that he sailed away to the Holy Land, and in his pious zeal knocked the life out of many an innocent painim? Was good Abbot Herbert, whose monumental brass in the chancel of S. Wilfrid’s presents him kneeling and adoring before the chalice that he verily believed to hold the blood of Christ, a worshipper of the same God and a holder of the same faith as my uncle, Archdeacon Herbert, who denies and abhors the doctrine of Transubstantiation, although his two daughters, who are of the highest High-Church Anglicans, devoutly believe in something approaching it, and, to prove their faith, have enrolled themselves both in the Confraternity of the Cope, whose recent discovery has set Parliament and all the bench of bishops abuzz? Is it all a humbug all the way down, or were the stout, Crusading, Catholic Herberts real and right, while we are wrong and a religious sham? Does the Reformation mark us off into white sheep and black sheep, consigning them to hell and us to heaven? If not, why were they not Protestants, and why are we not Catholics, or why are we all not unbelievers? Can the same heaven hold all alike--those who adored and adore the Sacrament as God, and those who pronounce adoration of the Sacrament idolatry and an abomination?”

My father’s only reply to this lengthy and irresistible burst of eloquent reasoning was to ask Nellie, who had sat stone-still, and whose eyes were distended in mingled horror and wonder, for a cup of coffee. My long harangue seemed to have a soothing effect upon my nerves. I looked at Goodal, who was looking at his spoon. I felt so sorry that I could have wished all my words unsaid.

“My dear father, and my dear Kenneth, and you too, Nellie, pardon me. I have been unmannerly, grossly so. I brought you here, Kenneth, to spend a pleasant evening, and help us to spend one, and some evil genius--a _daimon_ that I carry about with me, and cannot always whip into good behavior--has had possession of me for the last half-hour. It was he that spoke in me, and not my father’s son, who, were he true to the lessons and example of his parent, would as soon think of committing suicide as a breach of hospitality or good manners. Now, as you are antiquarians, I leave you a little to compare notes, while I take Fairy out to trip upon the green, and console her for my passing heresy with orthodoxy and Tupper, who, I need not assure you, is her favorite poet, as he is of all true English country damsels. There is the moon beginning to rise; and there is a certain melting, a certain watery, quality about Tupper admirably adapted to moonlight.”

The rest of the evening passed more pleasantly. After a little we all went out on the lawn, and sat there together. The moonlight nights of the English summer are very lovely. That night was as a thousand such, yet it seemed to me that I had never felt the solemn beauty of nature so deeply or so sensibly before. S. Wilfrid’s shone out high and gray and solemn in the moon. Through the yew-trees of the priory down below gleamed the white tombstones of the churchyard. A streak of silver quivering through the land marked the wandering course of the Leigh. And high up among the beeches and the elms sat we, the odors of the afternoon still lingering on the air, the melody of a nightingale near by wooing the heart of the night with its mystic notes, and the moonlight shimmering on drowsy trees and slumbering foliage that not a breath in all the wide air stirred.

“There is a soft quiet in our English nights, a kind of home feeling about them, that makes them very lovable, and that I have experienced nowhere else,” said Kenneth.

“Oh! I am so glad to hear you say that, Mr. Goodal.”

“May I ask why, Miss Herbert?”

“Well, I hardly know. Because, I suppose, I am so very English.”

“So is Tupper, and Fairy swears by Tupper. At least she would, if she swore at all,” remarked her brother, whose hair was pulled for his pains.

“Were you ever abroad, Miss Herbert?”

“Never; papa wished to take me often, but I refused, because I suppose again I am so very English.”

“Too English to face sea-sickness,” said her brother.

“I believe the fault is mine, Mr. Goodal,” said her father. “You see the gout never leaves me for long together. I am liable at any time to an attack; and gout is a bad companion on foreign travel. It is bad enough at home, as Nellie finds, who insists on being my only nurse; and I am so selfish that I have not the heart to let her go, and I believe she has hardly the heart to leave me.”

“Oh! I don’t wish to go. Cousin Edith goes every year, and we have such battles when she comes back. She cannot endure this climate, she cannot endure the people, she cannot endure the fashions, the language is too harsh and grating for her ear, the cooking is barbarous--every thing is bad. Now, I would rather stay at home and be happy in my ignorance than learn such lessons as that,” said honest Nellie.

“You would never learn such lessons.”

“Don’t you think so? But tell us now, Mr. Goodal, do not you, who have seen so much, find England very dull?”

“Excessively. That is one of its chief beauties. Dulness is one of our national privileges; and Roger here will tell you we pride ourselves on it.”

“Kenneth would say that dulness is only another word for what you would call our beautiful home-life,” said the gentleman appealed to.

“Dulness indeed! I don’t find it dull,” broke in Nellie, bridling up.

“No, the dairy and the kitchen; the dinner and tea; the Priory on a Sunday; the shopping excursions into Leighstone, where there is nothing to buy; the garden and the vinery; the visits to Mrs. Jones and Mrs. Knowles; to Widow Wickham, who is blind; to Mrs. Staynes, who is deaf, and whose husband ran away from her because, as he said, he feared that he would rupture a blood-vessel in trying to talk to her; the parish school and the charity hospital, make the life of a well-behaved young English lady quite a round of excitement. There are such things, too, as riding to hounds, and a ball once in a while, and croquet parties, and picnics, and the Eleusinian mysteries of the tea-table. Who shall say that, with all these opportunities for wild dissipation, English country life is dull?”

“Roger wearies of Leighstone, you perceive,” said my father. “Well, I was restless once myself; but the gout laid hold of me early in life, and it has kept its hold.”

“Now, Mr. Goodal, in all your wanderings, tell me where you have seen anything so delightful as this? Have you seen a ruin more venerable than S. Wilfrid’s, nodding to sleep like a gray old monk on the top of the hill there? Every stone of it has a history; some of them gay, many of them grave. Look at the Priory nestling down below--history again. See how gently the Leigh wanders away through the country. Every cottage and farm on its banks I know, and those in them. Could you find a sweeter perfume in all the world than steals up from my own garden here, where all the flowers are mine, and I sometimes think half know me? All around is beauty and peace, and has been so ever since I was a child. Why, then, should I wish to wander?”

Something more liquid even than their light glistened in Fairy’s eyes, as she turned them on Kenneth at the close. He seemed startled at her sudden outburst, and, after a moment, said almost gravely:

“You are right, Miss Herbert. The beauty that we do not know we may admire, but hardly love. It is like a painting that we glance at, and pass on to see something else. There is no sense of ownership about it. I have wandered, with a crippled friend by my side, through art galleries where all that was beautiful in nature and art was drawn up in a way to fascinate the eye and delight the senses. Yet my crippled friend never suffered by contrast; never felt his deformity there. Knowledge, association, friendship, love--these are the great beautifiers. The little that we can really call our own is dearer to us than all the world--is our world, in fact. An Italian sunset steals and enwraps the senses into, as it were, a third heaven. A London fog is one of the most hideous things in this world; yet a genuine Londoner finds something in his native fog dear to him as the sunset to the Italian, and I confess to the barbarism myself. On our arrival the other day we were greeted by a yellow, dense, smoke-colored fog, such as London alone can produce. It was more than a year since I had seen one, and I enjoyed it. I breathed freely again, for I was at home. You will understand, then, how I appreciate your enthusiasm about Leighstone; and if Leighstone had many like Miss Herbert, I can well understand why its people should be content to stay at home.”

Nellie laughed. “I am afraid, Mr. Goodal, that you have brought back something more than your taste for fogs and your homely Saxon from Italy.”

“Yes, a more rooted love for my own land, a truer appreciation of my countrymen, and more ardent admiration of my fair countrywomen.”

“Ah! now you are talking Italian. But, honestly, which country do you find the most interesting of all you have seen?”

“My own, Miss Herbert.”

“The nation of shop-keepers!” ejaculated I.

“Of Magna Charta,” interposed my father, who, ready enough to condemn his age and his country himself, was Englishman enough to allow no other person to do so with impunity.

“Of hearth and home, of cheerful firesides and family circles,” added Nellie.

“Of work-houses and treadmills,” I growled.

“Of law and order, of civil and religious liberty,” corrected my father.

“Which are of very recent introduction and very insecure tenure,” added I.

“They formed the corner-stone of the great charter on which our English state is built--a charter that has become our glory and the world’s envy.”

“To be broken into and rifled within a century; to be set under the foot of a Henry VIII. and pinned to the petticoat of an Elizabeth; to be mocked at in the death of a Mary, Queen of Scots, and a Charles; to be thrown out of window by a Cromwell. Our charters and our liberties! Oh! we are a thrifty race. We can pocket them all when it suits our convenience, and flaunt them to the world on exhibition-days. Our charter did not save young Raymond Herbert his neck for sticking to his faith during the Reformation, though I believe that same charter provided above all things that the church of God should be free; and a Chief-Justice Herbert sat on the bench and pronounced sentence on the boy, not daring to wag a finger in defence of his own flesh and blood. Of course the Catholic Church was not the church of God, for so the queen’s majesty decreed; and to Chief-Justice Herbert we owe these lands, such of them as were saved. Great heaven! we talk of nobility--English nobility; the proudest race under the sun. The proudest race under the sun, who would scorn to kiss the Pope’s slipper, grovelled in the earth, one and all of them, under the heel of an Elizabeth, and the other day trembled at the frown of a George the Fourth!”

I need not dwell on the fact that in those days I had a particular fondness for the sound of my own voice. I gloried in what seemed to me startling paradoxes, and flashes of wisdom that loosened bolts and rivets of prejudice, shattered massive edifices of falsehood, undermined in a twinkling social and moral weaknesses, which, of course, had waited in snug security all these long years for my coming to expose them to the scorn of a wondering world. What a hero I was, what a trenchant manner I had of putting things, what a keen intellect lay concealed under that calm exterior, and what a deep debt the world would have owed me had it only listened in time to my Cassandra warnings, it will be quite unnecessary for me to point out.

“I suppose I ought to be very much ashamed of myself,” said Kenneth good-humoredly; “but I still confess that I find my own country the most interesting of any that I have seen. It may be that the very variety, the strange contradictions in our national life and character, noticed by our radical here, are in themselves no small cause for that interest. If we have had a Henry VIII., we have had an Alfred and an Edward; if we have had an Elizabeth, we have also had a Maud; if our nobles cowered before a woman, they faced a man at Runnymede, and at their head were English churchmen, albeit not English churchmen of the stamp of to-day. If we broke through our charter, let us at least take the merit of having restored something of it, although it is somewhat mortifying to find that centuries of wandering and of history and discovery only land us at our old starting-point.”

“I give in. Bah! we are spoiling the night with history, while all nature is smiling at us in her beautiful calm.”

“Ah! you have driven away the nightingale; it sings no more,” said Fairy.

“Surely some one can console us for its absence,” said Kenneth, glancing at Nellie.

“I do not understand Italian,” she laughed back.

“Your denial is a confession of guilt. I heard Roger call you Fairy. There be good fairies and bad. You would not be placed among the bad?”

“Why not?”

“Because all the bad fairies are old.”

“And ride on broomsticks,” added I.

Unlike her brother, who had not a note of music in him, Fairy had a beautiful voice, which had had the additional advantage of a very careful cultivation. She sang us a simple old ballad that touched our hearts; and when that was done, we insisted on another. Then the very trees seemed to listen, the flowers to open as to a new sunlight, and shed their sweetness in sympathy, as she sang one of those ballads of sighs and tears, hope and despair and sorrowful lamentation, caught from the heart of a nation whose feelings have been stirred to the depths to give forth all that was in them in the beautiful music that their poet has wedded to words. The ballad was “The Last Rose of Summer,” and as the notes died away the foliage seemed to move and murmur with applause, while after a pause the nightingale trilled out again its wonderful song in rivalry. There was silence for a short time, which was broken by Kenneth saying:

“I must break up Fairy-land, and go back to the Black Bull.”

But of this we would not hear. It was agreed that Kenneth should take up his quarters with us. The conversation outlasted our usual hours at Leighstone. Kenneth sustained the burden; and with a wonderful grace and charm he did so. He had read as well as travelled, and more deeply and extensively than is common with men of his years; for his conversation was full of that easy and delightful illustration that only a student whose sharp angles have been worn off by contact with the world outside his study can command and gracefully use, leaving the gem of knowledge that a man possesses, be it small or great, perfect in its setting. Much of what he related was relieved by some shrewd and happy remark of his own that showed him a close observer, while a genial good-nature and tendency to take the best possible view of things diffused itself through all. It was late when my father said:

“Mr. Goodal, you have tempted me into inviting an attack of my old enemy by sitting here so long. There is no necessity for your going to-morrow, is there, since you are simply on a walking tour? Roger is a great rambler, and there are many pretty spots about Leighstone, many an old ruin that will repay a visit. Indeed, ruins are the most interesting objects of these days. My walking days, I fear, are over. A visitor is a Godsend to us down here, and, though you ramblers soon tire of one spot, there is more in Leighstone than can be well seen in a day.”

Thus pressed, he consented, and our little party broke up.

“Are you an owl!” I asked Kenneth, as my father and sister retired.

“Somewhat,” he replied, smiling.

“Then come to my room, and you shall give your to-whoo to my to-whit. I was born an owl, having been introduced into this world, I am informed, in the small hours; and the habits of the species cling to me. Take that easy-chair and try this cigar. These slippers will ease your feet. Though not a drinking man, properly so called, I confess to a liking for the juice of the grape. The fondness for it is still strong in the sluggish blood of the Norse, and I cannot help my blood. Therefore, at an hour like this, a night-cap will not hurt us. Of what color shall it be? Of the deep claret tint of Bordeaux, the dark-red hue of Burgundy, or the golden amber of the generous Spaniard? Though, as I tell you, not a drinking man, I think a good cigar and a little wine vastly improves the moonlight, provided the quantity be not such as to obscure the vision of eye or brain. That is not exactly a theory of my own. It was constantly and deeply impressed upon me by a very reverend friend of mine, with whom I read for a year. Indeed I fear his faith in port was deeper than his faith in the Pentateuch. The drunkard is to me the lowest of animals, ever has been, and ever will be. Were the world ruled--as it is scarcely likely to be just yet--by my suggestions, the fate of the Duke of Clarence should be the doom of every drunkard, with only this difference; that each one be drowned in his own favorite liquor, soaked there till he dissolved, and the contents ladled out and poured down the throat of whoever, by any accident, mistook the gutter for his bed. You will pardon my air; in my own room I am supreme lord and master. Kenneth, my boy, I like you. I feel as though I had known you all my life. That must have been the reason for my unruly, ungracious, and unmannerly explosion down-stairs at dinner. I have an uncontrollable habit of breaking out in that style sometimes, and the effect on my father, whom I need not tell you I love and revere above all men living, is what you see.”

He smoked in silence a few seconds, and then, turning on me, suddenly asked:

“Where did you learn your theology?”

The question was the last in the world that would have presented itself to me, and was a little startling, but put in too earnest a manner for a sneer, and too kindly to give offence. I answered blandly that I was guiltless of laying claim to any special theology.

“Well, your opinions, then--the faith, the reasons, on which you ground your life and views of life. Your conversation at times drifts into a certain tone that makes me ask. Where or what have you studied?”

“Nowhere; nothing; everywhere; everything; everybody; I read whatever I come across. And as for theology--for my theology, such as it is--I suppose I am chiefly indebted to that remarkably clever organ of opinion known as the _Journal of the Age_.”

A few whiffs in silence, and then he said:

“I thought so.”

“What did you think?”

“That you were a reader of the _Journal of the Age_. Most youngsters who read anything above a sporting journal or a sensational novel are. I have been a student of it myself--a very close student. I knew the editor well. We were at one time bosom friends. He took me in training, and I recognized the symptoms in you at once.”

“How so?”

“The _Journal of the Age_--and it has numerous admirers and imitators--is, in these days, the ablest organ of a great and almost universal worship of an awful trinity that has existed since man was first created; and the name of that awful trinity is--the devil, the world, and the flesh.”

I stared at him in silent astonishment. All the gayety of his manner, all its softness, had gone, and he seemed in deadly earnest, as he went on:

“This worship is not paraded in its grossest form. Not at all. It is graced by all that wit can give and undisciplined intellect devise. It has a brilliant sneer for Faith, a scornful smile for Hope, and a chill politeness for Charity. I revelled in it for a time. Heaven forgive me! I was happy enough to escape.”

“With what result?”

“Briefly with this: with the conviction that man did not make this world; that he did not make himself, or send himself into it; that consequently he was not and could never be absolutely his own master; that he was sent in and called out by Another, by a Greater than he, by a Creator, by a God. I became and am a Catholic, to find that what for a time I had blindly worshipped were the three enemies against whom I was warned to fight all the days of my life.”

“And the _Journal of the Age_?”

“The editor cut me as soon as he found I believed in God in preference to himself. He is the fiercest opponent of Papal Infallibility with whom I ever had the honor of acquaintance.”

“I cannot say that your words and the manner in which you speak them do not impress me. Still, it never occurred to me that so insignificant a being as Roger Herbert was worthy the combined attack of the three formidable adversaries you have named. What have the devil, the world, and the flesh to do with me?”

“Yes, there is the difficulty, not only with Roger Herbert, but with everybody else. It does seem strange that influences so powerful and mysterious should be for ever ranged against such wretched little beings as we are, whom a toothache tortures and a fever kills. Yet surely man’s life on earth is not all fever and its prevention, toothache and its cure, or a course of eating, doctoring, and tailoring. If we believe at all in a life that can never end, in a soul, surely that is something worth thought and care. An eternal life that must range itself on one side or the other seems worthy of a struggle between the powers of good and evil, if good and evil there be. Nay, man is bound of his own right, of his own free will, of his very existence, to choose between one and the other, to be good or be bad, and not stumble on listlessly as a thing of chance, tossed at will from one to the other. We do not sufficiently realize the greatest of our obligations. We should feel disgraced if we did not pay our tailor or our wine-merchant; but such a thought never presents itself to us when the question concerns God or the devil, or that part of us that does not wear clothes and does not drink wine.”

He had risen while he was speaking, and spoke with an energy and earnestness I had never yet witnessed in any man. Whether right or wrong, his view of things towered so high above my own blurred and crooked vision that I felt myself crouch and grow small before him. The watch-tower of his faith planted him high up among the stars of heaven, while I groped and struggled far away down in the darkness. Oh! if I could only climb up there and stand with him, and see the world and all things in it from that divine and serene height, instead of impiously endeavoring to build up my own and others’ little Babel that was to reach the skies and enable us to behold God. But conversions are not wrought by a few sentences nor by the mere emotions of the heart; not by Truth itself, which is for ever speaking, for ever standing before and confronting us, its mark upon its forehead, yet we pass it blindly by; for has it not been said that “having eyes they see not, and having ears they hear not”?

“Kenneth,” I said, stretching out my hand, which he clasped in both of his, “the subject which has been called up I feel to be far too solemn to be dismissed with the sneer and scoff that have grown into my nature. Indeed, I always so regarded it secretly; but perhaps the foolish manner in which I have hitherto treated it was owing somewhat to the foolish people with whom I have had to deal from my boyhood. They give their reasons about this, that, and the other as parrots repeat their lesson, with interjectory shrieks and occasional ruffling of the poll, all after the same pattern. You seem to me to be in earnest; but, if you please, we will say no more about it--at least now.”

“As you please,” he replied. “Here I am at the end of my cigar. So good-night, my dear boy. Well, you have had my to-whit to your to-whoo.”

And so a strange day ended. I sat thinking some time over our conversation. Kenneth’s observations opened quite a new train of thought. It had never occurred to me before that life was a great battle-field, and that all men were, as it were, ranged under two standards, under the folds of which they were compelled to fight. Everything had come to me in its place. A man might have his private opinions on men and things, as he collects a private museum for his own amusement; but in the main one lived and died, acted and thought, passed through and out of life, in much the same manner as his neighbor, not inquiring and not being inquired into too closely. Life was made for us, and we lived it much in the same way as we learned our alphabet, we never knew well how, or took our medicine, in the regulation doses. Sometimes we were a little rebellious, and suffered accordingly; that was all. Excess on any side was a bore to everybody else. It was very easy, and on the whole not unpleasant. We nursed our special crotchets, we read our newspapers, we watched our children at their gambols, we chatted carelessly away out on the bosom of the broad stream along which we were being borne so surely and swiftly into the universal goal. Why should we scan the sky and search beneath the silent waters, trembling at storms to come and treacherous whirlpools, hidden sand-banks, and cruel rocks on which many a brave bark had gone down? Chart and compass were for others; a pleasant sail only for us. There was a Captain up aloft somewhere; it was his duty and not ours to see that all was right and taut--ours to glide along in slumbrous ease, between eternal banks of regions unexplored; to feast our eyes on fair scenes, and lap our senses in musical repose. That was the true life. Sunken rocks, passing storms, mutinies among the crew, bursting of engines--what were such things to us? Had we not paid our fares and made our provision for the voyage, and was not the Captain bound to land us safely at our journey’s end, if he valued his position and reputation?

The devil, the world, and the flesh! What nightmare summoned these up, and set them glaring horribly into the eyes of a peaceful British subject? What had the devil to do with me or I with the devil? What were the world and the flesh? Take my father, now; what had they to do with him? Or Fairy? Why, her life was as pure as that sky that smiled down upon her with all its starry eyes. Let me see; there were others, however, who afforded better subjects for investigation. Whenever you want to find out anything disagreeable, call on your friends and neighbors. There was the Abbot Jones, now; let us weigh him in the triple scale. How fared the devil, the world, and the flesh with the Abbot Jones? He was, as I said to Kenneth, a very genial man; he had lived a good life, married into an excellent family, paid his bills, had a choice library, a good table, was an excellent judge of cattle, and a preacher whom everybody praised. Abbot Jones was faultless! There was not a flaw to be found in him from the tip of his highly-polished toe to the top of his highly-polished head. He had a goodly income, but he used it cautiously; for Clara and Alice were now grown up, and were scarcely girls to waste their lives in a nunnery, like my cousins, the daughters of Archdeacon Herbert, who adored all that was sweetly mortifying and secluded, yet, by one of those odd contradictions in female and human nature generally, never missed a fashion or a ball. Yes, Abbot Jones was a good and exemplary man. To be sure, he did not walk barefoot or sandal-shod, not alone among the highways, where men could see and admire, but into the byways of life, down among the alleys of the poor, where clustered disease, drunkenness, despair, death; where life is but one long sorrow. But then for what purpose did he pay a curate, unless to do just this kind of dirty, apostolic work, while the abbot devoted himself to the cares of his family, the publication of an occasional pamphlet, and that pleasant drawing-room religion that finds its perfection in good dinners, sage maxims, and cautious deportment? If the curate neglected his duty, that was clearly the curate’s fault, and not the abbot’s. If the abbot were clothed, not exactly in purple, but in the very best of broadcloth, and fasted only by the doctor’s orders, prayed not too severely, fared sumptuously every day of his life, he paid for every inch of cloth, every ounce of meat, every drop of that port for which his table was famous; for he still clung to the clerical taste for a wine that at one time assumed a semi-ecclesiastical character, and certain crumbs from his table went now and then to a stray Lazarus. Yes, he was a faultless man, as the world went. He did not profess to be consumed with the zeal for souls. His life did not aim at being an apostolic one. He had simply adopted a profitable and not unpleasant profession. If a S. Paul had come, straggling, footsore, and weary, into Leighstone, and begun preaching to the people and attacking shepherds who guarded not their fold, but quietly napped and sipped their port, while the wolves of irreligion, of vice and misery in every form, entered in and rent the flock from corner to corner, the abbot would very probably have had S. Paul arrested for a seditious vagrant and a disturber of the public peace.

Take my uncle, the archdeacon; what thought he of the world, the flesh, and the devil? As for the last-named enemy of the human race, he did not believe in him. A personal devil was to him simply a bogy wherewith to frighten children. It was the outgrowth of mediæval superstition, a Christianized version of a pagan fable. The devil was a gay subject with Archdeacon Herbert, who was the wittiest and courtliest of churchmen. His mission was up among the gods of this world; his confessional ladies’ boudoirs, his penance an epigram, his absolution the acceptance of an invitation to dinner. He breathed in a perfumed atmosphere; his educated ear loved the rustle of silks; he saw no heaven to equal a coach-and-four in Rotten Row during the season. It was in every way fitting that such a man should sooner or later be a bishop of the Church Established. He was an ornament to his class--a man who could represent it in society as well as in the pulpit, whose presence distilled dignity and perfume, and whose views were what are called large and liberal--that is to say, no “views” at all. What the three enemies had to do with my uncle I could not see. I could only see that he would scarcely have been chosen as one of The Twelve; but then who would be chosen as one of The Twelve in these days?

I went to the window and looked out. The moon was going down behind S. Wilfrid’s, and Leighstone was buried in gloomy shadow. Down there below me in the darkness throbbed thousands of hearts resting a little in peaceful slumber till the morning came to wake them again to the toil and the struggle, the pleasure and the pain, the good and the evil, of another day. The good and the evil. Was there no good and evil waiting down there by the bedside of every one, to face them in the morning, and not leave them until they returned to that bedside at night? Was there a great angel somewhere up above in that solemn, silent, ever-watchful heaven, with an open scroll, writing down in awful letters the good and the bad, the white and the black, in the life of each one of us? Were we worth this care, weak little mortals, human machines, that we were? What should our good or our evil count against the great Spirit, whom we are told lives up above there in the passionless calm of a fixed eternity? Did we shake our puny fists for ever in the face of that broad, bent heaven that wrapped us in and overwhelmed us in its folds, what effect would it have? If we held them up in prayer, what profited it? Who of men could storm heaven or search hell? And yet, as Kenneth said, a life that could not end was an awful thing. That the existence we feel within us is never to cease; that the power of discriminating between good and evil, define them, laugh at them or quibble about them as we may, can never die out of us; that we are irresistibly impelled to one or the other; that they are always knocking at the door of our hearts, for we feel them there; that they cannot be blind influences, knowing not when to come or when to go, but the voices of keen intelligences acting over the great universe, wherever man lives and moves and has his being; that they are not creations of our own, for they are independent of us; we may call evil good and good wicked, but in the end the good will show itself, and the evil throw off its disguise in spite of us--what does all this say but that there is an eternal conflict going on, and that, will he or will he not, every man born into the world must take a share in it?

That being so, search thine own heart, friend. Leave thy uncle, leave thy neighbor, and come back to thyself. Let them answer for their share; answer thou for thine. Which is thy standard? It cannot be both. What part hast thou borne in the conflict? What giants killed? What foes overcome? Hast thou slain that doughty giant within thee--thine own self? Is there no evil in thee to be cast out? No stain upon the scutcheon of thy pure soul? No vanity, no pride, no love of self above all and before all, no worship of the world, no bowing to Mammon or other strange gods, not to mention graver blots than all of these? Let thy neighbor pass till all the dross is purged out of thee. There is not a libertine in all the world but would wish all the world better, provided he had not to become better with it. Thy good wishes for others are shared by all men alike, by the worst as by the best. Begin at home, friend, and root out and build up there. Trim thy own garden, cast out the weeds, water and tend it well. The very sight of it is heaven to the weary wayfarer who, having wandered far away from his own garden, sinks down at thy side, begrimed with the dust of the road and the smoke of sin. You may tear him to pieces, you may lacerate his soul, you may cast him, bound hand and foot, into the outer darkness, yet never touch his heart. But he will stand afar off and admire when he sees thy garden blowing fair, and all the winds of heaven at play there, all the dews of heaven glistening there, all the sunshine of heaven beaming there; then will he come and creep close up to thee, desiring to take off the shoes from his feet, soiled with his many wanderings in foul places. Then for the first time he feels that he has wandered from the way, will see the stains upon him, and with trembling fingers hasten to cast them off, and, standing barefoot and humble before Him who made thee pure, falter out at length, “Lord, it is good for us to be here.”

TO BE CONTINUED.

CALDERON’S AUTOS SACRAMENTALES.

CONCLUDED.

II.

I. BALTASSAR’S FEAST.[55]

Of all Calderon’s _autos_, this is the one which has been the most generally admired, both on account of its intense dramatic power and popular character.

It has been translated several times into German (see note at end of previous article on the _autos_), and into English by Mr. MacCarthy.

The latter says in his preface: “This _auto_ must be classed with those whose action relates directly to the Blessed Sacrament, because it puts before us, in the profanation of the vases of the Temple by Baltassar, a type of the desecration of the Holy Sacrament, and symbolizes to us, in the punishment that follows this sacrilege, the magnitude and sublimity of the Eucharistic Mystery. Although this immediate relation between the action of the _auto_ and the sacrament becomes only manifestly clear in the last scene, nevertheless all the preceding part, which is only preparing us for the final catastrophe, stands in immediate connection with it, and, through it, with the action of the _auto_. The wonderful simplicity of this relation, and the lively dramatic treatment of the subject, allow us to place this _auto_, justly, in the same category with those that, comparatively speaking, are easy to be understood, and which, like _The Great Theatre of the World_, have especial claims upon popularity, even if many of its details contain very deep allusions, the meaning of which, at first sight, is not very intelligible.”

The _auto_ opens in the garden of Baltassar’s palace with a scene between Daniel and Thought, who, dressed in a coat of many colors, represents the Fool.

After a long description of his abstract self he states that he has this day been assigned to King Baltassar’s mind, and ironically remarks that he, Thought, is not the only fool, and apologizes for his rudeness in not listening to Daniel:

“It were difficult to try To keep up a conversation, We being in our separate station, Wisdom thou, and Folly I.”

Daniel answers that there is no reason why they should not converse, for the sweetest harmony is that which proceeds from two different chords.

Thought hesitates no longer, and informs Daniel that he is thinking of the wedding which Babylon celebrates this day with great rejoicings. The groom is King Baltassar, son and heir of Nabuchodonosor; the happy bride the fair Empress of the East, Idolatry herself.

That the king is already wedded to Vanity is no hindrance, as his law allows him a thousand wives.

Daniel breaks forth in lamentations for God’s people and the unhappy kingdom; while clownish Thought asks if Daniel himself is interested in the ladies, since he makes such an outcry over the news, and insinuates that envy and his captivity are the causes of his grief.

With a flourish of trumpets enter Baltassar and Vanity at one side, and Idolatry, fantastically dressed, at the other, with attendants, followers, etc.

The king courteously welcomes his new wife, who replies that it is right that she should come to his kingdom, since here first after the Flood idolatry arose.

The king declares that his own idea, his sole ambition, has been to unite Idolatry and Vanity, and then suddenly becomes absorbed in thought while fondly regarding his wives; to their questions as to the cause of his suspense he answers that, fired by their beauty, he wishes to relate the wondrous story of his conquests.

Wonderful indeed is the story which follows, extending, in the original, through three hundred and fifty uninterrupted lines.

In the introduction the king relates the strange fate of his father, Nabuchodonosor, whose worthy successor he declares himself to be, and describes his vaulting ambition, which will not be satisfied until he is the sole ruler over all the region of Senaar, which beheld the building of the Tower of Babel; this leads to an account of the Deluge, so poetical and characteristic that we give its finest portion here:[56]

“First began a dew as soft As those tears the golden sunrise Kisseth from Aurora’s lids; Then a gentle rain, as dulcet As those showers the green earth drinks In the early days of summer; From the clouds then water-lances, Darting at the mountains, struck them; In the clouds their sharp points shimmer’d, On the mountains rang their but-ends; Then the rivulets were loosened, Roused to madness, ran their currents, Rose to rushing rivers, then Swelled to seas of seas. O Summit Of all wisdom! thou alone Knowest how thy hand can punish! … Then a mighty sea-storm rushed Through the rents and rocky ruptures, By whose mouths the great earth yawns, When its breath resounds and rumbles From internal caves. The air … Roared confined, the palpitation Of its fierce internal pulses Making the great hills to shake, And the mighty rocks to tremble. The strong bridle of the sand, Which the furious onset curbeth Of the white horse of the sea With its foam-face silver fronted, Loosened every curbing rein, So that the great steed, exulting, Rushed upon the prostrate shore, With loud neighing to o’errun it.”

The ark alone is saved, and Nimrod resolves to anticipate a second Deluge, and erect a more ambitious refuge. The building of the Tower of Babel and the Confusion of Tongues then follow, and the king closes his long monologue with the determination to rebuild Nimrod’s tower, urged to the task by the opportune conjunction of Idolatry and Vanity.

These express their gratification at this lofty scheme, and offer to perpetuate the fame of his great deeds.

The king, exulting, exclaims: “Who shall break this bond?”

Daniel, advancing, “The hand of God!” and returns the same answer to the king’s angry question, “What can save thee from my power or defend thee?”

Baltassar is profoundly moved, but spares Daniel because Vanity loathes the captive and Idolatry disdains his religion.

In the fourth scene the prophet addresses the Most High, and cries: “Who can endure these offences, these pretences of Vanity and displays of Idolatry? Who will end so great an evil?”

“I will,” answers Death, who enters, wearing a sword and dagger, and dressed symbolically in a cloak covered with figures of skeletons.

DANIEL. “Awful shape, to whom I bow Through the shadowy glooms that screen thee, Never until now I’ve seen thee: Fearful phantom, who art thou?”

Death’s answer in the following monologue is most impressive and beautiful. Our space, unfortunately, will let us quote but a part:

“Daniel, thou Prophet of the God of Truth, I am the end of all who life begin, The drop of venom in the serpent’s tooth, The cruel child of envy and of sin. Abel first showed the world’s dark door uncouth, But Cain threw wide the door, and let me in; Since then I’ve darkened o’er life’s checker’d path, The dread avenger of Jehovah’s wrath. … The proudest palace that supremely stands, ’Gainst which the wildest winds in vain may beat; The strongest wall, that like a rock withstands The shock of shells, the furious fire-ball’s heat-- All are but easy triumphs of my hands, All are but humble spoils beneath my feet; If against _me_ no palace-wall is proof, Ah! what can save the lowly cottage-roof? Beauty, nor power, nor genius, can survive, Naught can resist my voice when I sweep by; For whatsoever has been let to live, It is my destined duty to see die. With all the stern commands that thou mayst give, I am, God’s Judgment, ready to comply; Yea, and so quickly shall my service run That ere the word is said the deed is done!”

Death then recounts some of his past achievements to prove his readiness to inflict punishment on the king.

Daniel, however, expressly forbids him to kill Baltassar, and gives him leave only to awaken him to a sense of coming woe and the fact that he is mortal.

This Death does by appearing to the king and showing him a small book lost by him some time before (_i.e._, the remembrance of his mortality, which he had forgotten), in which is written his debt to Death.

He leaves the terror-stricken monarch with an admonition to remember his obligation.

Thought, hovering between Vanity and Idolatry, soon, however, effaces the impression left by the terrible visitor.

The king and Thought, lulled by their combined flatteries, fall asleep, while Death enters and delivers the following monologue, which, as Mr. MacCarthy truly says, “belongs unquestionably to the deepest and most beautiful poetry that has ever flown from the pen of Calderon”:

DEATH. “Man the rest of slumber tries, Never the reflection making That, O God! asleep and waking, Every day he lives and dies; That a living corse he lies, After each day’s daily strife, Stricken by an unseen knife, In brief lapse of life, not breath, A repose which is not death; But what is death teaches life: Sugared poison ’tis, which sinks On the heart, which it o’ercometh, Which it hindereth and benumbeth. And can a man, then, live who poison drinks? ’Tis forgetting, when the links That gave life by mutual fretting To the Senses, snap, or letting The imprisoned Five go free, They can hear not, touch, or see; And can a man forget this strange forgetting? It is frenzy, that which moves Heart and eyes to taste and see Joys and shapes that ne’er can be: And can a man be found who frenzy loves? ’Tis a lethargy that proves My best friend; in trust for me, Death’s dull, drowsy weight bears he, And, by failing limb and eye, Teaches man the way to die: And can a man, then, seek this lethargy? ’Tis a shadow, which is made Without light’s contrasted aid, Moving in a spectral way, Sad, phantasmal foe of day: And can a man seek rest beneath such shade? Finally, ’tis well portrayed As Death’s Image: o’er and o’er Men have knelt its shrine before, Men have bowed the suppliant knee, All illusion though it be: And can a man this Image, then, adore? Since Baltassar here doth sleep, Since he hath the poison drank, Since he treads oblivion’s blank, Since no more his pulses leap, Since the lethargy is deep, Since, in horror and confusion, To all other sights’ exclusion, He has seen the Image--seen What this shade, this poison, mean, What this frenzy, this illusion: Since Baltassar sleepeth so, Let him sleep, and never waken: Be his body and soul o’ertaken By the eternal slumber.”

(He draws his sword, and is about to kill him.)

Daniel rushes in and saves the sleeper, who is dreaming a mysterious vision, which is visibly represented to the spectators.

The king on awakening is captivated, as usual, by Idolatry, who proposes to him a magnificent feast, in which shall be used the sacred vessels carried away from Jerusalem.

The feast is prepared; the table is brought in, on which are displayed the sacred vessels; the attendants begin serving the banquet, while Thought plays the court-fool.

In the midst of the revelry Death enters, disguised as one of the servants, and, when the king calls for wine, presents him with one of the golden goblets from the table, with a mysterious aside referring to the Lord’s Supper, where the cup contains both death and life, as it is drunk worthily or unworthily.

The king rises and gives the toast: “For ever, Moloch, god of the Assyrians, live!”

A great clap of thunder is heard, darkness settles on the feast, and a fiery hand writes upon the wall the fatal “MANE, THECEL, PHARES.”

Idolatry, Vanity, and Thought in turn fail to interpret the mysterious words, and the first named suggests that Daniel should be summoned.[57]

The prophet comes and explains the hidden meaning of the words, declaring that God’s wrath has been aroused by the misuse of the sacred vessels, which, until the law of grace reigns on earth, foreshow the Blessed Sacrament.

Baltassar and his wives tremble at the solemn words. Thought, an expression of the reproaches of his master’s conscience, turns against the king, who laments the desertion of his friends in the hour of need.

Death, during this scene, has been approaching nearer and nearer, and now draws his sword and stabs the unhappy monarch, who cries:

“This is death, then! Was the venom not sufficient That I drank of?”

DEATH. “No; that venom Was the death of the soul; the body’s This swift death-stroke representeth.”

The king, struggling with Death, is forced to confess:

“He who dares profane God’s cup, Him he striketh down forever; He who sinfully receives Desecrates God’s holiest vessel!”

These are his last words. Idolatry awakens from her dream, and longs to see the light of the law of grace now while the written law reigns.

Death declares that it is foreshadowed in Gedeon’s fleece, in the manna, in the honey-comb, in the lion’s mouth, and in the shew-bread.

DANIEL. “If these emblems Show it not, then be it shown In the full foreshadowing presence Of the feast here now transformed Into Bread and Wine--stupendous Miracle of God; his greatest Sacrament in type presented.”

The scene opens to the sound of solemn music; a table is seen arranged as an altar, with a monstrance and chalice in the middle, and two wax candles on each side.

The _auto_ closes with Idolatry’s declaration that she is transformed into _Latria_, and the usual personal address to the audience.

II. THE PAINTER OF HIS OWN DISHONOR.

We have already remarked that the _auto El Pintor de su Deshonra_ is a _replica_ of a secular play bearing the same title.

It will not be out of place to give a short analysis of the latter, premising that it is one of the greatest of Calderon’s tragedies.

In the first act the Governor of Gaeta welcomes to his residence his friend Don Juan Roca, whose young wife, Seraphine, soon becomes intimate with the governor’s daughter, Portia, to whom she reveals the secret that she has been ardently loved by Portia’s brother, Don Alvaro, whose love she has as ardently returned.

News, however, was received of his shipwreck and death, and she finally yielded to her father’s urgent requests, and gave her hand to Don Juan.

The unhappy lady faints while reciting her griefs, and Portia hastens for aid. At this moment a stranger enters, perceives the unconscious lady, and bends over her with an expression of the warmest interest. Seraphine opens her eyes, and with the cry “Alvaro!” faints again.

Her old lover, saved from the waves, has returned to find her another’s wife.

From this moment begins a struggle between love and duty, depicted with all the tenderness and power of which the poet was capable.

Seraphine attempts with all her strength to master her love for Alvaro, and tells him, with forced coolness, how much she is attached to her husband by duty and inclination.

During this interview a cannon is heard--the signal announcing the approaching departure of Don Juan’s ship. Seraphine withdraws to follow him to their home in Spain, and leaves Alvaro in a state of utter hopelessness.

The second act reveals to us Don Juan (an enthusiastic lover of art) in his home in Barcelona, painting his wife’s portrait.

The remembrance of the past seems banished from Seraphine’s heart, and everything indicates a state of peace and happiness.

Don Juan withdraws a moment, when a sailor enters the room.

It is Don Alvaro, who, unable to forget his love, has followed Seraphine to Barcelona. He overwhelms her with his affection; but she shows him so firmly and eloquently that his pleading is in vain that he in turn resolves to conquer his passion and leave her for ever.

He still lingers near, but makes no attempt to approach her again.

One day, during the Carnival, Don Juan’s villa takes fire. Seraphine is borne insensible from the house by her husband, who confides her to Don Alvaro, whom he does not, of course, recognize, and returns to help the others who are in danger.

Don Alvaro, meanwhile, is left with Seraphine in his arms. His love revives stronger than ever in the terrible temptation, and he bears the still insensible Seraphine to his ship, and makes sail with the greatest haste.

Don Juan does not return until the ship is under way, discovers too late that he has been deceived, and throws himself into the sea in order to overtake the fugitives.

In the last act we find Don Juan at Gaeta, disguised as an artist, in order to obtain more easily access into private houses, and discover who has stolen his wife.

He is introduced to Prince Urbino, who commissions him to paint the portrait of a beautiful woman whom he has seen at a neighboring forester’s house, which he visits in order to meet Portia secretly.

The same place has been chosen by Don Alvaro to conceal Seraphine, who is the beautiful lady who has attracted the prince’s attention.

Don Juan repairs to the appointed spot, and erects his easel near a window, through the blinds of which he can see, unnoticed, the fair one.

The artist discovers, with feelings which can be imagined, his wife asleep in the garden. She murmurs words which prove her innocence. But this cannot save her; she must be sacrificed to remove the stain on her husband’s honor.

Don Juan expresses his feelings in a most powerful soliloquy, when Alvaro enters and embraces the sleeping Seraphine. At that instant two shots are heard, and the innocent and guilty fall bleeding to the ground.

The _auto_ founded on the above play is, in the opinion of no less a critic than Wilhelm Val Schmidt, the first of its class, and withal much less technical than is usual with these plays.

The _dramatis personæ_ include the Artist, the World, Love, Lucifer, Sin, Grace, Knowledge, Nature (_i.e._, human nature at first in a state of innocence), Innocence, and the Will (_i.e._, free-will).

The first car represents a dragon, which opens and discloses Lucifer, whose first speech proves the trite remark about the devil quoting Scripture; for he immediately proceeds to cite Jeremias and David, who alluded to him as the dragon.

He then summons Sin, and repeats to her his partly-known history, which contains some singular ideas.

He was the favorite of the Father in his former home, where he saw, before the original existed, the portrait of so rare a beauty that, inflamed with love, and to prevent the Prince from marrying her, he rebelled, and, placing himself at the head of the other discontented spirits, was defeated and doomed to perpetual exile and darkness.

So far Sin is acquainted with the story; but from this point all is new to her.

The greatest of Lucifer’s sufferings arises from his envy of the Prince, who is all that is wise and lovely: a learned theologian, legislator, philosopher, physician, logician, astrologist, mathematician, architect--“witness the palace of the world”--geometrician, rhetorician, musician, and poet.

But none of these qualities so enrages and astonishes Lucifer as the Prince’s talent for painting. He has already been engaged six days on a landscape. At the beginning the ground of the canvas was so bare and rough that he only drew on it the outline in shadowy figures. The first day he gave it light; the second day he introduced heaven and earth, dividing the waters and the firmament; the third day, seeing the earth so arid and bare, he painted flowers in it and fruits, and the fourth day the sun and moon. He filled, the fifth day, the air and waters with birds and fishes; and this sixth day he has covered the landscape with various animals.

Nothing of all this astonishes Lucifer so much as the Prince’s intention to embody in a palpable form the ideal which was the cause of Lucifer’s fall.

The divine Artist has himself chosen the colors and selected clay and occult minerals, which Lucifer fears a breath may animate: “Since if a breath can dissipate dust, I suspect, I lament, I fear, that dust may live by the inspiration of a breath.”

Animated by this fear, Lucifer has summoned Sin to aid him in destroying this image, so that the Prince may be The Painter of his own Dishonor.

A palace appears, and near the entrance the painting on an easel. Lucifer and Sin retire; for the Artist, accompanied by the Virtues, comes to put a careful hand to his work.

Sin knows not where to conceal herself. Lucifer bids her hide in a cave in the bank of a stream.

Sin answers that she is afraid of the water, because she foresees that it is to be (in the water of baptism) the antidote to sin.

The flowers, grain, and vine all terrify her, before which, as symbols of some unknown sacrament, she reverently bows.

She at last conceals herself in a tree, which Lucifer calls from that moment _the tree of death_.

The Artist enters, Innocence bearing the palette, Knowledge the mall-stick, and Grace the brushes.

He declares his intention to show his power in the portrait his love wishes to paint, and asks the attendant Virtues to add their gifts to Human Nature.

He proceeds to work, while the Virtues call upon the sun, moon, etc., to praise the Lord.

The Artist finishes his work by breathing the breath of life into it. The picture falls, and in its place appears Human Nature, who expresses most vividly her wonder at her creation, and joins in the general anthem, “Bless the Lord.” Lucifer confesses that he and Sin are _de trop_, and they depart to seek some disguise in which to return and carry out their undertaking. While the chorus repeats the praises of the Lord, Human Nature naïvely asks, “How can I bless him, if I do not know him? Who will tell me who He is or who I am?”

The Artist advances and answers her question. Nature demands who _he_ is. “I am who am, and have been, and am to be; and since thou hast been created for Love’s spouse, let thy love be grateful.”

“What command dost thou lay on me, my Love? I will never break it.”

“All that thou seest here is thine; that tree alone is mine.”

Nature asks who can ever divert her love, and is answered, “Thy Free-will.”

“What new spirit and force was created in my new being by that word, which told me that there was something in me besides myself? Voice, tell me, who is Free-will.”

Free-will appears as a rustic, and answers, “I.”

Nature then proceeds to name the various objects about her, accompanying each name with some appropriate remark, and is led quite naturally to indulge in some boasting at her dominion over such a beautiful and varied kingdom.

This is the moment Lucifer and Sin select to appear in the disguise of rustics. The latter remains concealed in the tree; the former introduces himself to Human Nature as a gardener, and says very gallantly that he lost his last place on her account.

Nature hastens to turn a conversation becoming somewhat personal by asking what he is cultivating.

“That beautiful tree.”

“It is extremely lovely.”

“There is something more singular about it than being merely lovely.”

“What?”

“Earth, who brought it forth, can tell thee.”

“I am earth, since I was formed of earth; so I will tell the Earth to keep me no longer in suspense.”

“Then speak to her, and thou shalt see.”

“Mother Earth, what is this hidden mystery?”

SIN. “Eat, and thou shalt be as God.”

Then follow the Fall and a powerful scene depicting Nature’s confusion and grief, as she is dragged off by Satan as his slave, while Sin claims Free-will as her prey.

The Artist enters and finds Knowledge, Innocence, and Grace in tears; the latter informs him of the Fall.

He thus reproaches his creation for her ingratitude: “What more could I do for thee, my best design, than form thee with my own hands? I gave thee my image, a soul that cost thee nothing, and yet thou desertest me for my greatest enemy.”

He then pronounces the curse upon Mankind and the Serpent, and declares he will blot out the world, the scene of their sin.

The clouds break and the sea bursts its limits; the Earth trembles and struggles with the waves, and in agony calls on the Lord for mercy.

In the midst of this confusion of the elements Human Nature is heard crying for help.

LUCIFER. “Why callest thou for aid, if I, the only one whom it behooves to give it, delight in seeing thee annihilated?”

Sin also makes the same declaration. The World alone attempts to save its queen.

At last the Artist casts her a plank, saying, “Mortal, again see whom thou hast deserted, and for whom; since he whom thou hast offended saves thee, and he whom thou lovest abandons thee! One day thou wilt know of what this plank, fragment of a miraculous ark, is symbol.”

The World, Nature, and Free-will are saved; the latter enters, bound with Sin, who declares that Sin and Human Nature are so nearly the same that one cannot go anywhere without the other.

We have said anachronisms are frequent; the poet here even makes his characters jest about it.

HUMAN NATURE. “Since here there are no real persons, and Allegory can traverse centuries in hours, it seems to me that the salute the angels are singing to this celestial aurora declares in resounding words…”

MUSIC. “In heaven and on earth peace to man and glory to God.”

FREE-WILL. “The story has made a fine jump from the Creation to the Flood, and I think there is going to be another, if I understand that song aright--from the Deluge to the Nativity!”

The chant continues, to the infinite discomfort of Lucifer and Sin, who at last determine in their rage to disfigure Human Nature so that her Creator himself could not recognize her.

Lucifer holds her hands, while Sin brands upon her brow the sign of slavery.

Lucifer then commands the World to remain on guard, and let no one enter without careful scrutiny, for fear lest the Artist may attempt to avenge the wrong done him.

The Artist enters, accompanied by Divine Love.

They are soon discovered by the World, who exclaims: “Who goes there?”

“Friends.”

“Your name?”

“A Man.”

“And the World, the faithful sentinel of Sin, does not know how thou hast entered here?”

“I did not come that Sin should know me.”

“_I_ do not know thee.”

“So John will say.”

“By what door didst thou enter?”

“By that of Divine Love, who accompanies me.”

“What is thy office?”

“I was once an Artist in a certain allegory, and must still be the same.”

“Artist?”

“Yes, since I came to retouch a figure of mine which an error has blotted.”

“Since thou art a painter thou canst do me a favor.…”

“What is it?”

The World then informs him that there is a certain Spouse who has been carried away from her husband, and is now in the power of a Tyrant, who is endeavoring to force her to accompany him to another world, the seat of his rule.

The Artist weeps, because he remembers his own Spouse, whose fate is similar to that of this one.

The world begs the Artist to make a portrait of this fair disconsolate one, that he (the World) may wear it on his breast.

The Artist consents, and conceals himself in order to work unobserved.

The World goes in search of Human Nature, while the Artist looks about for some hiding-place. Love points to a cross near by, and says that as the first offence was committed in a tree, this one will witness his vengeance.

The Artist calls for his colors, and Love presents him with a box, in opening which his hands are stained a bloody red.

“Take this!”

“It is all carmine.”

“I have no other color.”

“Do not let it afflict thee, Love, that blood must retouch what Sin has blotted. The brushes!”

Love hands him three nails--“Here they are!”

“How sharp and cruel! What can be the canvas for such brushes!”

Love gives him a canvas in the shape of a heart--“a heart.”

“Of bronze?”

“Yes.”

“How I grieve to see it so hardened, when I intended to form in it a second figure! Give me the mall-stick.”

Love presents him with a small lance. “Here it is.”

“The point is steel! Less cruel instruments Innocence, Grace, and Knowledge once gave me!”

“Be not astonished if these are more cruel than those; for then thou didst paint as God, and now as Man!”

While the Artist is working Nature, Free-will, and Sin enter, and later Lucifer, who, wearied of Nature’s continual lamentation, comes to drag her to his realm.

ARTIST. “Why should I delay my vengeance, seeing them together? Give me, Love, the weapons which I brought for this occasion!”

“Thy voice is the lightning, this weapon only its symbol; but I deliver it to thee with sorrow!”

“When my offended honor is so deeply concerned?”

“I am Love, and _she_ is weeping; but I will direct my gaze to thy wrongs, and without fail shall hit the mark.”

“My hand cannot err, traitrous adulterers, who conspired against me; the honor of an insulted man obliges me to this! I am the Painter of his own Dishonor; die both at one stroke!” (Fires. Lucifer and Sin both fall.)

LOVE. “Thou hast hit Sin, and not Human Nature!”

The Artist answers that it cannot be said that his shot has failed, since by this tree Nature lives, and Lucifer and Sin are killed.

The Artist points to a fountain of seven streams, and the Virtues, and invites Human Nature to bathe in the blood from his side, and be restored to her original condition.

The _auto_ closes with an expression of gratitude from Nature, and the usual allusion to the Sacrament in whose honor the present festival is celebrated.

I AM THE DOOR.

“To him that knocketh it shall be opened.”

Truly, I see Thou art!--with nails hinged fast: Yet faster barred and locked with bolts of love. I, treasure seeking, through Thee would go past. Than lock or hinges must I stronger prove?

“A knock will do’t.” A knock! Where durst I, Lord? “Knock at my heart; there all my wealth is stored.”

THE TRAGEDY OF THE TEMPLE.

CONCLUDED.

While the so-called King of France was thus subjected to the fierce and brutal caprice of one man, there were thousands of loyal hearts beating in pity for him, and longing to liberate and crown him, even at the price of their blood. The faithful army of La Vendée was fighting for him, and with a courage and determination that caused some anxiety among the good patriots as to the possible issue of the campaign. The movement was held up to ridicule; the young prince was mockingly styled King of La Vendée. Nevertheless, the republicans were alarmed, and the hopes of the royalists were reviving. The Simons were discussing these matters one evening over the newspaper, when Simon, looking at the forlorn, broken-spirited little monarch, whose cause was thus creating strife and bloodshed far beyond his dungeon’s walls, exclaimed sneeringly: “I say, little wolf-cub, they talk of setting up the throne again, and putting thee in thy father’s place; what wouldst thou do to me if they made thee king?” The boy raised his dim blue eyes from the ground, where they were now habitually fixed, and replied: “I would forgive thee!” Mme. Simon, in relating this incident long after, said that even her husband seemed for a moment awed by the sublime simplicity of the answer.

They were both of them sick and tired of their office by this time; she of the cruel work it involved, he of the close confinement to which it condemned them. He tried to get released from his post, and after some fruitless efforts succeeded. On the 19th of January, 1794, they left the Temple. The patriot shoemaker died six months afterwards on the guillotine. He had no successor, properly speaking, in the Tower; in history he has neither successor nor predecessor; he stands alone, unrivalled and unapproachable, as a type of the tiger-man, a creature devoid of one humane, redeeming characteristic. Other men whose names have become bywords of cruelty or ferocious wickedness have at least had the excuse of some all-absorbing passion which, stifling reason and every better instinct of their nature, carried them on as by some overmastering impulse; but Simon could not plead even this guilty excuse. His was no mad delirium of passion, but a cold-blooded, deadly, undying, unrelenting cruelty in the execution of a murder that he had no motive in pursuing except as a means of adding a few coins more to his salary. He entered on his task of lingering assassination with deliberate barbarity; he was not stimulated by the sense of personal wrong, by a thirst for revenge, by any motive that could furnish the faintest thread of extenuation. He rose every morning and went to his victim as other men rise and go to their studies or their work. He devoted all his energies, all his instincts, to coolly inflicting torture on a beautiful, engaging, and innocent little child. No, happily for the world, he has no prototype in its history; nor, for the honor of humanity, has he ever found an apologist. He is perhaps the only monster of ancient or modern times who has never found a sceptic or a casuist to lift a voice in his behalf. Nero and Trajan, Queen Elizabeth and Louis XI., have had their apologists; nay, even Judas has found amongst the fatalists of some German school an infatuated fellow-mortal to attempt a defence of the indefensible; but no man has yet been known to utter a word of excuse for the brutal jailer of Louis XVII.

And yet his departure, though it rid the helpless captive of an active, ever-present barbarity, can hardly be said, except negatively, to have bettered his position. The Convention decreed that it was essential to the nation’s life and prosperity that the little Capet should be securely guarded; and as if the insane precautions hitherto used were not sufficient to secure a feeble, attenuated child, he was removed to a stronger and more completely isolated dungeon, where henceforth his waning life might die out quicker and more unheard of. There was only one window to the room, and this was darkened by a thick wooden blind, reinforced by iron bars outside. The door was removed, and replaced by a half-door with iron bars above; these bars, when unlocked, opened like a trap, and through this food was passed to the prisoner. The only light at night was from a lamp fastened to the wall opposite the iron grating.

Mme. Royale thus describes the state of her brother in this new abode, to which he was transferred--whether by accident or design we know not--on the anniversary of his father’s death, January 21: “A sickly child of eight years, he was locked and bolted in a great room, with no other resource than a broken bell, which he never rang, so greatly did he dread the people whom its sound would have brought to him; he preferred wanting any and every thing to calling for his persecutors. His bed had not been stirred for six months, and he had not strength to make it himself; it was alive with bugs and vermin still more disgusting. His linen and his person were covered with them. For more than a year he had no change of shirt or stockings; every kind of filth was allowed to accumulate about him and in his room; and during all that period nothing had been removed. His window, which was locked as well as grated, was never opened, and the infectious smell of this horrid room was so dreadful that no one could bear it for a moment. He might indeed have washed himself--for he had a pitcher of water--and have kept himself somewhat more clean than he did; but overwhelmed by the ill-treatment he had received, he had not resolution to do so, and his illness began to deprive him of even the necessary strength. He never asked for anything, so great was his dread of Simon and his other keepers. He passed his days without any kind of occupation. They did not even allow him light in the evening. This situation affected his mind as well as his body, and it is not surprising that he should have fallen into a frightful atrophy. The length of time which he resisted this treatment proves how good his constitution must have originally been.”

While the boy-king was slowly telling away his remnant of miserable life in the dark solitude of the Tower, thousands were being daily immolated on the public places, where the guillotine, insatiable and indefatigable, despatched its cartloads of victims. On the 10th of May Mme. Elizabeth, the most revered and saintly of all the long roll of martyrs inscribed on that bloody page, was sacrificed with many other noble and interesting women, amongst them the venerable sister of M. de Malesherbes, the courageous advocate of the king. She was seventy-six years of age. By a refinement of barbarity the municipals who conducted the “batch” obliged Mme. Elizabeth to wait to see her twenty-five companions executed before laying her own head on the block. Each of them, as they left the tumbrel, asked leave to embrace her; she kissed them with a smiling face, and said a few words of encouragement to each. “Her strength did not fail her to the last,” says Mme. Royale, “and she died with all the resignation of the purest piety.”

Mme. Royale was henceforth left in perfect solitude like her brother. She thus describes her own and the Dauphin’s life after the departure of her beloved aunt, of whose death she was happily kept in ignorance for a long time: “The guards were often drunk; but they generally left my brother and me quiet in our respective apartments until the 9th Thermidor. My brother still pined in solitude and filth. His keepers never went near him but to give him his meals; they had no compassion on this unhappy child. There was one of the guards whose gentle manners encouraged me to recommend my brother to his attention; this man ventured to complain of the severity with which the boy was treated, but he was dismissed next day. I, at least, could keep myself clean. I had soap and water, and carefully swept out my room every day. I had no light.… They would not give me any more books, but I had some religious works and some travels, which I read over and over.”

The fall of Robespierre, which rescued so many doomed heads from the guillotine, and opened the doors of their prison, had no such beneficent effect on the fate of the two royal children. It gave rise, however, to some alleviation of their sufferings. Immediately on the death of his cowardly and “incorruptible” colleague, Barras visited the Tower, and dismissed the whole set of commissaries of the Commune, who were forthwith despatched to have their heads cut off next day, while a single guardian was appointed in their place.

Laurent was the man’s name. He had good manners, some education, and, better than all, a human heart. The lynxes of the Temple eyed him askance; he was not of their kin, this creole with the heart of a man, and they mistrusted him. It was not until two o’clock in the morning that they conducted him to the presence of his charge. He tells us that when he entered the ante-room of the dungeon he recoiled before the horrible stench that came from the inner room through the grated door-way. Good heavens! was this the outcome of the reign of brotherhood which talked so mightily of universal love and liberty? It was in truth the most forcible illustration of the gospel of Sans-culottism that the world had yet beheld. “Capet! Capet!” cried the municipals in a loud voice. But no answer came. More calling, with threats and oaths, at last brought out a feeble, wailing sound like the cry of some dying animal. But nothing more could threats, or even an attempt at coaxing, elicit. Capet would not move; would not come forth and show himself to the new tutor. Laurent took a candle, and held it inside the bars of the noxious cage; he beheld, crouching on a bed in the furthest corner of the dungeon, the body which was confided to his guardianship. Sickened with the sight, he turned away. There was no appliance at hand for forcing open the door or the grating. Laurent at once sent in an account of what he had seen, and demanded that this remnant of child-life, that he was appointed to watch over, should be examined by proper authority. The next day, July 30, some members of the Sûreté Générale came to the Tower. M. de Beauchesne tells us what they saw: “They called to him through the grating; no answer. They then ordered the door to be opened. It seems there were no means of doing it. A workman was called, who forced away the bars of the trap so as to get in his head, and, having thus got sight of the child, asked him why he did not answer. Still no reply. In a few minutes the whole door was broken down, and the visitors entered. Then appeared a spectacle more horrible than can be conceived--a spectacle which never again can be seen in the annals of a nation calling itself civilized, and which even the murderers of Louis XVI. could not witness without mingled pity and fright. In a dark room, exhaling a smell of death and corruption, on a crazy, dirty bed, a child of nine years old was lying prostrate, motionless, and bent up, his face livid and furrowed by want and suffering, and his limbs half covered with a filthy cloth and trowsers in rags. His features, once so delicate, and his countenance, once so lively, denoted now the gloomiest apathy--almost insensibility; and his blue eyes, looking larger from the meagreness of the rest of his face, had lost all spirit, and taken, in their dull immovability, a tinge of gray and green. His head and neck were eaten up (_rongés_) with purulent sores; his legs, arms, and neck, thin and angular, were unnaturally lengthened at the expense of his chest and body. His hands and feet were not human. A thick paste of dirt stuck like pitch over his temples, and his once beautiful curls were full of vermin, which also covered his whole body, and which, as well as bugs, swarmed in every fold of the rotten bedding, over which black spiders were running.… At the noise of forcing the door the child gave a nervous shudder, but barely moved, not noticing the strangers. A hundred questions were addressed him; he answered none of them. He cast a vague, wandering, unmeaning look at his visitors, and at this moment one would have taken him for an idiot. The food they had given him was still untouched; one of the commissioners asked him why he had not eaten it. Still no answer. At last the oldest of the visitors, whose gray hairs and paternal tone seemed to make an impression on him, repeated the question, and he answered in a calm but resolute tone: ‘Because I want to die!’ These were the only words which this cruel and memorable inquisition extracted from him.”

Barras, the stuttering, pleasure-loving noble of Provence, “a terror to all phantasms, being himself of the genus Reality”--Barras, who had stood, like a bewildered, shipwrecked man while the storm-wind was whirling blood-waves round about him, now enters and beholds the royal victim whom it has taken nearly eighteen months of Simon the Cordwainer’s treatment “to get rid of”--perishing, but still alive in his den of squalor, darkness, and fright. His knees were so swollen that his ragged trowsers had become painfully tight. Barras ordered them to be cut open, and found the joints “prodigiously swollen and livid.” One of the municipals, who had formerly been a surgeon, was permitted to dress the sores on the head and neck; after much hesitation a woman was employed to wash and comb the child, and at Laurent’s earnest remonstrance a little air and light were admitted into the damp room; the vermin were expelled as far as could be, an iron bed and clean bedding replaced the former horrors in which the boy had lain so many months, and the grated door was done away with. These were small mercies, after all, and to which the vilest criminal had a right. All the other rigors of his prison were maintained. He was still left to partial darkness and complete solitude. Laurent, after a while, wearied the municipals into giving him leave to take him occasionally for an airing on the leads. The indulgence was perhaps welcome, but the child showed no signs of pleasure in it; he never spoke or took the smallest notice of anything he saw. Once only, when on his way to the leads, he passed by the wicket which conducted to the rooms that his mother had occupied; he recognized the spot at once, gazed wistfully at the door, and, clinging to Laurent’s arm, made a sign for them to go that way. The municipal who was on guard at the moment saw what the poor little fellow meant, and told him he had mistaken the door; it was, he said, at the other side. But the child had guessed aright. The kind-hearted Laurent began soon to feel his own confinement, almost as solitary as the prince’s, more than he could bear. He petitioned to have some one to assist him in his duties, and, owing to some secret influence of the royalists, a man named Gomin, who was at heart devoted to their cause, was appointed. The only benefit which the young prisoner derived from the change of his jailers was that civility and cleanliness had replaced insolence and dirt. For the rest, he was still locked up alone, never seeing any one except at meal times, when the two guardians and a municipal were present, the former being often powerless to control the insulting remarks and gratuitous cruelty of the latter. So the wretched days dragged on, silent, monotonous, miserable. Meanwhile, Paris was breathing freely after the long night of Terror. The Fraternity of the Guillotine was well-nigh over, and the _Jeunesse dorée_ had flung away the red caps and the _Carmagnole_, and was disporting itself with a light heart in gaudy attire of the antique cut. Fair _citoyennes_ discarded the unbecoming and therefore, even to the most patriotic among them, odious costume of the republic, and decked themselves out in flowing Greek draperies, binding their hair with gold and silver fillets like Clytemnestra and Antigone, and replacing the _sabots_ of the people with picturesque sandals, clothing their naked feet only in ribbons, despite the biting cold of this memorable winter. The death-beacons one by one had been quenched, not by nimble hands, like the lights of the ballroom or the gay flame of the street, but in blood dashed freely over their lurid glare. Terrified men were emerging from their holes and hiding-places; nobles were returning from exile; there was a sudden flaming up of merriment, an effervescence of luxury, an intoxicating thirst for pleasure, a hunger to eat of the good things of life, of which the reign of _sans-culottism_ had starved them. There were gay gatherings in all ranks; in the highest the _bals des victimes_, where the guests wore a badge of crape on their arm, as a sign that they had lost a near relative on the guillotine--none others being admitted. So, while the waltzers spun round to the clang of brass music and in the blaze of wax-lights, and all the world was embracing and exchanging congratulations, like men escaped from impending death, the tragedy in the Tower drew to its end unheard and unheeded. The King of La Vendée ate his dinner of “_bouilli_ and dry vegetables, generally beans”; the same at eight o’clock for supper, when he was locked up for the night, and left unmolested till nine next morning. One day there came a rough, blustering man to the prison, who flung open the doors with much noise, and talked like thunder. His name was Delboy. He chanced to arrive at the dinner-time. “Why this wretched food?” cried the noisy visitor. “If _they_ were still at the Tuileries, I would help to starve them out; but here they are our prisoners, and it is unworthy of the nation to starve them. Why these blinds? Under the reign of equality the sun should shine for all. Why is he separated from his sister? Under the reign of fraternity why should they not see each other?” Then addressing the child in a gentler tone, he said, “Should you not like, my boy, to play with your sister? If you forget your origin, I don’t see why the nation should remember it.” He reminded the guardians that it was not the little Capet’s fault that he was his father’s son--it was his misfortune; he was now only “an unfortunate child,” and the “nation should be his mother.” The only advantage the unfortunate child derived from this strange visit was that the lamp of his dungeon was lighted henceforth at dark. Gomin asked this favor on the spot, and it was granted. The commissioners were continually changed--a circumstance which proved a frequent cause of suffering and annoyance to the captive, who was the victim of their respective tempers, often fierce and cruel as those of his jailers of the earlier days. These accumulated miseries were finally wearing out his little remnant of strength. The malady which for some time past gave serious alarm to his two kind-hearted friends, Laurent and Gomin, increased with sudden rapidity, and in the month of February, 1795, assumed a threatening character. He could hardly move from extreme weakness, and had lost all desire to do so. When he went for his airing, Laurent or Gomin had to carry him in their arms. He let them do so reluctantly; but he was now too apathetic to resist anything. The surgeon of the prison was called in, and certified that “the little Capet had tumors on all his joints, especially his knees; that it was impossible to extract a word from him; that he never would rise from his chair or his bed, and refused to take any kind of exercise.” This report brought a deputation of members of the Sûreté Générale, who were so horrified at the state of things they found that they drew up the following appeal to their colleagues: “For _the honor of the nation_, who knew nothing of these horrors; for that of the Convention, which was, in truth, also ignorant of them; and even for that of the guilty municipality of Paris itself, who knew all and was the cause of all these cruelties, we should make no public report, but only state the result in a secret meeting of the committee.” This confession is revolting enough; but it might find some shadow of excuse, if, after hiding the cruelties for the sake of shielding the wretches who had sanctioned them, these deputies had taken steps to repair the wrong-doing, and to alleviate the position of the victim; but, as far as the evidence goes, nothing of the sort was done.

The tomb-like solitude to which the young prince had so long been subjected, added to the chronic terror in which he had lived from the time of his coming under Simon’s tutelage, had induced him to maintain an obstinate, unbroken silence. He could not be persuaded to answer a question, to utter a word. Yet it was evident enough that this did not proceed from stupidity or insensibility, but that his faculties still retained much of their native vivacity and sensitiveness. Gomin was so timid by nature that, in spite of his affection for his little charge, he seldom ventured on any outward expression of sympathy, afraid he should be detected and made, like so many others, to pay the penalty of it. One day, however, that he chanced to be left quite alone with him, he felt safe to let his heart speak, and showed great tenderness to the child; the boy fixed a long, wistful look on his face, and then rose and advanced timidly to the door, his eyes still fastened on Gomin with an expression of entreaty too significant to be misunderstood. “No, no,” said Gomin, shaking his head reluctantly; “you know _that_ cannot be.” “_Oh! I must see her_,” cried the poor child. “_Oh! pray, pray let me see her just once before I die!_” Gomin made no answer but by his look of pity and regret, and, going up to the child, led him gently from the door. The young prince threw himself on the bed with a gesture of despair, and remained there, senseless and motionless, so long that his guardian at one moment, as he confessed afterwards, feared he was dead. Poor child! The longing to see his mother had of late taken the shape of a hope, and he had been busy in his mind as to how it could possibly be realized; this had been an opportunity, he thought, and the disappointment overwhelmed him. Gomin said that, for his part, the sight of the boy’s grief nearly broke his heart. The incident, he believed, hastened the crisis, that was now steadily advancing. A few days after this occurrence a new commissary came to inspect the prisoner, and, after eyeing him curiously, as if he had been a strange variety of animal, he said out loud to Laurent and Gomin, who were standing by, “That child has not six weeks to live!” Fearing the shock these words might cause the subject of them, the guardians ventured to say something to modify their meaning; the commissary turned on them, and with a savage oath repeated, “I tell you, citizens, in six weeks he will be an idiot, if he is not dead!” When he left the room, the young prince gazed after him with a mournful smile. The sentence, brutally delivered as it was, had no fears for him; presently a few teardrops stole down his cheeks, and he murmured, as if speaking to himself, “And yet I never did any harm to anybody.”

A new affliction now awaited him. The kind and faithful Laurent left him. His post in the Tower, repulsive from the first, had become utterly insupportable to him of late, and on the death of his mother he applied to be liberated from it. When he came to bid farewell to the unhappy child, whose lot he had endeavored to soften as far as his power admitted, the prince squeezed his hand affectionately, _looked_ his regret at him, but uttered no word.

Laurent was replaced by a man named Lasne, formerly a soldier in the old Gardes Françaises, now a house-painter. For the first few weeks after his arrival the young prince was mute to him, as he had been to his predecessor, until the latter’s persevering kindness had disarmed timidity and mistrust. A trifle at last broke the ice. Lasne was in the habit of talking to his little charge, making kindly remarks, or telling stories that he thought might amuse him, never waiting for any sign of response. One day he happened to tell him of something that occurred when he, Lasne, had been in the old guard, and, being on guard at the Tuileries, had seen the Dauphin reviewing a regiment of children which had been formed for his amusement, and of which he was colonel. The boy’s countenance beamed with a sudden ray of surprise and pleasure, and he exclaimed in a whisper, as if afraid of being overheard, “And didst thou see me with my sword?” Lasne answered that he had, and from this forth they were fast friends. Bolder, though scarcely more sympathizing, than either Laurent or Gomin, Lasne determined to apply at headquarters for some decisive change in the prince’s treatment. He induced his colleague to join him in signing a report to the effect that “the little Capet was indisposed.” This was inscribed on the Temple register; but no notice was taken, and in a few days they both again protested in stronger terms: “The little Capet is seriously indisposed.” No notice being taken of this, the brave men wrote a third time: “The life of little Capet is in danger!” This finally brought a response. M. Desault, one of the first physicians in Paris, was sent to visit the young prince. He had come too late, however; the malady which had carried off the elder Dauphin had taken too deep a hold on the child’s life to be now arrested or overcome. Nothing could induce the prince to answer a question or speak a word to the doctor or in his presence; and it was only after great difficulty, and at the earnest entreaties of his two guardians, that he consented to swallow the medicines prescribed. By degrees, however, as it always happened, the persistent kindness and sympathizing looks and words of M. Desault conquered his suspicions or timidity; and though he never plucked up courage to speak to him, the municipals being always present, he would take hold of the doctor’s coat, and thus express a desire for him to prolong his visit. This lasted three weeks.

Among the commissaries there was a M. Bellenger, an artist, who was deeply touched by the pitiable condition of the child, and one day, thinking to give him a moment’s diversion, he brought a portfolio of drawings, and showed them to him while waiting in his room for M. Desault to come. The novel amusement seemed to interest him very little. He looked on listlessly, as M. Bellenger turned over the sketches for his inspection; then, as the doctor did not appear, the artist said, “Sir, there is another sketch that I should have much pleasure in carrying away with me, if it were not disagreeable to you.” The deferential manner, coupled with the title “monsieur,” so long a foreign sound to the captive’s ear, startled and moved him. “What sketch?” he said, for the first time breaking silence. “Your features, if it were not disagreeable to you, it would give me great pleasure.” “Would it?” said the child and he smilingly acquiesced. M. Bellenger completed his sketch, and still no doctor appeared; he took leave of the prince, saying he would come at the same hour the following day. He did so; but M. Desault was again unpunctual. The time for his visit elapsed, and he neither came nor sent a message. The commissary suggested that some one should be despatched to inquire the reason of his absence; but even so simple a step as this Lasne and Gomin dared not venture on without direct orders. They were discussing what had best be done, when a new commissary arrived and satisfied all inquiries: “There is no need to send after M. Desault; he died yesterday.” This sudden death was the signal for the wildest conjectures. It was rumored that the physician had been bribed to poison the prince, and then in remorse had poisoned himself. In times like those such a report was eagerly accepted, fed as it was by the mystery which surrounded the inmate of the Tower, and the vague stories afloat concerning the character of the ill-omened dungeon and the people who now ruled there.

But there was no foundation for the story in actual facts. M. Desault was a man of unimpeachable integrity, whose entire life gave the lie to so odious a suspicion. “The only poison which shortened my brother’s life,” says Mme. Royale, “was filth, made more fatal by cruelty.” The death of the kind and clever physician, from whatever cause it arose, was a serious loss to the forsaken sufferer in the Temple. He remained for several days without medical care of any sort, until, on the 5th of June, M. Pelletan, surgeon of one of the large hospitals, was named to attend him. It would seem as if the race of tigers was dying out, except in the ranks of the patriot municipals; for all who by accident approached the poor child in these last days were filled at once with melting pity, and found courage to give utterance to this feeling aloud. M. Pelletan remonstrated with the utmost indignation on the darkness and closeness of the room where his patient was lodged, and on the amount of bolting and barring that went on every time the door was opened or shut, the violent crash being injuriously agitating to the child. The guardians were willing enough to do away with the whole thing, but the municipals observed that there was no authority for removing the bars or otherwise altering the arrangements complained of. “If you can’t open the window and remove these irons, you cannot at least object to remove him to another room,” said the doctor, speaking in a loud and vehement tone, as he surveyed the horrible precincts. The prince started, and, beckoning to this bold, unknown friend, forgot his self-imposed dumbness, and whispered, drawing M. Pelletan down to him: “Hush! If you speak so loud, _they_ will hear you; and I don’t want them to know I am so ill; they would be frightened.” He was alluding to the queen and Mme. Elizabeth, whom he believed still living in the story above. Every one present was moved by the tender thoughtfulness the words betrayed, and the commissary, carried away by sympathy for the unconscious little orphan, exclaimed: “I take it upon myself to authorize the removal, in compliance with Citizen Pelletan’s instruction.” Gomin, nothing loath, immediately lifted the patient in his arms, and carried him off to a bright room in the little tower, which had been formerly the drawing-room of the keeper of the archives, and was now hurriedly prepared for the accommodation of this new inmate. His eyes had been so long accustomed to the gloom that they were painfully dazzled by the sudden change into the full sunshine. He hid his face on Gomin’s shoulder for a while, but by degrees he became able to bear the light, and drew long breaths, opening out his little hands as if to embrace the blessed sunshine, and then turned a look of ineffable happiness and thanks on Gomin, who still held him in his arms at the open window. When eight o’clock came, he was once more locked up alone.

Next day M. Pelletan came early to see him; he found him lying on his bed, and basking placidly in the sunny freshness of the June air that was streaming in upon him. “Do you like your new room?” inquired the doctor. The child drew a long breath. “Oh! yes,” he said, with a smile that went to every heart. But even at this happy crisis the sting of the old serpent woke up, as if to remind the victim that it was not dead. At dinner-time a new commissary, a brute of the name of Hébert, and full worthy of that abominable name, burst into the room, and began to talk in the coarse, boisterous tones once so familiar to the captive. “How now! Who gave permission for this? Since when have _carabins_ governed the republic? This must be altered! You must have the orders of the Commune for moving the wolf-cub.” The child dropped a cherry that he was putting to his lips, fell back on his pillow, and neither spoke nor moved till evening, when he was locked up for the night, and left to brood alone over the terrible prospect which Hébert’s threats had conjured up.

M. Pelletan found him so much worse next day that he wrote to the Sûreté Générale for another medical opinion; and M. Dumangier was ordered to attend. Before they arrived the prince had a fainting fit, which lasted so long that it terrified his guardians. He had, however, quite recovered from it when the physicians came. They held a consultation; but it was a mere form. Death was written on every lineament of the wasted body. All that science could do was to alleviate the last days of the fast-flitting life. The two medical men expressed surprise and anger at the solitude to which the dying child was still subjected at night, and insisted on a nurse being immediately provided. It was not worth the “nation’s” while to refuse anything now. The order for procuring the nurse was at once given; but that night the old rule prevailed, and the patient was again locked up alone. He felt it acutely; the merciful change that had been effected in so many ways had revived his hopes--the one hope to which his young heart had been clinging in silence, fondly and perseveringly.

When Gomin said good-night to him, he murmured, while the big tears ran down his face, “Still alone, and my mother in the other tower!” He was not to be kept apart from her much longer. When Lasne came next morning, he thought him rather better. The doctors, however, were of a different opinion; they found him sinking rapidly, and despatched a bulletin to the Commune to this effect.

At 11 in the forenoon Gomin came to relieve Lasne by the bedside of the captive. They remained a long time silent; there was something solemn in the stillness which Gomin did not like to break, and the child never was the first to speak. At last Gomin, bending tenderly towards him, expressed his sorrow at seeing him so weak and exhausted. “Oh! be comforted,” replied the prince in a whisper; “I shall not suffer long now.” Gomin could not control his emotion, but dropt on his knees by the bedside, and wept silently; the child took his hand and pressed it to his lips, while Gomin prayed. This was the only ministry the son of S. Louis was to have on his deathbed--the tears of a turnkey, the prayers of a poor, ignorant son of toil; but angels were there to supplement the unconsecrated priesthood of charity, weeping in gentle pity for the sufferings that were soon to cease. Bright spirits were hovering round the prisoner’s couch, tuning their harps for his ears alone.

Gomin raising his head from its bowed attitude, beheld the prince so still and motionless that he was alarmed lest another fainting fit had come on. “Are you in pain?” he asked timidly. “Oh! yes, still in pain, but less; the music is so beautiful!” Gomin thought he must be dreaming. There was no music anywhere; not a sound was audible in the room. “Where do you hear the music?” he asked. “Up there,” with a glance at the ceiling. “Since when?” “Since you went on your knees. Don’t you hear it? Listen!” And he lifted his hand, and his large eyes opened wide, as if he were in an ecstasy. Gomin remained silent, in a kind of awe. Suddenly the child started up with a convulsive cry of joy, and exclaimed, “I hear my mother’s voice amongst them!” He was looking towards the window, his lips parted, his whole face alight with a wild joy and curiosity. Gomin called to him, twice, three times, asking him to say what he saw. He did not hear him; he made no answer, but fell back slowly on his pillow, and remained motionless. He did not speak again until Lasne came to relieve Gomin. Then, after a long interval of silence, he made a sign as if he wanted something. Lasne asked him what it was.

“Do you think my sister could hear the music?” he said. “How she would like it!” He turned his head with a start towards the window again, his eyes opening with the same expression of joyous surprise, and uttered a half-inarticulate exclamation; then looking at Lasne, he whispered: “Listen! I have something to tell you!” Lasne took his hand, and bent down to hear. But no words came--would never more come from the child’s still parted lips. He was dead.

So ended the tragedy of the Temple. There is nothing more to tell. Why should we follow the ghastly story of the stolen heart, deposited in the “vase with seventeen stars,” then surreptitiously abstracted by the physician’s pupil, until all faith in the authenticity of the alleged relic evaporates?

Neither is it profitable to discuss the controversy which arose over the resting-place of the martyred child; for even in his grave he was pursued by malignant disputations. Enough for us to hear and to believe that the son of the kings of France was accompanied to the grave by a few humane municipals and by his faithful friend Lasne; and that his dust still reposes in an obscure spot of the Cemetery of S. Margaret, in the Faubourg St. Antoine, undisturbed and undistinguished under its grassy mound beneath the shadow of the church close by.

SUBSTANTIAL GENERATIONS.

II.

It is customary with most of the peripatetic writers to assume that the Aristotelic hypothesis of substantial generations, as understood by S. Thomas and by his school, cannot be rejected without upsetting the whole scholastic philosophy. Nothing is more false. Suarez, than whom no modern writer has labored more successfully in defending and developing the scholastic philosophy, rejects the fundamental principle of the Aristotelic theory, and maintains that no generation of new compound substances is possible, unless the matter which is destined to receive a new form possess an entity of its own, and be intrinsically constituted of act and potency, contrary to the universal opinion of the peripatetic school. “The first matter,” says he, “has of itself, and not through its form, _its actual entity of essence_, though it has it not without an intrinsic leaning towards the form.”[58] And again: “The first matter has also of itself and by itself _its actual entity of existence_ distinct from the existence of the form, though it has it not independently of the form.”[59] That these two propositions clash with the Aristotelic and Thomistic doctrine we need not prove, as we have already shown that neither S. Thomas nor Aristotle admitted in their first matter anything but the mere potency of being; and although Aristotle sometimes calls the first matter “a substance” and “a subject,” he expressly warns us that such a substance is in potency, and such a subject is destitute of all intrinsic act.[60] Hence it is plain that the first matter of Suarez is not the first matter of the peripatetics; whence it follows that the form which is received in such a matter is not a strictly substantial form, since it cannot give the first being to a matter having a _first_ initial being of its own. Hence the Suarezian theory, though full of peripatetic spirit, and formulated in the common language of the peripatetic school, is radically opposed to the rigid peripatetic doctrine, and destroys its foundation. “If the first matter,” says S. Thomas, “had any form of its own, it would be something in act; and consequently such a matter would not, at the supervening of any other form, acquire its first being, but it would only become such or such a being; and thus there would be no true substantial generation, but mere alteration. Hence all those who assumed that the first subject of generation is some kind of body, as air or water, taught that generation is nothing but alteration.”[61] This remark of the holy doctor may be well applied to the Suarezian theory; for in such a theory the first matter is “something in act” and has “a form of its own.” And, therefore, whoever adopts the Suarezian theory must give up all idea of truly substantial generations. Yet no one who has a grain of judgment will pretend that Suarez, by framing his new theory, upset the scholastic philosophy.

The truth is that, as there are two definitions of the substantial form (_quæ dat primum esse materiæ: quæ dat primum esse rei_), so also there are two manners of understanding the so-called “substantial” generation; and, whilst Aristotle and his followers _assumed_ without any good proof[62] that the specific form of a generated compound gives the first being to the matter of the compound, and is, therefore, a strictly substantial form, the modern school _demonstrates_ from the principles of the scholastic philosophy, no less than from positive science, that the specific form of a physical compound does not give the first being to the matter of the compound, but only to the compound nature itself; and, therefore, is to be called an _essential_ rather than a truly and strictly substantial form.[63]

The primitive material substance, which is constituted of matter and substantial form, cannot but be physically simple--that is, free from all composition of parts--though it is metaphysically compounded, or (as we would prefer to say) _constituted_ of act and potency. This being the case, it evidently follows that all substance physically compounded must involve in its essential constitution something else besides the matter and the substantial form; for it must contain in itself both that which gives the first being to the physical components, and that which gives the first being to the resulting physical compound.

Hence in all substance which is physically compounded of material parts there are always two kinds of formal constituents. The first kind belongs to the components, the second to the compound. The first consists of the substantial forms by which the components are constituted in their substantial being; which forms must actually remain in the compound; for the substantial being of the components is the material cause of the physical compound, and is the sole reason why the physical compound receives the name of substance. The second is the principle by which the first components, or elements, are formed into a compound specific nature. In other terms, the specific compound is “a substance,” because it is made up of substances, or primitive elements, constituted of matter and _substantial_ form; whilst the same specific compound is “a compound” and is “of such a specific nature,” owing to the composition, and to such a composition, of the primitive elements. This composition is the _essential_ form of the material compound.

We may here remark that the substantial forms of the component elements, taken together, constitute what may be called the _remote_ formal principle of the compound essence (_principium formale quod, seu remotum_), whilst the specific composition constitutes the _proximate_ formal principle of the same compound essence (_principium formale quo, seu proximum_). For, as each primitive element is immediately constituted by its substantial form, so is the physically compound essence immediately constituted by its specific composition.

It is hardly necessary to add that the matter which is the subject of the specific composition is not the first matter of Aristotle, but a number of primitive substances, and that these substances are endowed with real activity no less than with real passivity, and therefore contain in themselves such powers as are calculated to bind together the parts of the compound system, in this or in that manner, according to the geometric disposition and the respective distances of the same. For, as the power of matter is limited to _local_ action, it is the _local_ disposition and co-ordination of the primitive elements that determines the mode of exertion of the elementary powers, inasmuch as it determines the special conditions under which the Newtonian law has to be carried into execution. On such a determination the specific composition and the specific properties of the compound nature proximately depend.

The composition of matter with matter is confessedly an accidental entity, and arises from accidental action. It would, however, be a manifest error to pretend that such a composition is an _accidental form_ of the compound nature. For nothing is accidental to a subject but what supervenes to it; whereas the composition does not supervene to the compound, but enters into its very constitution. On the other hand, the composition does not deserve the name of _substantial form_ in the strict sense of the word, since it does not give the first being to the matter it compounds. We might, indeed, call it a substantial form in a wider sense; for in the same manner as a compound of many substances is called “a substance,” so can the form of the substantial compound be called “substantial.” But to avoid the danger of equivocation, we shall not use this epithet; and we prefer to say that the specific composition is the _natural_ or the _essential_ form of the material compound, so far at least as there is question of compounds _purely_ material. This essential or natural form may be properly defined as _the act by which a number of physical parts or terms are formed into one compound essence_, or, more concisely, _the act which gives the first being to the specific compound_; which latter definition is admitted by the schoolmen, though, as interpreted by them, it leads to no satisfactory results, as we shall see presently.

The first physical compound which possesses a permanent specific constitution is called “a molecule.” Those physicists who assume matter to be intrinsically extended and continuous, by the name of molecule understand a little mass filling the space occupied by its volume, hard, indivisible, and unchangeable, to which they also give the name of “atom.” But this opinion, which is a relic of the ancient physical theories, is fast losing ground among the men of science, owing to the fact that molecules are subject to internal movements, and therefore composed of discrete parts. Such discrete parts must be simple and unextended elements, as we have demonstrated. Hence a molecule is nothing but _a number of simple elements_ (some attractive and some repulsive) _permanently connected by mutual action in one dynamical system_. We say _permanently connected_; because no system of elements which lacks stability can constitute permanent substances, such as we meet everywhere in nature. Yet the stability of the molecular system is not an absolute, but only a relative, unchangeableness; for, although the bond which unites the parts of the molecular system must (at least in the case of primitive molecules) remain always the same _in kind_, it can (even in the case of primitive molecules) become different _in degree_ within the limits of its own kind. And thus any molecule can be altered by heat, by cold, by pressure, etc., without its specific constitution being impaired. A molecule of hydrogen is specifically the same at two different temperatures, because the change of temperature merely modifies the bond of the constituent elements, without destroying it or making it specifically different; and the same is true of all other natural substances.

The _material_ constituent of a molecular system is, as we have said, a number of primitive elements. These elements may be more or less numerous, and possess greater or less power, either attractive or repulsive; on condition, however, that attraction shall prevail in the system; for without the prevalence of attraction no permanent composition is possible.

The _formal_ constituent of a molecular system, or that which causes the said primitive elements to be a molecule, is the determination by which the elements are bound with one another in a definite manner, and subjected to a definite law of motion with respect to one another. Such a determination is in each of the component elements the resultant of the actions of all the others.

The matter of the molecular system is _disposed_ to receive such a determination, or natural form, by the relative disposition of the elements involved in the system. Such a disposition is local; for the resultant of the actions by which the elements are bound with one another depends on their relative distances as a condition.

The _efficient cause_ of the molecular system are the elements themselves; for it is by the exertion of their respective powers that they unite in one permanent system when placed under suitable mechanical conditions. The original conditions under which the molecules of the primitive compound substances were formed must be traced to the sole will of the Creator, who from the beginning disposed all things in accordance with the ends to be obtained through them in the course of all centuries.

Molecules may differ from one another, both as to their matter and as to their form. They differ in matter when they consist of a different number of primitive elements, or of elements possessing different degrees of active power or of a different proportion of attractive and repulsive elements. They differ as to their form, when their constitution subjects them to different mechanical laws; for as the law of movement and of mutual action which prevails within a molecule is a formal result of its molecular constitution, we can always ascertain the difference of the constitution by the difference of the law.

It is well known that the law according to which a system of material points acts and moves can be expressed or represented by a certain number of mathematical formulas. The equations by which the mutual dynamical relations of the elements in a molecular system should be represented are of three classes. Some should represent the _mutual actions_ to which such elements are subjected at any given moment of time; and these equations would contain differentials of the second order. Other equations should represent the _velocities_ with which such elements move at any instant of time; and these equations would contain differentials of the first order. Other equations, in fine, should determine the _place_ occupied by each of such elements at any given moment, and consequently the figure of the molecular system; and these last equations would be free from differential terms. The equations exhibiting the mutual actions must be obtained from the consideration of positive data, like all other equations expressing the conditions of a given problem. The equations exhibiting the velocities of the vibrating elements can be obtained by the integration of the preceding ones. The equations determining the relative position of the elements at any moment of time will arise from the integration of those which express the velocities of the vibrating points. Had we sufficient data concerning the internal actions of a molecule, and sufficient mathematical skill to carry out all the operations required, we would be able to determine with mathematical accuracy the whole constitution of such a molecule, and all the properties flowing from such a constitution. This, unfortunately, we cannot do as yet with regard to the molecule of any natural substance in particular; and, therefore, we must content ourselves with the general principle that those molecular systems are of the same kind whose constitution can be exhibited _by mathematical formulas of the same form_, and those molecules are of a different kind whose constitution is represented _by mathematical formulas of a different form_. This principle is self-evident; for the formulas by which the mechanical relations of the elements are determined cannot be of the same form, unless the conditions which they express are of the same nature; whereas it is no less evident that two molecular systems cannot be of the same kind when their mechanical constitution implies conditions of a different nature.

Two molecules of the same kind may differ _accidentally_--that is, as to their mode of being--without any essential change in their specific constitution. Thus, two molecules of hydrogen may be under different pressure, or at a different temperature, without any specific change. In this case, the mechanical relations between the elements of the molecule undergo an accidental change, and the equations by which such relations are expressed are also accidentally modified, inasmuch as some of the quantities involved in them acquire a different value; but the form of the equations, which is the exponent of the specific nature of the substance, remains unchanged.

From these remarks four conclusions can be drawn. The first is that molecules consisting of a different number of constituent elements always differ in kind. For it is impossible for such molecules to be represented by equations of the same form.

The second is that a molecule is _one_ owing to the oneness of the common tie between its constituent elements, and to their common and stable dependence on one mechanical law. Hence a molecule is not _one substance_, but _one compound nature_ involving a number of substances conspiring to form a permanent principle of actions and passions of a certain kind. In other terms, a molecule is not _unum substantiale_, but _unum essentiale_ or _unum naturale_.

The third is that the specific form of a molecule admits of different degrees within the limits of its species. This conclusion was quite unknown to the followers of Aristotle; and S. Thomas reprehends Averroës for having said that the forms of the elements (fire, water, air, and earth) could pass through different degrees of perfection, whilst Aristotle teaches that they are _in indivisibili_, and that every change in the form changes the specific essence.[64] Yet it is evident that as there can be circles, ellipses, and other curves having a different degree of curvature, while preserving the same specific form, so also can molecules admit of a different degree of closeness in their constitution without trespassing on the limits of their species. So long as the changes made in a molecule do not interfere with the conditions on which the form of its equations depends, so long the specific constitution of the molecule remains unimpaired. Mathematical formulas are only artificial abridgments of metaphysical expressions; and their accidental changes express but the accidental changes of the thing which they represent. On the other hand, it is well known that the equations by which the specific constitution of a compound system is determined can preserve the same form, while some of the quantities they contain receive an increase or a decrease connected with a change of merely accidental conditions.

The fourth conclusion is that a number of primitive molecules of different kinds may combine together in such a manner as to impair more or less their own individuality by fixing themselves in a new molecular system of greater complexity. Likewise, a molecular system of greater complexity is susceptible of resolution into less complex systems. These combinations and resolutions are the proper object of chemistry, which is _the science of the laws, principles, and conditions of the specific changes of natural substances_, and to which metaphysicians must humbly refer when treating of substantial generation, if they wish to reason on the solid ground of facts.

We have thus briefly stated what we hold to be the true scientific and philosophic view of the constitution of natural substances; and as we have carefully avoided all gratuitous assumptions, we feel confident that our readers need no further arguments to be convinced of its value as compared with the hypothetical views of the old physicists. As, however, the conclusions of the peripatetic school concerning the constitution and generation of natural substances have still some ardent supporters, who think that the strictly substantial generations and corruptions are demonstrated by unanswerable arguments, we have yet to show that such pretended arguments consist of mere assumption and equivocation.

The first argument in favor of the old theory may be presented under the following form: “Every natural substance is _unum per se_--that is, substantially one. Therefore no natural substance implies more than _one_ substantial form.” The antecedent is assumed as evident, and the consequent is proved by the principle that “from two beings in act it is impossible to obtain a being substantially one.” Hence it is concluded that all natural substances, as water, flesh, iron, etc., have a substantial form which gives to the first matter the being of water, of flesh, of iron, etc.

This argument, instead of proving the truth of the theory, proves its weakness; for it consists of a _petitio principii_. What right has the peripatetic school to assume that every natural substance is _unum per se_ substantially? A substance physically simple is, of course, _unum per se_ substantially; but water, flesh, iron, and the other natural substances are not physically simple, since they imply quantity of mass and quantity of volume, which presuppose a number of material terms actually distinct, and therefore possessing their distinct substantial forms. No compound substance can be _unum per se_ as a substance; it can be _unum per se_ only as a compound essence; and for this reason every natural substance contains as many _substantial_ forms as it contains primitive elements, whereas it has only one _essential_ form, which gives the first being to its compound nature. This _one_ essential form is, as we have explained, the specific composition of its constituent elements.

The principle “From two beings in act it is impossible to obtain a being _substantially_ one” is perfectly true; but it will be false if, instead of “substantially,” we put “essentially”; for all essences physically compounded result from the union of a certain number of actual beings, and yet every compound essence is _unum per se_ essentially, though not substantially. For, as _unum per accidens_ is that which has something superadded to its essential principles, so _unum per se_ is that which includes nothing in itself but its essential principles; and consequently every essence, as such, is _unum per se_, whether it be physically simple or not--that is, whether it be one substance or a number of substances conspiring into a specific compound. Hence flesh, water, iron, and every other natural substance may be, and are, _unum per se_, notwithstanding the fact that they consist of a number of primitive elements and contain as many substantial forms as components.

It is therefore manifest that this first argument has no strength. No ancient or modern philosopher has ever proved that any natural substance is _substantially_ one. To prove such an assertion it would be necessary to show that the physical compound is physically simple; which, we trust, no one will attempt to show. Even Liberatore, whose efforts to revive among us the peripatetic theory have been so remarkable, seems to have felt the utter impossibility of substantiating such an arbitrary supposition by anything like a proof, as he lays it down without even pretending to investigate its value. “True bodies,” says he--“that is, bodies which are substances, and not mere aggregates of substances--are essentially constituted of matter and substantial form.”[65] Indeed, if a body is not an aggregate of substances, it must be evident to every one that the essence of that body is exclusively constituted of matter and substantial form. But where is a body to be found which is not an aggregate of substances--that is, of primitive elements? The learned author omits to examine this essential point, clearly because there are neither facts in science nor arguments in philosophy by which it can be settled favorably to the peripatetic view. Thus the whole theory of substantial generations, understood in the peripatetic sense, rests on a mere assumption contradicted, as we know, by natural science no less than by metaphysical reasoning.

The second argument of the peripatetic school is as follows: When the matter has its first being, all form supervening to it is accidental; for the matter which has its first being cannot receive but a being _secundum quid_--that is, a mode of being which is an accident. But the natural substance cannot be constituted by an accidental form. Therefore the form of the natural substance does not supervene to any matter having its first being, but itself gives the first being to its matter, and therefore is a strictly substantial form.

Our answer is very plain. We admit that, when the matter has its first being, all supervening form is accidental _to it_; and we admit, also, that the composition of matter with matter is an accidental entity, and gives to the matter an accidental mode of being. This, however, does not mean that the specific composition is an _accidental form_ of the compound nature. Composition, as compared with substance, is an accident; but, as compared with the essence of the compound, is an _essential_ constituent, as we have already remarked; for it is of the essence of all physical compounds to have a number of substances as their matter, and a specific composition as their form. In other terms, the essence of a physical compound involves substance and accident alike; but what is an accident of the component substances is not an accident of the compound essence. Hence the proposition, “The natural substance cannot be constituted by an accidental form,” must be distinguished. If “natural substance” stands for the primitive substances that constitute the matter of the compound nature, the proposition is true; for all such substances have their strictly substantial forms, as is obvious. If “natural substance” stands for the compound nature itself, inasmuch as it is a compound of a certain species, then the proposition must be subdistinguished. For, if by “accidental form” we understand an accident of the component substances, the proposition will be false; for, evidently, the compound nature is constituted by composition, and composition is an accident of the components. Whilst, if the words “accidental form” are meant to express an accident of the compound nature, then the proposition is true again; for the composition is not an accidental, but an essential, constituent of the compound, as every one must concede. Yet “essential” is not to be confounded with “substantial”; and therefore, though all natural substances must have their essential form, it does not follow that such a form gives the first being to the matter, but only that it gives the first being to the specific compound inasmuch as it is such a compound. Had the peripatetics kept in view, when treating of natural substances, the necessary distinction between the essential and the strictly substantial forms, they would possibly have concluded, with the learned Card. Tolomei, that their theory was “a groundless assumption,” and their arguments a “begging the question.” But, unfortunately, Aristotle’s authority, before the discoveries of modern science, had such a weight with our forefathers that they scarcely dared to question what they believed to be the cardinal point of his philosophy. But let us go on.

A third argument in favor of the old theory is drawn from the constitution of man. In man the soul is a substantial form, the root of all his properties, and the constituent of the human substance. Hence all other natural substances, it is argued, must have in a similar manner some substantial principle containing the formal reason of their constitution, of their natural properties, and of their operations. “The fact that man is composed of matter and of substantial form shows,” says Suarez, “that in natural things there is a substantial subject naturally susceptible of being informed by a substantial act. Such a subject (the matter) is therefore an imperfect and incomplete substance, and requires to be constantly under some substantial act.”[66] Whence it follows that all natural substance consists of matter actuated by a substantial form.

This argument, according to Scotus and his celebrated school, is based on a false assumption. Man is not _one substance_, but _one nature_ resulting from the union of two distinct substances, the spiritual and the material; and to speak of a _human substance_ as one is nothing less than to beg the whole question. Every one must admit that the human soul is the _natural_ form of the animated body, and that, inasmuch as it is a substance and not an accident, the same soul may be called a “substantial” form; but, according to the Scotistic school, to which we cannot but adhere on this point, it is impossible to admit the Thomistic notion that the soul gives the first being to the matter of the body, so as to constitute _one substance_ with it; and accordingly it is impossible to admit that the soul is a strictly “substantial” form in the rigid peripatetic sense of the word; and thus the above argument, which is based entirely on the unity of human _substance_, comes to naught.

This is not the place to develop the reasons adduced by the Scotists and by others against the Thomistic school, or to refute the arguments by which the latter have supported their opinion. We will merely remark that, according to a principle universally received, by the Thomists no less than by their opponents (_Actus est qui distinguit_), there can be no distinct substantial terms without distinct substantial acts; and consequently our body cannot have distinct substantial parts, unless it has as many distinct substantial acts. And as there is no doubt that there are in our body a great number of distinct substantial parts (as many, in fact, as there are primitive elements of matter), there is no doubt that there are also a great number of distinct substantial acts. It is not true, therefore, that the human body (or any other body) is constituted by _one_ “substantial” form. The soul is not defined as the _first act of matter_, but it is defined as _the first act of a physical organic body_; which means that the body must possess its own _physical_ being and its _bodily_ and _organic_ form before it can be informed by a soul. And surely such a body needs not receive from the soul what it already possesses as a condition of its information; it must therefore receive that alone in regard to which it is still potential; and this is, not the first act of being, but the first act of life. But if the soul were a strictly “substantial” form according to the Thomistic opinion, it should be _the first act of matter_ as such, and it would have no need of a previously-formed physical organic body; for the position of such a form would, of itself, entail the existence of its substantial term. We must therefore conclude that the human soul is called a “substantial” form, simply because it is a substance and not an accident,[67] and because, in the language of the schools, all the “essential” forms have been called “substantial,” as we have noticed at the beginning of this article. We believe that it is owing to this double meaning of the epithet “substantial” that both S. Thomas and his followers were led to confound the natural and essential with the strictly substantial forms. They reasoned thus: “What is not accidental must be substantial”; and they did not reflect that “what is not accidental may be _essential_,” without being substantial in the meaning attached by them to the term.

But since we cannot here discuss the question concerning the human soul as its importance deserves, let us admit, for the sake of the argument, that the human soul gives the first being to its body, and is thus a strictly substantial form in the sense intended by our opponents. It still strikes us that no logical mind can from such a particular premise draw such a general conclusion as is drawn in the objected argument. Is it lawful to apply to inanimate bodies in the conclusion what in the premises is asserted only of animated beings? Or is there any parity between the form of the human nature and that of a piece of chalk? The above-mentioned Card. Tolomei well remarks that “such a pretended parity is full of disparities, and that from the human soul, rational, spiritual, subsistent, and immortal, we cannot infer the nature of those incomplete, corruptible, and corporeal entities which enter into the constitution of purely material things.”[68]

That “all natural substances must have some substantial principle” we fully admit. For we have shown that in every natural compound there are just as many substantial forms as there are primitive elements in it, and therefore there is no doubt that each point of matter receives its first being through a strictly substantial form. But these substantial forms are the forms of the components; they are not the _specific form_ of the compound. Nor do we deny that the properties of the compound must be ultimately traced to some substantial principle; for we admit the common axiom that “the first principle of the being is the first principle of its operations”; and thus we attribute the activity of the compound nature to the substantial forms of its components. But we maintain that the same components may constitute different specific compounds having different properties and different operations, according as they are disposed in different manners and subjected to a different composition. This being evident, we must be allowed to conclude that the proximate and specific constituent form of a compound inanimate nature is nothing else than its specific composition.

Our opponents cannot evade this conclusion, which annihilates the whole peripatetic theory, unless they show either that there may be a compound without composition, or that in natural things there is no material composition of substantial parts. The first they cannot prove, as a compound without composition is a mere contradiction. Nor can they prove the second; for they admit that natural substances are extended, and it is evident that there can be no material extension without parts outside of parts, and therefore without material composition.

As to the passage of Suarez objected in the argument, two simple remarks will suffice. The first is that “the fact that man is composed of matter and substantial form does _not_ show that in other natural things there is a substantial subject naturally susceptible of being informed by a substantial act”; unless, indeed, the epithet “substantial” be taken in the sense of “essential,” as we have above explained. But, even in this case, there will always be an immense difference between such essential forms, because the form of a human body must be a substance, whilst the form of the purely material compounds can be nothing else than composition. The second remark is that, as the first matter, according to Suarez, has its own entity of essence and its own entity of existence, “the substantial subject naturally susceptible of being informed” has neither need nor capability of receiving its _first_ being; whence it follows that such a substantial subject is never susceptible of being informed by a truly and strictly substantial form. We know that Suarez rejects this inference on the ground that the entity of matter, according to him, is incomplete, and requires to be perfected by a substantial form. But the truth is that no strictly substantial form can be conceived to inform a matter which has already an actual entity of its own; for the substantial form is not simply that which _perfects the matter_ (for every form perfects the matter), but it is that which _gives to it the first being_, as all philosophers agree. On the other hand, it might be proved that the matter which is a subject of natural generations is not an _incomplete_ substantial entity, and that the intrinsic act by which it is constituted, is not, as Suarez pretends, an act _secundum quid_, but an act _simpliciter_; it being evident that nothing can be in act _secundum quid_ unless it be already in act _simpliciter_; whence it is manifest that the _first_ act of matter cannot be an act _secundum quid_.

It would take too long to discuss here the whole Suarezian theory. Its fundamental points are two: The first, that the matter which is the subject of natural generations “has an entity of its own”; the second, that “such an entity is substantially incomplete.” The first of these two points he establishes against the peripatetics with very good reasons, drawn from the nature of generation; but the second he does not succeed in demonstrating, as he does not, and cannot, demonstrate that an act _secundum quia_ precedes the act _simpliciter_. For this reason we ventured to say in our previous article that the first matter of Suarez corresponds to our primitive elements, which, though unknown to him, are, in fact, the first physical matter of which the natural substances are composed. What we mean is that, though Suarez intended to prove something else, he has only succeeded in proving that the matter of which natural substances are composed is as true and as complete a substance as any primitive substance can be. And we even entertain some suspicion that this great writer would have held a language much more conformable to our modern views, had he not been afraid of striking too heavy a blow at the peripatetic school, then so formidable and respected. For why should he call “substantial” the forms of compound bodies, when he knew that the matter of those bodies had already an actual entity of its own? He certainly saw that such forms were by no means the substantial forms of S. Thomas and of Aristotle; but was it prudent to state the fact openly, and to draw from it such other conclusions as would have proved exceedingly distasteful to the greatest number of his contemporaries? However this may be, it cannot be denied that the Suarezian theory, granting to the matter of the bodies an entity of its own, leads to the rejection of the truly substantial generations, and to the final adoption of the doctrine which we are maintaining in accordance with the received principles of modern natural science. But let us proceed.

The fourth argument in favor of the old theory is the following: If the components remain _actually_ in the compound, and do not lose their substantial forms by the accession of a new substantial form, it follows that no new substance is ever generated; and thus what we call “new substances” will be only “new accidental aggregates of substances,” and there will be no substantial difference between them. But this cannot be admitted; for who will admit that bread and flesh are _substantially_ identical? And yet who can deny that from bread flesh can be generated?

We concede most explicitly that no new “substance” is, or can be, ever generated by natural processes. God alone can produce a substance, and he produces it by creation. To say that natural causes can destroy the substantial forms by which the matter is actuated, and produce new substantial forms giving a new _first_ being to the matter, is to endow the natural causes with a power infinitely superior to their nature. The action of a natural cause is the production of an accidental act; and so long as “accidental” does not mean “substantial,” we contend that no substantial form can originate from any natural agent or concurrence of natural agents. It is therefore evident for us that no “substance” can ever arise by natural generation.

But, though this is true, it is evident also that from pre-existing substances “a new compound nature” can be generated by the action of natural causes. These new compound natures are, indeed, called “new substances,” but they are the _old_ substances under a _new_ specific composition; that is, they are not new as substances, though they form _a new specific compound_. To say that such a compound is “a merely accidental aggregate of substances” is no objection. Were we to maintain that _one single substance_ is an accidental aggregate of substances, the objection would be very natural; but to say, as we do, that _one compound essence_ is an aggregate of substances united by accidental actions, is to say what is evidently true and unobjectionable. Yet we must add that the composition of such substances, accidental though it be to them individually, is _essential_ to the compound nature; for this compound nature is a special essence, endowed with special properties dependent proximately on the special composition, and only remotely on the substantial forms of the component substances.

That there may be “no substantial difference” between two natural compounds is quite admissible; but it does not follow from the argument. It is admissible; because a different specific composition suffices to cause a different specific compound; as is the case with gum-arabic and cane-sugar, which consist of a different combination of the same components. Yet it does not follow from the argument; because the specific composition of different compounds may require, and usually does require, a different set of components--that is, of substances; which shows that there is also a _substantial_ difference between natural compounds, although their essential form be not the substantial form of the peripatetics.

Lastly, we willingly concede that bread and flesh are not substantially identical; but we must deny that their substantial difference arises from their having a different substantial form. Bread and flesh are different specific compounds; they differ essentially and substantially, or formally and materially, because they involve different substances under a different specific composition. To say that bread and flesh are _the same matter_ under two different substantial forms would be to give the lie to scientific evidence. This we cannot do, however much we may admire the great men who, from want of positive knowledge, thought it the safest course to accept from Aristotle what seemed to them a sufficient explanation of things. On the other hand, is it not strange that our opponents, who admit of no other substantial form in man, except the soul, should now mention a substantial form of flesh? To be consistent, they should equally admit a _substantial_ form of blood, a _substantial_ form of bone, etc. Perhaps this would help them to understand that the epithet “substantial,” when applied to characterize the forms of material compounds, has been a source of innumerable equivocations, and that the schoolmen would have saved themselves much trouble, and avoided inextricable difficulties, if they had made the necessary distinction between _substantial_ and _essential_ forms.

The arguments to which we have replied are the main support of the peripatetic doctrine; we, at least, have not succeeded in finding any other argument on the subject which calls for a special refutation. We beg, therefore, to conclude that the theory of strictly substantial generations, as well as that of the constitution of bodies, as held by the peripatetic school, rest on no better ground than “assumption,” or _petitio principii_, as Card. Tolomei reluctantly avows. There would yet remain, as he observes, the argument from authority; but when it is known that the great men whose authority is appealed to were absolutely ignorant of the most important facts and laws of molecular science, and when it is proved that such facts and laws exclude the very possibility of the old theory,[69] we are free to dismiss the argument. “Were S. Thomas to come back on earth,” says Father Tongiorgi, “he would be a peripatetic no more.” No doubt of it. S. Thomas would teach his friends a lesson, by letting them know that his true followers are not those who shut their eyes to the evidence of facts, that they may not be disturbed in their peripateticism, but those who imitate him by endeavoring to utilize, in the interest of sound philosophy, the positive knowledge of their own time, as he did the scanty positive knowledge of his.

But we have yet an important point to notice. The ancient theory is wholly grounded on the possibility of the eduction of new substantial forms out of the potency of matter; hence, if no truly substantial form can be so educed, the theory falls to the ground. We have already shown that true substantial forms giving the first being to the matter cannot naturally be educed out of the potency of matter.[70] This would suffice to justify us in rejecting the peripatetic theory. But to satisfy our peripatetic friends that we did not come too hastily to such a conclusion, and to give them an opportunity of examining their own philosophical conscience, we beg leave to submit to their appreciation the following additional reasons.

First, all philosophers agree that the matter cannot be actuated by a new form, unless it be _actually_ disposed to receive it. But actual disposition is itself an accidental form; and all matter that has an accidental form has also _a fortiori_ a substantial form. Therefore no matter is actually disposed to receive a new form, but that which has actually a substantial form. But the matter which has actually a substantial form is not susceptible of a new substantial form; for the matter which has its first being is not potential with regard to it, but only with regard to some mode of being. Therefore no new form truly and strictly substantial can be bestowed upon existing matter.

Secondly, if existing matter is to receive a new substantial form, its old substantial form must give way and disappear, as our opponents themselves teach, by natural corruption. But the form which gives the first being to the matter is not corruptible. Therefore no truly substantial form can give way to a new substantial form. The minor of this syllogism is easily proved. For all natural substances consist of simple elements, of which every one has its first being by a form altogether simple and incorruptible. Moreover, the substantial form of primitive elements is a product of creation, not of generation; the term of divine, not of natural, action; it cannot, therefore, perish, except by annihilation. The only form which is liable to corruption is that which links together the elements of the specific compound; but this is a natural and essential, not a strictly substantial, form.

Thirdly, the form which gives the first being to the matter is altogether incorruptible, if the same is not subject to alteration; for alteration is the way to corruption. But no form giving the first being to the matter is subject to alteration. For, according to the universal doctrine, it is the matter, not the form, that is in potency to receive the action of natural agents. The form is an active, not a passive, principle; and therefore it is ready to act, not to be acted on; which proves that substantial forms are inalterable and incorruptible. We are at a loss to understand how it has been possible for so many illustrious philosophers of the Aristotelic school not to see the open contradiction between the corruption of strictly substantial forms and their own fundamental axiom: “Every being acts inasmuch as it is in act, and suffers inasmuch as it is in potency.” If the substantial form is subject to corruption, surely the substance suffers not only inasmuch as it is in potency, but also, and even more, inasmuch as it is in act. We say “even more,” because the substance would, inasmuch as it is in act, suffer the destruction of its very essence; whereas, as it is in potency, it would not suffer more than an accidental change. It is therefore manifest that the corruption of substantial forms cannot be admitted without denying one of the most certain and universal principles of metaphysics.

Fourthly, if the natural agents concerned in the generation of a new being cannot produce anything but accidental determinations, nor destroy anything but other accidental determinations, then, evidently, the form which is destroyed in the generation of a new thing is an accidental entity, as also the new form introduced. But the efficient causes of natural generations cannot produce anything but accidental determinations, and cannot destroy anything but other accidental determinations. Therefore in the generation of a new being both the form which is destroyed and the form which replaces it are accidental entities. In this syllogism the major is evident; and the minor is certain, both physically and metaphysically. For it is well known that the natural agents concerned in the generation of a new substance have no other power than that of producing local motion; also, that the matter acted on has no other passive potency than that of receiving local motion. Hence no action of matter upon matter can be admitted but that which tends to give an accidental determination to local movement; and if any cause be known to exert actions not tending to impart local movement, we must immediately conclude that such a cause is not a material substance. On the other hand, all act produced belongs to an order of reality infinitely inferior to that of its efficient principle; so that, as God cannot efficiently produce another God, so also a contingent substance cannot efficiently produce another contingent substance; and a substantial form cannot efficiently produce another substantial form; but as all that God efficiently produces is infinitely inferior to him in the order of reality, so all act produced by a created substance is infinitely inferior to the act which is the principle of its production.[71] It is therefore impossible to admit that the act produced, and the act which is the principle of its production, belong to the same order of reality; in other terms, they cannot be both “substantial”; but while the act by which the agent acts is substantial, the act produced is always accidental. And thus it is plain that no natural agent or combination of natural agents can ever produce a truly substantial form.

A great deal more might be said on this subject; but we think that our philosophical readers need no further reasonings of ours to be fully convinced of the inadmissibility of the Aristotelic hypothesis concerning the constitution and the generation of natural substances. Would that the great men who adopted it in past ages had had a knowledge of the workings of nature as extensive as we now possess; their love of truth would have prompted them to frame a philosophical theory as superior to that of the Greek philosopher as fact is to assumption. As it is, we must strive to do within the compass of our means what they would have done much better, and would do if they were among the living, with their gigantic powers. We cannot hold in metaphysics what we have to reject in physics. To say that what is true in physics may be false in metaphysics is no less an absurdity than Luther’s proposition, that “something may be true in philosophy which is false in theology.”

THE MODERN LITERATURE OF RUSSIA.[72]

The history of Russia, during the course of the last twenty years, has entered upon a new era. It also has had its 19th of February,[73] its day of emancipation; and from the hour when it was permitted to treat of the times anterior to the reign of the Emperor Nicholas, although still maintaining a certain reserve, it has lost no time in profiting by the benefit of which advantage has been eagerly taken. A multitude of writings, more or less important, which have since then been published, prove that, in order to become fruitful, it only needed to be freed from the ligatures of the ancient censure; and it is wonderful to note the large number of publications with which the history of the last century finds itself enriched in so short a space of time, besides the documents of every description that were never previously allowed to see the light of day, but from which the interdict has been removed that for so long had condemned them to the dust and oblivion of locked-up archives.

Nor has this been all. The riches of this new mine were sufficiently plentiful to supply matter for entire collections. Societies were formed for the purpose of arranging and publishing them without delay, in order to satisfy the legitimate desire of so many to know the past of their country, not only from official digests, but from the original sources of information. It will suffice to name the principal collections created under the inspiration of this idea, such as the _Russian Archives_, and also the _XVIIIth and XIXth Centuries_, of M. Bartenev, guardian of the Library of Tcherkov; the _Old Russian Times_ (_Russkaïa Starina_), of M. Semevski; the _Historical Society of the Annalist Nestor_, formed at Kiev, under the presidency of M. Antonovitch; the _Collection of the Historical Society of St. Petersburg_, under the exalted patronage of the czarovitch; without enumerating the periodical publications issued by societies which were already existing, as at Moscow and elsewhere.

To arrange in some degree of order the rapid notice which is all we must permit ourselves, and laying aside for the present any consideration of periodical literature, we will mention, in the first place, the works upon Russian history in general, ecclesiastical and secular; then the various memoirs and biographies; concluding with bibliography, or the history of literature.

I. GENERAL HISTORY OF RUSSIA.--Amongst the works which treat of this subject, that of M. Soloviev indisputably occupies the first place. His _History of Russia from the Earliest Times_ (_Istoria Rossiis drevneichikh vremen_) advances with slow but steady pace, and has at this time reached its twenty-third volume, embracing the second septennate of the Empress Elizabeth, which concludes with the year 1755--a year memorable in the annals of Russian literature, as witnessing the establishment of the first Russian university, namely, that of Moscow. It is not surprising that this subject has inspired the author, who is a professor of the same university, to write pages full of interest. With regard to what he relates respecting the exceedingly low level of civilization to which the Russian clergy had at that time sunk, other authors have made it the subject of special treatises, and with an amplitude of development which could not have found place in a general history. M. Soloviev’s method is well known--_i.e._, to turn to the advantage of science the original documents, for the most part inedited, and frequently difficult of access to the generality of writers. But does he always make an impartial use of them? This is a question. The manner in which he has recounted the law-suit of the Patriarch Nicon--to cite this only as an example--does not speak altogether favorably for the historian; besides, his history is too voluminous to be accessible to the generality of readers; and when it will be finished, who can divine?

For this reason a complete history, in accordance with recent discoveries, and reduced to two or three volumes, would meet with a warm welcome. That of Oustrialov is already out of date; the little abridgment of M. Soloviev is too short; and the work of M. Bestoujev-Rumine remains at its first volume, the two which are to follow, and which have been long promised, not having yet appeared.

M. Kostomarov, who has just celebrated the 25th year of his literary career, is also publishing a _History of Russia, Considered in the Lives of its Principal Representatives_,[74] of which the interest increases as the period of which it treats approaches our own. Two sections have already appeared. The first, which is devoted to the history of the house of S. Vladimir, embraces four centuries; the second, as considerable as its predecessor in amount of matter, comprises no more than the interval of about a century--that is to say, the reigns of Ivan the Terrible, his father, and his grandfather (1462-1583). Faithful to the plan he has adopted, the author relates the life and deeds of the most remarkable men, whether in the political or social order: thus, in the second section, after the historical figures of Ivan III., Basil, and Ivan IV., we have the Archbishop Gennadius, the monk Nilus Sorski, whom the Russian Church reckons among her saints: the Prince Patrikeïev, the celebrated Maximus, a monk of Mt. Athos, and, lastly, the heretic Bachkine with his sectaries. The first volume will be terminated by the third section, which will conclude the history of the house of Vladimir.

This history meets with a violent opponent and an implacable judge in the person of M. Pogodine, the veteran of Russian historians. The antagonism of these two writers, M. Pogodine and M. Kostomarov, is of long standing. But never have polemics taken a more aggressive tone than on the present occasion; and the aggression is on the part of M. Pogodine, who accuses his adversary of nothing more nor less than mystifying the public and corrupting the rising generation; of having arbitrarily omitted the origin and commencement of the nation; of throwing, by preference, into strong relief all the dark pages of the history; and, lastly, declares him to be guilty of venality. To these charges M. Kostomarov replies that his censor is playing the part of a policeman rather than of a critic; that his arguments, like his anger, inspire him with pity; and that the most elementary rules of propriety forbid him to imitate his language. Coming to historical facts, he explains the reasons for his silence on the _pagan_ period of Russian history; for treating the call of Rurik as a fable, together with a multitude of other stories of the ancient chronicles; for seeing in the Varangian[75] princes nothing but barbarians, and the pagans of this period the same. He also brings proofs to show that Vladimir Monomachus was really the first to seek allies among the tribes of the Polovtsis; that Vassilko caused the whole population of Minsk to be exterminated; and that Andrew Bogolubski was not by any means beloved by the people, as had been stated by M. Pogodine--these three subjects being among the principal points of dispute.

But we have no desire to pursue any further details which cannot in themselves have any interest for the public, although, taken in connection with the histories of the antagonistic authors, they may be suggestive. For instance, it is not easy to forget what the ardent professor of Moscow relates of himself with reference to certain of his fellow-countrywomen who had embraced the Catholic faith. Being at Rome, he tells us (and his words depict in a lively manner the character of his zeal) that he felt himself strongly tempted to _seize by the hair_ two Russian ladies[76] whom he saw crossing the Piazza di Spagna to enter a Catholic church. He is said to be at this time preparing a _Campaign against Adverse Powers_, in which he combats “historic heresies.”

But the services rendered by M. Pogodine to the national history are undoubtedly great. We may notice a new one in his _Ancient History of Russia before the Mongolian Yoke_,[77] in which, after grouping the Russian principalities around that of Kiev as their political centre anterior to the invasion of the Mongols, he also gives the separate history of each. In the second volume the church, literature, the state, manners, and customs, are treated upon in turn, and form a series of pictures traced by a skilful hand, closing with a terribly-vivid description of the Tartar invasion.

II. PARTICULAR OR INDIVIDUAL HISTORY.--It is about two years since historical science in Russia sustained a loss in the death of M. Pékarski, who had scarcely reached his forty-fifth year. This laborious and learned writer, who, in so short a space of time, produced an unusual number of important works,[78] died after having just completed his _History of the Academy of Sciences_. This work contains about eighteen hundred pages. After a solid introduction there follow the biographies of the first fifty members of the Academy, all of whom were foreigners, to which succeed those of Trediakovski and Lomonosov. In glancing over these biographies one is struck with the preponderance of the German element, the Academy, at its commencement, being almost exclusively composed of learned men of that nation. With the reign of Elizabeth the Russian party began to take the lead, and it was Lomonosov, the son of a fisherman of Archangelsk, who was the life and soul of it, as a learned man, an historian, and a poet. Pékarski mentions some curious details respecting the correspondence between Peter I. and the Sorbonne, touching the reunion of the Russian Church with Rome. It is to be wished that the documents treating of this matter, and which are preserved in the archives of the academy, might be published.

III. ECCLESIASTICAL HISTORY.--After the _History of the Russian Church_, by Mgr. Macarius, the present Metropolitan of Lithuania, which has just reached its seventh volume, the first place is due to that by M. Znamenski, entitled _The Parochial Clergy in Russia, subsequent to the Reform of Peter I._[79] In presence of the Protestant reforms which are in course of introduction into the official church by the Russian government, M. Znamenski’s book offers an eminently practical interest, and it is greatly to be wished that those in power would profit by its serious teaching. The author advances nothing without producing his proofs, drawn from official documents, which he has taken great pains to search for and consult wherever they were to be found.

His work is divided into five chapters, the first of which treats of the “Nomination of the Parochial Clergy.” Down to the middle of the XVIIIth century its members were chosen on the elective system; it is the ancient mode of nomination, which existed also in the Catholic Church. But from the middle of the XVIIIth century this gave place, in Russia, to the _hereditary_ system, which has become one of the distinctive features of the Russian communion,[80] and in which may be found the cause of the separation and the spirit of caste which from that time began to isolate the clergy from the rest of society, and made them in all respects a body apart.

This spirit of caste still subsists, though not in so perceptible a degree as formerly. One inevitable consequence of this Levitism was the difficulty of quitting the caste when once a person belonged to it, as the author develops in his second chapter (pp. 176-354). In the third, he treats of the “Civil Rights of the Clergy,” and there depicts the revolting abuses in which the secular authorities allowed themselves with regard to the unfortunate clergy. The arbitrary injustice to which they were subjected during the whole of the XVIIIth century, and of which the still vivid traces remained in the time of the Emperor Alexander I., appears almost incredible. For instance, a poor parochial incumbent, having had the misfortune to pass before the house of the principal proprietor of the place without having taken off his hat to that personage, who was on the balcony with company, was immediately seized, thrust into a barrel, and thus rolled from the top of the hill on which the seignorial dwelling was situated, into the river which flowed at its base. His death was almost instantaneous. Justice, as represented in that quarter, being informed of this new species of murder, found itself unequal to touch the little potentate, and hushed up the affair. Similar horrors were by no means rare in the XVIIIth century. In the fourth chapter (pp. 507-617) the author speaks of the “Relations of the Clergy with the Ecclesiastical Authorities”; and although the picture he draws is somewhat less sombre than the preceding, still it is melancholy enough. Venality the most systematic, and rigor that can hardly be said to fall short of cruelty, were, for more than half a century, the most prominent features of the ecclesiastical government. No post, however small or humble, could be obtained without the imposition of a purely arbitrary tax; and these taxes formed in the end a very considerable amount. As for the spirit of the government, its fundamental maxim was to _hold down_ the lower clergy _in humility_ (_smirenié_)--a formula which was imprinted on the very bodies of the unfortunate victims. The slightest fault or error on their part was punished by corporal chastisements so severe that the sufferer sometimes expired under the blows. Priests were treated by their chief pastors as beings on a level with the meanest of slaves. One of these _vladykas_ (which is the name by which the Russian bishops are designated) condemned his subordinates to dig fish-ponds on his estate, which ponds were to be so shaped as to form on a gigantic scale the initials (E. B.) of his lordship’s name.[81]

The failure of resources, so materially diminished by the cupidity of their superiors, forced the parochial clergy to contrive for themselves an income by means more or less lawful. Besides the legal charges, they invented various small taxes on their own behalf; or, when all else failed, they begged their bread from their own parishioners, who were apt to be more liberal of reproaches than of alms. The well-being of the secular clergy being one of the questions under consideration by the present government, the author has devoted to it much of his last chapter.

Such is the general plan of this book, which must be read through to give an idea of the humiliating degradation to which the hapless clergy were for more than a century condemned, thanks to the anomaly of institutions still more than to the abuses practised by individuals. When the source is corrupt, can the stream be pure?

But all this relates to the “Orthodox” of the empire. That which is more directly interesting to the Catholic reader will be found in works respecting the Ruthenian[82] Church, which is at this time attracting the attention of the West.

The _History of the Reunion of the Ancient Uniates of the West_,[83] by M. Koïalovitch, Professor of the Ecclesiastical (Orthodox) Academy of the capital, repeats the faults of all the numerous writings, whether books, pamphlets, or articles, which have issued from his pen in the course of the last ten years, and which are painfully remarkable for their spirit of partiality, their preconceived ideas, their self-contradictions, and their hatred of the Catholic faith. An organ of the press of St. Petersburg has expressed a desire that the documents upon which this author professedly rests three-fourths of his last book, while purposely neglecting all extraneous sources whatever, whether political or diplomatic, should be given to the public, which would then be enabled to judge for itself how far the statements based upon them are to be trusted. Nor can any obstacle exist in the way of such publication, as was shown by the work of Moroehkine on the reunion of the Uniates in 1839, equally compiled from official documents of unquestionable importance, which were then edited for the first time.

It is impossible not to be struck with the strange coincidence of so many publications upon union with the painful events which are taking place at the present time in the Diocese of Khelm, and which had evidently been preparing long beforehand. Books have their _raison d’être_--a reason for their appearance at particular periods. It is said, even, that M. Koïalovitch is at the head of a school of opinion, and that his disciples can be pointed out without difficulty. Thus, Rustchinski is the author of a study on the _Religious Condition of the Russian People according to Foreign Authors of the XVIth and XVIIth Centuries_; Nicolaïevski has written on _Preaching in the XVIth Century_; Demaïanovitch, on _The Jesuits in Western Russia, from 1569 to 1772_, at which latter year the thread of their history is taken up and continued by Moroehkine; Kratchkovski, on the _Interior State of the Uniate Church_ (1872); and Stcherbinski has given the history of the Order of S. Basil. But we must not prolong the catalogue, which, however, is by no means complete. Never has so much literary activity been known in the “Orthodox” communion as now, if, perhaps, we except the first times of the union.

But before passing on to another head we must not fail to mention, as one of the principal representatives of the literary movement of the XVIth century, the celebrated namesake and predecessor of the present Metropolitan of Mesopotamia, _i.e._, Archbishop Macarius, to whom we are indebted for the monumental work known as the _Great Menology_, and which is a species of religious encyclopædia, containing, besides the lives of the saints for every day in the year, the entire works of the early fathers, as well as ascetic, canonical, and literary treatises. The Archæographic Commission of St. Petersburg has undertaken the republication, in its integrity, of this colossal work, of which only three quarto volumes in double columns have at present appeared.

IV. BIOGRAPHIES.--As we have already remarked, it is interesting to observe the eagerness with which the Russian people welcome everything that tends to throw light upon their past. For instance, what is usually drier than a catalogue? And yet the one compiled by M. Méjov has already reached four thousand copies. It is true that his _Systematic Catalogue_ (of original documents) combines various qualities that are somewhat rare in publications of this description. It is not, however, desirable that a taste for the mere reproduction of inedited manuscripts should be carried too far; the interests of science demanding rather that they should be made use of in the production of works aspiring to greater completeness, and suited to meet the requirements of modern criticism.

A certain number of works have already been written in accordance with this idea. That of M. Tchistovitch, entitled _Theophanes Procopovitch and his Times_, may be given as a model, as may also the excellent study of M. Ikonnikov on Count Nicholas Mordinhov, one of the remarkable men who flourished in the reign of the Emperor Alexander I. and Nicholas. Various memoirs of this personage had previously appeared in different collections, but no one before the young professor of Kiev had taken the trouble to study the original sources upon which alone an authentic life could be written, to reduce them to system, and give them a living form. It is not only the opinions and theories of the count which are given, but those also of contemporary society and the persons by whom he was surrounded, those of the latter being occasionally too lengthily developed. M. Ikonnikov was also, some years ago, the author of an interesting work, entitled _The Influence of Byzantine Civilization on Russian History_ (Kiev: 1870). And this leads us to mention a book recently published by M. Philimonov, vice-director of the Museum of Arms, on _Simon Ouchakov and the Iconography of his Time_.

The name of this artist has scarcely been heard in the West. Born in 1626, he early evinced a talent for painting, and at the age of twenty-two was admitted into the number of iconographists appointed by the czar; his specialty consisting in making designs, more particularly for the gold-work appropriated to religious uses. Of his paintings, the earliest bears the date of 1657. M. Philimonov passes in review all his later productions, accompanying each with a short but careful notice, and dwelling chiefly upon the two which he considers the masterpieces of Russian iconography at that period, namely, the painting of the Annunciation and that of Our Lady of Vladimir. Besides these two principal paintings, Ouchakov left a quantity of others, most of which bear his name, with the date of their completion, although these indications are not needed, his pictures being easily recognizable. He may, in fact, be considered as at the head of a new school of painting, taking the middle line between the conventional Muscovite iconography and the paintings of the West; between the inanimate and rigid formalism of the one and the living variety of the other; and thus inaugurating the new era in religious art which manifested itself in Russia with the opening of the XVIIth century, and permitting the introduction of a realism which the ancient iconographers were wholly ignorant of, and would have considered it detrimental to Oriental orthodoxy to countenance. Ouchakov was ennobled, in honor of his talents, and died in 1656, at the age of sixty, in the full enjoyment of public esteem.

In connection with the subject of art, we may add that M. Philimonov has just issued an elegant edition of the _Guide to Russian Iconography_, which teaches the correct manner in which to represent the saints. The text of this work, which is for the first time published in Russian, has been furnished by three of the most ancient manuscripts known to exist, one of which formerly belonged to the Church of S. Sophia of Novogorod. Fully to comprehend the text, however, it is necessary to have together with it, for constant reference, some pictorial guide, as, for instance, the one published by M. Boutovski. The two works explain and complete each other, as both alike refer to about the same period; but, also, both should be consulted in subordinate reference to the Greek _Guide_, if the reader is to be enabled to separate the Byzantine element from that which is specially characteristic of Russian iconography.

In connection with general literature mention must be made of the fabulist, Khemnitzer, whose complete works and correspondence have been edited by Grote, together with a biography, composed from previously-unpublished sources. After the vast labor of editing the works of Derjavine, those of Khemnitzer would be in comparison a mere amusement to the learned and indefatigable academician.

V. JOURNALS AND MEMOIRS.--The _Journal of Khrapovski_ (1782-1793), published by M. Barsoukov, who has enriched it with a biographical notice and explanatory notes, appears for the first time in its integrity, and accompanied by a _catalogue raisonné_ of all the personages who find themselves mentioned in the text. This journal derives its special interest and value from the position of the author, who for ten years was attached to the _personal_ service of the Empress Catherine II. (_Chargé des Affaires Personnelles_), and who, being thus admitted into the interior and home-life of the court, noted down day by day, and sometimes hour by hour, all that he there saw or heard. This is certainly not history; but an intelligent historian will sometimes find there, in a sentence spoken apparently at random, the germ of great political events which were accomplished later.

The _Journal of Lady Rondeau_, wife of the English resident-minister at the court of the Empress Anne, is the first volume of foreign writers on the Russia of the XVIIIth century, edited with notes by M. Choubinski. The idea of publishing the accounts of foreigners on the Russian Empire merits encouragement, and, if well carried out, will shed new light on numberless points which an indigenous author would leave unnoticed, but which have a real interest in the eyes of a stranger. If it should be objected that foreigners judge superficially and partially, it is none the less true that the worth of their impressions arises precisely from the diversity of country and point of view. Besides, all strangers could not, without injustice, be alike charged with lightness and inexactitude. The memoirs of Masson on the court of Catherine II. and of Paul I. are quoted by the Russians themselves as a striking proof to the contrary; no single fact which he mentions having been disproved by history. The merit of Lady Rondeau’s book is increased by the notice, in form of an appendix, which is added by her husband, on the character of each of the principal personages of the court.

We conclude this rapid and imperfect summary by mentioning the _Catalogue of the Section of Russica_, or writings upon Russia in foreign languages--a work of which the initiation is due to the administrators of the Public Library of St. Petersburg, and forming two enormous volumes. To give some idea of the riches accumulated in the section of _Russica_, perhaps unique in the world, and of which the formation commenced in 1849, it will suffice to say that the number of works enumerated in the catalogue reaches the figures 28,456, _without reckoning_ those composed in Lithuanian, Esthonian, Servian, Bulgarian, Greek, and other Oriental languages, which will together form a supplementary volume. Besides original works, the catalogue indicates all the translations of Russian books, and enumerates all the periodicals which have appeared in Russia in foreign languages.

The works are arranged in alphabetical order; but at the end of the second volume we find an analytical table, commencing with history, the historical portion being the most considerable one in the section of _Russica_. Thus the literary treasures possessed by the principal library of the empire are henceforward made known with regard to each branch of the sciences in relation to Russia. If to this we add the _Systematic Catalogue_ of M. Méjov, mentioned above, we possess the historic literature of Russia in its completeness.

THE FIRST JUBILEE.

Almighty God, who has “ordered all things in measure and _number_ and weight” (Wisd. xi. 21), and who teaches us, under the guidance of his church, to observe sacred times and seasons, has brought around again the Holy Year of Jubilee, during which an extraordinary indulgence is granted by the Pope, that sinners being led to repentance, and the just increased in grace, each one can hear it said to himself: “In an _acceptable time_ I have heard thee” (Is. xlix. 8).

We will not touch here upon the nature or doctrine of indulgences, more than to give a definition of our Jubilee, viz., a solemn plenary remission of such temporal punishment as may still be due to divine justice after the guilt of sin has been forgiven, which the Sovereign Pontiff, in the fulness of apostolic power, makes at a stated period to all the faithful, on condition of performing certain specified pious works; empowering confessors to absolve for the nonce in reserved cases and from censures not specially excepted, and to commute all vows not likewise excepted into other salutary matter. Our Holy Father, Pius IX., by an Encyclical Letter dated from S. Peter’s on the vigil of last Christmas, has announced that, the year 1875 completing the cycle of time determined by his predecessors for the recurrence of the Jubilee, he declares it the Holy Year, and sets forth the conditions of the same, with other circumstances of ecclesiastical discipline usual on so rare an occasion of grace.

The origin of the word _jubilee_ itself is uncertain. It is a Hebrew term that first occurs in the twenty-fifth chapter of Leviticus: “And thou shalt sanctify the fiftieth year, … for it is the year of Jubilee.” Josephus (_Antiquit._, iii. 11) says that it means _liberty_, by which his annotators understand that discharge among the Jews from debts and bondage, and restitution to every man of his former property, as commanded by the law. The more common opinion derives it from _jobel_, a ram’s horn, because the Jubilee year was ushered in by the blasts of the sacred trumpets, made of the horns of the ram. Pope Boniface VIII. is erroneously supposed by many to have instituted the Christian Jubilee; for he only restored what had already existed, and reduced it substantially to its present form; inasmuch as there had been from an early period a custom among Christians of visiting Rome at the turn of every succeeding century, in the hope of obtaining great spiritual favors at the tomb of S. Peter, and perhaps also with the idea of atoning in some measure for the superstitious secular games which during the reign of Augustus the _Quindecimviri_ (a college of priests) announced as having been given once in every century in memory of the foundation of the Eternal City, and which, after consulting the Sibylline books in their care, they prevailed upon the emperor to celebrate again. Mgr. Pompeo Sarnelli, Bishop of Bisceglie in 1692, treats of the secular year of the heathen Romans and the Jubilee of their Christian descendants together, as though one were in some respect a purified outgrowth of the other. He says: “But the Christians, to change profane into sacred things, were accustomed to go every hundredth year to visit the Vatican basilica, and celebrate the memory of Christ, who was born for the redemption of the world; so that the Holy Year was the sanctification of the profane centenary in the lapse of time; but in its spiritual benefits it perfected the effects of the Jubilee kept by the Jews every fiftieth year for temporal advantages” (_Lettere Ecclesiast._, x. 50). Macri also, in his _Hiero-lexicon_ (1768), says: “We believe that the popes who have always endeavored (when the nature of the thing permitted) to alter the vain observances of the Gentiles into sacred ceremonies for the worship of God, in order to eradicate the superstitious secular year of the Romans, established our Holy Year of Jubilee, and enriched it with indulgences.” Of the connection between our Jubilee and that of the Jews Devoti (_Inst. Can._, ii. p. 250, note) remarks that their fiftieth year “aliquo modo imago fuit Jubilæi, quem postea Romani Pontifices instituerunt--” was in some wise a figure of that Jubilee which, at a later period, the Roman pontiffs instituted.

Benedetto Gaetani of Anagni (Boniface VIII.) had been elected pope at Naples on Dec. 24, 1294, and was residing in Rome at the close of the century, when he heard towards Christmas that many pilgrims were approaching the city, who came, they said, to gain the indulgence which an ancient tradition taught could be obtained there every hundredth year, at the beginning of a new century. Although search was made in the pontifical archives for some record of a concession of special indulgence at such a period, none was found; but witnesses of established veracity assured the pope that they had heard of this indulgence, and that it was connected with a visit to the tomb of S. Peter.

Brocchi in his _Storia del Giubbileo_, page 6, mentions among the venerable persons examined before the pope and cardinals one man 107 years old, and another--a noble Savoyard--over 100 years old, who both made deposition that as children they had been brought to Rome by their parents, who had often reminded them not to omit the pilgrimage of the next century, if they should live so long. Two very aged Frenchmen from the Diocese of Beauvais also deposed to having come to Rome on the strength of a like centennial tradition of which they had heard their fathers speak. The chronicler William Ventura of Asti (born in 1250) writes that at the beginning of the year 1300 an immense crowd of pilgrims, coming to Rome from the East and from the West, used to throng about the pope and cry out: “Give us thy blessing before we die; for we have learnt from our elders that all Christians who shall visit on the hundredth year the basilica where rest the bones of the apostles Peter and Paul can obtain absolution of their sins and the remission of any penance that might still be due for them” (apud Muratori, _Rer. Ital. Script._, xi. 26). Boniface VIII. then called a consistory, and on the advice of the cardinals determined to issue a bull confirming the grant of indulgence, did such really exist; and in any case offering a plenary indulgence to all who, contrite, should confess their sins and visit at least once a day for thirty days--not necessarily consecutive, if Romans; if strangers, only for fifteen days in the same manner--the two basilicas of the holy apostles SS. Peter and Paul during the course of the year 1300. This interesting bull, which is usually cited by its opening words, _Antiquorum habet fida relatio_, and may be seen in any collection of canon law among the _Extravagantes Communes_ (lib. v. De Pœn. et Rem., c. 1), is short and elegantly condensed--for which reason, perhaps, an old glossarist calls it “epistola satis grossè composite”--and, although written before the revival of Latin letters, compares favorably with the verbose composition of later documents. It was probably drawn up by Sylvester, the papal secretary, who is named as writer of the circular-letter sent in the pope’s name to all bishops and Christian princes to acquaint them with the measure taken, and invite them to exhort the faithful of their dioceses and their loyal subjects to go on the pilgrimage Romeward. The pope published his bull himself on the 22d of February, 1300, being the feast of S. Peter at Antioch, by reading it aloud from a richly-draped _ambon_ erected for the occasion before the high altar in S. Peter’s, which had a very different appearance from the domed and cross-shaped structure that we now admire, as lovers of architectural elegance; for as antiquarians we must regret the venerable building which was a _basilica_ in form as well as in name. When Boniface had finished, he descended, and went up in person to the altar to deposit upon it the bull of indulgence in homage to the Prince of the Apostles, whose successor he was, and not unworthily maintained himself to be. Then returning to his former place, while the cardinals stood with bended head around it and beneath him, he gave his solemn blessing to an immense number of pilgrims, who, filling the church and overflowing into the square in front, reverentially knelt to receive it. Truly, the hearts of the people were with that man, although the hands of princes were against him. A most interesting memorial of this very scene has been preserved to us through sack and fire for nearly six hundred years in the shape of a painting by the celebrated Giotto--a portrait, too, and not a fancy sketch--which is the only portion saved of the beautiful frescos with which he ornamented the _loggia_ built by Boniface at S. John Lateran. It represents the pope in the act of giving his benediction to the people between two cardinals (or, as some critics think, two prelates), one of whom holds a document in his hand--evidently meant for the bull of Jubilee by an artist’s license, to specify more distinctly the circumstance; for it was then actually on the altar--while the other looks down upon the crowd over the hanging cloth on which the Gaetani arms are emblazoned. This specimen of higher art of the XIVth century was for a long time preserved in the cloister of S. John, until a representative of the Gaetani (now ducal) family had it carefully set up against one of the pilasters of the church, and protected with a glass covering, in 1786, where it may still be seen, although it is not often noticed according to its merits.

Our chief authorities for the details of this Jubilee are the pope’s nephew, James Cardinal Stefaneschi; the Chronicler of Asti (generally quoted as _Chronicon Astense_); and the Florentine merchant and Guelph historian, John Villani, who died of the plague in 1348. All were eye-witnesses.

The cardinal wrote on the Jubilee in prose and verse. His work, _De centesimo, seu Jubilæo anno Liber_, is published in the _Biblioth. Max. Patrum_, tom. xxv. He is the earliest writer to use the word _jubilee_, which is not found in the pope’s bull, but must have been common at the period, for others use it. A sententious specimen of the cardinal deacon’s prose style may be interesting; it contains a good sentiment, and is not bad Latin, although the German Gregorovius, in his _History of Rome in the Middle Ages_, speaks of “die barbarische Schrift des Jacob Stefaneschi”--“that barbarous opuscule of James Stefaneschi”: “Beatus populus qui scit Jubilationem; infelices vero qui torpore, vel temeritate, dum alterius sibi forsan ævum Jubilæi spondent, neglexerint” (cap. xv.)--“Blessed is the people that profiteth by this season of remission; but unhappy are the slothful and presumptuous ones who, promising themselves another Jubilee, neglect it.” His hexameters, however, are undoubtedly execrable; for instance:

“Discite, centeno detergi crimina Phœbo, (!) Discite, si latebras scabrosi criminis ora Depromunt, contrita sinu, dum circulus anni Gyrat, perque dies quindenos exter, et Urbis Incola tricenos delubra patentia Patrum Ætherei Petri, Pauli quoque gentibus almi Doctoris subeant, ubi congerit urna sepultos.”

Cardinal James of the Title of S. George _in Velabro_ was one of the most distinguished men of Rome; “famous,” as Tiraboschi says (_Letterat. Ital._, v. 517), “not less for his birth than for his learning.” His mother was an Orsini. He died in 1343.

As soon as the grant of this great indulgence was noised abroad an extraordinarily large number of pilgrims set out from all parts of Italy, from Provence and France, from Spain, Germany, Hungary, and even from England, although not very many from that country, which was then at war. They came of every age, sex, and condition: children led by the hand or carried in the arms, the infirm borne in litters, the knightly and those of more means on horseback, while not a few old people were seen, Anchises-like, supported on the shoulders of their sons. _The Chronicle of Parma_ (quoted by Gregorovius, _Geschichte der Stadt Rom im Mittelalter_, v. p. 549) says that “every day and at all hours there was a sight as of a general army marching in and out by the Claudian Way,” which brought the pilgrims into the city after joining the Flaminian Way at the gate now represented by the Porta del Popolo; and the Chronicler of Asti has to use the words of the Apocalypse to describe the throngs that gathered about the roaring gates. “I went out one day,” he says, and “I saw a great crowd which no man could number.” The whole influx of pilgrims, including men and women, during the year, was computed by the Romans at over two millions; while Villani, who was a careful observer, writes that about thirty thousand people used to enter and leave the city every day, there being at no time less than two hundred thousand within the walls over and above the fixed population. But the pilgrimage was especially one of the poor to the tomb of the Fisherman; and all writers on it have remarked, in noticing the fervent enthusiasm of the common people, the cold reserve and absence of their royal masters. Only the Frenchman Charles Martel, titular King of Hungary, came; it is presumable more to obtain the pope’s good-will in the dispute about the succession to the throne than from piety. The nearest approach to royalty after him was Charles of Valois, who came accompanied by his family and a courtly retinue of five hundred knights, and doubtless hoped to receive the crown of Sicily from Boniface, if he could expel the usurping Aragonese.

So many thousands of pilgrims, citizens and strangers, went day and night to S. Peter’s that not a few were maimed, and some even trampled to death, in the struggling crowd of goers and comers that met at the crossing of the Tiber over the old Ælian bridge leading to the Leonine city. To obviate such disasters in future, the wide bridge was divided lengthwise by a strong wooden railing, thus forming two passages, of which the advancing and returning pilgrims took respectively the one on their right. The poet Dante, who is strongly supposed to have been in Rome for the Jubilee, although there is no proof either in the _Divine Comedy_ or the _Vita Nuova_ that he was, may have written as an eye-witness when he describes this very scene of the passing but not mingling streams of human beings in the well-known lines:

“Come i Roman, per l’esercito molto, L’anno del giubbileo, su per lo ponte Hanno a passar la gente modo tolto; Che dall’ un lato tutti hanno la fronte Verso’l castello, e vanno a Santo Pietro-- Dall’ altra sponda vanno verso’l monte.”[84]

--_Inferno_, xviii.

The castle here mentioned is, of course, Sant’ Angelo; and the hill is probably Monte Giordano, in the heart of the city, which, although, from the grading of the surrounding streets, is now only a gentle rise graced by the Gabrielli palace, was a high and strongly-fortified position in the XIVth century. Among all the relics seen by the pilgrims in Rome, the Holy Face of our Lord, or Cloth of Veronica, which is preserved with so much veneration in S. Peter’s, seems to have attracted the most attention. By order of the pope it was solemnly shown to the people on every Friday and on all the principal feasts throughout the year of Jubilee. The great Tuscan has also sung of this, which he possibly saw himself:

“Quale è colui che forse di Croazia Viene a veder la Veronica nostra, Che per l’antica fama non si sazia, Ma dice nel pensier, fin che si mostra; Signor mio Gesù Cristo, Dio verace, Or fu sì fatta la sembianza vostra?”[85]

--_Paradiso_, xxxi.

A modern economist might wonder how a famine was to be averted, with such a sudden and numerous addition to the population of the city. The foresight of the energetic pope, whose family also was influential in the very garden of the Campagna, among those hardy laborers of whom Virgil sung, “Quos dives Anagnia pascit,” had early in the year caused an immense supply of grain, oats, meat, fish, wine, and other sorts of provision for man and beast to be collected from every quarter and brought into the city, where it was stored and guarded against the coming of the pilgrims. The provisions were abundant and cheap. The Chronicler of Asti, it is true, complains of the dearness of the hay or fodder for his horse; but as he thought _tornesium unum grossum_ (equal to six cents of our money) too high for his own daily lodging and his horse’s stabling, without bait, we must think either that the means of living in Italy in those days were incredibly low, or that Ventura was very parsimonious. It is the testimony of all the writers on this Jubilee that, except an inundation of the Tiber, which threatened for a few days to cut off the train of supplies for the city, everything was propitious to the comfort and piety of the faithful. The roads through Italy leading to Rome were safe, at least to the pilgrims, to whom a general safe-conduct was given by the various little republics and principalities of the Peninsula; and if the Romans did grow rich off of the strangers, there was good-humor on both sides, and not the slightest collision. Indeed, the Romans (who perhaps gained the Jubilee before the great body of the pilgrims had arrived; at least we know that those out of the northern parts of Europe timed their departure from home so as to avoid the sweltering southern heat) seem to have shown some indifference to the spiritual favors offered; as Gregorovius--who, however, is anti-papal--with a quiet sarcasm says: “They left the pilgrims to pray at the altars, while they marched with flaunting banners against the neighboring city of Toscanella”; and Galletti, in his _Roman Mediæval Inscriptions_ (tom. ii. p. 4), has published a curious old one on this martial event, the original of which is now encased in one of the inside walls of the Palazzo dei Conservatori (this name may have been changed by the present usurpers) on the Capitoline hill, where it was set up under Clement X. in 1673. As it is most interesting for its synchronism with the first Jubilee, and the insight it gives us into the mixed sort of fines imposed by the descendants of the conquerors of the world upon a subjugated people in the middle ages--bags of wheat, a bell, the city gates, eight lusty fellows to dance while their masters piped, and a gentle hint that there was _no salt sown_--we think it might well appear (doubtless for the first time) in an American periodical. The original being in the abbreviated style of the XIVth century, we have modernized it to make it more intelligible to the reader:

“Mille trecentenis Domini currentibus annis Papa Bonifacius octavus in orbe vigebat Tunc Aniballensis Riccardus de Coliseo Nec non Gentilis Ursina prole creatus Ambo senatores Romam cum pace regebant Per quos jam pridem tu Tuscanella fuisti Ob dirum damnata nefas, tibi dempta potestas Sumendi regimen est, at data juribus Urbis Frumenti rubla bis millia ferre coegit Annua te Roma vel libras solvere mille Cum Deus attulerit Romanis fertilitatem Campanam populi, portas deducere Romam Octo ludentes Romanis mittere ludis-- Majori pœna populi pietate remissa. Sunt quoque communis servata palatia Romæ Dummodo certe ruant turresque palatia muri Si rursus furere tentent fortassis in Urbem Vel jam prolata nolint decreta tenere In æde reponatur sacra pro tempore guerræ Tempore vel caro servanda pecunia prorsus.”

The meaning of the tenth, eleventh, and twelfth lines is that, since the Romans have land enough to give them their daily bread, but do not object to any amount of _quattrim_ (coin), if the vanquished should prefer, they may pay once for all a thousand pounds in money, instead of the annual tribute of two thousand sacks of grain--with freight charges to destination; and the last lines signify that a sum is laid up in the chapel to be used to carry on another war if the Tuscanellans should again machinate against the City--as Rome was proudly called--or refuse to fulfil the stipulations.

The pilgrims of the Jubilee generally made a small offering at the altars of the two basilicas, although no alms were required as a condition of gaining the indulgence; and it is particularly from a _naïve_ passage of one of them in his valuable chronicle that Protestants and Voltaireans have taken occasion to deride the Jubilees as mere money-making affairs; and even the Catholic Muratori (_Antichità Italiane_, tom. iii. part ii. p. 156) carps at the inimitable description of so Romanesque a scene as that of two chatting clerics raking in the oblations of the _forestieri_; but Cenni, the annotator of this great work of the Modenese historian in the Roman edition of 1755, which we use, aptly remarks here that if writers will look only at the bad side of the many and almost innumerable events that have occurred in this low world of ours, and illogically conclude from a particular to the universal, they will discover that art of putting things whereby what has generally been considered good and laudable will appear thereafter worthy only of censure. The Chronicler of Asti, certainly with no great thought of what people would think five hundred years after he was mouldering in his grave, simply writes of the pilgrims’ donations: “Papa innumerabilem pecuniam ab eisdem recepit, quia die ac nocte duo clerici stabant ad altare sancti Petri, tenentes in eorum manibus rastellos rastellantes pecuniam infinitam.”

Although we believe that the honest Chronicler of Asti deserves credit for taking notes at the Jubilee, yet this very passage, read in connection with the other one about the dearness of his living, shows us that he was one of those pious but penurious souls who, if he had lived in our day, and a gentleman called on him for a subscription, would beg to be permitted to wait until the list got down very low. The Protestant Gregorovius has shown that these exaggerated offerings “were for the most part only small coin, the gift of common pilgrims”; while the Catholic Von Reumont (_Geschichte der Stadt Rom_, vol. ii. p. 650) has calculated that this “infinite amount of money” was only after all equal to about two hundred and forty thousand Prussian thalers, which would make no more than one hundred and seventy-five thousand, two hundred dollars. When the pope knew how generous were the offerings of the faithful, he ordered the entire sum to be expended on the two basilicas, in buying property to support the chapter of the one and the monastery attached to the other, and in those thousand and more other expenses which only those who have lived in Rome can understand to be necessary to support the majesty of divine worship within such edifices. Surely, it was better, in any case, that the money of the pilgrims should go for the glory of the saints and the embellishment of God’s temples than be exacted at home by cruel barons and ruthless princes to carry on their petty wars or strengthen their castles.

Mr. Hemans (no friend to our Rome), in his _Mediæval Christianity and Sacred Art_ (vol. i. p. 474), says, after mentioning these “heaps of coins”: “If much of this went into the papal treasury, it is manifest that the expenditure from that source for the charities exercised throughout this holy season must also have been great.” This is a lame statement; because, although on the one hand the large subventions of the pope to the poor pilgrims are certain, on the other there is no proof whatever that _any_ alms they gave went into his “treasury.” The pope, indeed, having at heart the comfort of the strangers and the beauty of the city, put up many new buildings and made other improvements, such as the beautiful Gothic _loggia_ of S. John of Lateran, which the greatest painter of the age was commissioned to decorate with frescos (Papencordt, _Rom im Mittelalter_, p. 336). It is perhaps from a traditionary knowledge of these architectural propensities of the pope during the Jubilee year, and of his endowments to the basilicas, that so many people have quite erroneously believed the sombre but picturesque old farm-buildings of Castel Giubileo, which crown the green and lonely hill where more than two thousand years ago the Arx of Fidenæ stood a rival to the Capitol of Rome, to be a memorial of, and to get its designation from, this Jubilee of A.D. 1300. Even Sir Wm. Gell (_Top. of Rome_, p. 552) repeats the old story. But the more careful Nibby (_Dintorni di Roma_, vol. ii. p. 58) has demonstrated, with the aid of a document in the archives of the Vatican basilica, that the name of this place between the Via Salaria and the Tiber, five miles from Rome, is derived from that of a Roman family which acquired the site (previously called Monte Sant’ Angelo) and built the castle in the XIVth century; and that it did not come into the possession of the chapter of S. Peter until the 16th of December, 1458, when it was bought for the sum of three thousand golden ducats. So much for an instance of jumping at conclusions from a mere similarity of name, put together with something else, which is so common a fault of antiquaries.

GREVILLE AND SAINT-SIMON.

Mr. Charles Greville was not a La Bruyère,[86] but, as he appears in his _Memoirs_, he might have sat very well for that portrait of Arrias which the inimitable imitator of Theophrastus has drawn in his chapter on society and conversation: “Arrias has read everything, has seen everything; at least he would have it thought so. ’Tis a man of universal knowledge, and he gives himself out as such; he would sooner lie than be silent or appear ignorant of anything.… If he tells a story, it is less to inform those who listen than to have the merit of telling it. It becomes a romance in his hands; he makes people think after his own manner; he puts his own habits of speaking in their mouths; and, in fine, makes them all as talkative as himself. What would become of him and of them, if happily some one did not come in to break up the circle and contradict the whole story?”

This exact picture of the late clerk of H.B.M. Privy Council might have been written the morning after his _Memoirs_ appeared in the London bookstores, instead of nearly two hundred years ago. It is at once a proof of the penetrating genius of La Bruyère, and a photograph every one will recognize of the author of the journal which has lately made so much noise in society. This clever Newmarket jockey--_rebus Newmarketianis versatus_, as he says of himself--to whom every point of the betting book is familiar, carelessly refreshes his jaded intellect with the _Life of Mackintosh_, as he rides down in his carriage to the races. With affable profusion he scatters broadcast to the mob of readers scraps of Horace and Ovid, mingled with the latest odds on the Derby. He has seen everything from S. Giles’s to S. Peter’s, and, with the _blasé_ air of a man at once of genius and fashion, proclaims “there is nothing in it.” He knows everything, from the most questionable scandal of the green-room to the best plan of forming a cabinet; such second-rate men as Melbourne, Palmerston, and Stanley he sniffs at with easy disdain; and if at times he gently bemoans a few personal deficiencies, it is with a complacent conviction that it needed only a little early training to have made him a Peel, a Burke, or a Chatham! That he would “sooner lie than be silent,” one needs only remember his infamous stories about Mrs. Charles Kean and Lady Burghersh; his calumnies against George IV. and William IV.--the masters whose gracious kindness he repaid by bribing their _valets_ for evidence against them--his unfounded attacks upon Peel, Stanley, O’Connell, and Lyndhurst; his slanders even against obscure men, like Wakley and others. As to his habit of “making people think after his own manner,” and putting “his own mode of speaking in their mouths,” the profanity and vulgarity which disfigure his pages are the best evidence.

That this is a true estimate of the merits of _The Greville Memoirs_ is now generally admitted. The most respectable critical exponents of English opinion have united in condemning the bad taste and breach of trust which made either their composition or publication possible. It needs no refinement of reasoning to prove that the expressions everywhere so freely quoted from this journal are such as could not honorably be uttered by any gentleman holding the office Mr. Greville did. Readers will easily be found for them, either from a love of sensation or because of the illustration they offer of the character of the persons described or the writer; but nothing can condone their real offensiveness. Such, however, was far from being the first opinion of the press. The leading English journal, in two lengthy reviews such as rarely appear in its columns, handled Mr. Greville’s work with a delicacy, an admiration, a regretful and half-tender daintiness of touch for the author, that promised everything to the reader. This criticism was followed by a general outburst of applause on the part of the press, which soon began to waver, however, when it was found that the best section of English society regarded the book with disapproval.

So conscious, indeed, were the American publishers of its intrinsic lack of interest or literary merit that one firm has presented it to the public with nearly all the political portions left out and the private gossip retained. “It is said,” says the _Saturday Review_ not long ago, “that an American compiler has published a pleasant duodecimo volume containing only those passages which may be supposed to gratify a morbid taste.” The London critic intended, no doubt, to be pungent and satirical; but how innocuously does such satire fall upon the head of the average “compiler”!

If Mr. Greville has not made good his claim to stand among the masters of his craft, least of all is he to be named in the same day with the prince of memoir-writers--Saint-Simon; unless, indeed, it be to point the moral that more is needed for excellency in such an art than an inquisitive mind and a biting pen. Yet Mr. Greville’s opportunity was great--greater, probably, than will happen to any other memoir-writer for some generations to come. Like Saint-Simon, he began active life in an age of great events and great men. Whatever may be said of the pettiness of the regency, of its profligacy and mock brilliancy, no one can forget that those were days of great perils; of vast struggles, military and civil; of giants’ wars, and of a race of combatants not unworthy to take part in them. Nor were the twenty years succeeding--which make up, as we may roughly say, that portion of his journal now printed--wanting in great interests and momentous events. The age which gave birth to Catholic Emancipation and the Reform Bill, while it still numbered among its chiefs the veterans of the great Continental war, could not fail to offer subjects for treatment that would be read eagerly by all succeeding times. If Saint-Simon witnessed the culmination of the glories of the reign of Louis XIV., and saw De Luxembourg and Catinat, the last survivors of that line of victorious marshals beginning with the great Condé and Turenne, who had carried the lilies of France over Europe, not less was it Greville’s fortune to converse familiarly with the great duke who, repeating the triumphs of Marlborough, had beaten down the arms of the empire in a later age. And if Saint-Simon lived also to see the disasters, the weakness, the desolation, and bankruptcy of his country which succeeded the long splendor of his youth, Greville too looked on as a spectator, almost, one might say, as a registrar, at the hardly less terrible civil struggles and social depression which threatened to rend the kingdom asunder.

Both were of noble families, although the Duc de Saint-Simon was the head of his house, and Mr. Greville only a cadet of his. Both were courtiers; and although Saint-Simon’s position as a peer of France lifted him far above Greville’s in his day, who was rather a paid servant of the crown than strictly a courtier, yet the very office of the latter gave him advantages which the elder memoir-writer did not always possess. Here, however, all parallel ceases. The radical incapacity of Mr. Greville’s mind to lift him above the common race of diarists prevents all further comparison. He had neither the genius of assimilation nor description to make the portraits of men and manners live, like Saint-Simon’s, in the gallery of history. His informants are _valets_, his satire mere backbiting, his reflections trivial, his descriptions a confused mass of petty details.

It is not proposed here to weary the reader with long quotations from a work which so many already have read or skimmed over. Nor do we intend, on the other hand, to follow the fashion of some critics, and carefully gather up all the points which might be woven into an indictment against Mr. Greville’s honor or candor or wit. Such a task would be endless; it would take in almost every other page of his volumes. But that it may be seen that the unfavorable opinion which, after a careful examination, we have been led--much to our disappointment--to entertain of his work is not misplaced, we shall proceed to give some passages that sustain, in our judgment, the correctness of the view we have taken.

Charles C. F. Greville was, as his editor, Mr. H. Reeve, informs us, the eldest son of Mr. Charles Greville, grandson of the Earl of Warwick, and Lady Charlotte Bentinck, daughter of the Duke of Portland. He was born in 1794. At the age of nineteen he was appointed private secretary by Earl Bathurst, and almost at the same time family influence procured for him a clerkship in the Board of Trade. Both offices had comfortable salaries attached to them; neither of them any duties. Thus at the outset of his career, fortunate in his family influence and his friends, Mr. Greville was started, fairly equipped, on the road of life. Unencumbered by any responsibility, nor weighed down by that sharp and bitter load of poverty that men of humbler birth have commonly to carry on their galled shoulders, while they strive to gain an insecure foothold on the slippery road to fame or fortune, he had every incentive and every advantage to secure success. A subject for thanksgiving, shall we say, to this accomplished sinecurist? By no means! Years afterwards he bemoans the fact that he had nothing to do, no spur to honorable ambition. He forgot that at the same or an earlier age Saint-Simon, whom he appears to have read only to copy his sometimes coarse language, was handling a pike as a volunteer in the service of his king, and carrying sacks of grain on his shoulders to the starving troops in the trenches at Namur, disdaining those little offices into which Greville insinuated himself as soon as he left college. Or if it be said--what no man could then (1812) predict--that the war was nearly over, and there was little prospect of another, what was there to prevent him from seeking a place in Parliament--not hard to gain with his family influence--and there carving out for himself a place like that of Burke, to whom he sometimes lifts his eyes? The truth is, to use a vulgar phrase, Mr. Greville had “other fish to fry.” He knew well he had other easier and more profitable game to follow. He was scarcely of age when the influence of his uncle, the Duke of Portland, obtained for him the sinecure office of Secretary of Jamaica, a deputy being allowed to reside in the island; better still, the same influential relative secured him the reversion of the clerkship of the Council! Henceforward not the camp nor parliamentary struggles occupied Mr. Greville’s mind; the glorious task of “waiting for a dead man’s shoes,” varied by the congenial study of the stables, occupied that powerful intellect which, in these _Memoirs_, looks down with contempt on all the names most distinguished in European statesmanship during the first half of this century. The office fell to him in 1821, and he continued to hold it for nearly forty years. The net income of the two offices, we are elsewhere informed, amounted to about four thousand pounds; and as he died worth thirty thousand pounds, the charitable supposition of the _Quarterly Review_ is that “probably he was a gainer on the turf.” He died in 1865.

The bent of Mr. Greville’s genius was early shown.

“Sunt quos curriculo pulverem Olympicum Collegisse juvat.”

The clerk of the Council was one of them. The blue ribbon of the turf, not parliamentary honors or the long vigil of laborious nights--except over the card-table--was the centre around which his ambition and aspirations circled. Early smitten by the betting fever, he became as nearly a professional turfman as the security of his office would permit; and there is something ludicrous in those expressions of regret, which have drawn such tender sympathy from his critics, that he gave himself up to the passion instead of becoming the scholar or statesman he is always hinting he might have been. Mr. Greville, in fact, makes the blunder of supposing that the craving for fame is equivalent to the faculty for winning it. Not the turf, but original defect of capacity, hindered him from being more than he was--a clerk with a taste for gambling, held in check by a shrewd eye for the odds. His contemporary, the late Lord Derby, whom he seldom lets pass without a sneer in these _Memoirs_, was an example showing that, had true genius existed, a taste for the turf without participation in gambling, need not have prevented him from becoming both an accomplished scholar and a brilliant statesman.

An early entry in Mr. Greville’s journal gives the measure of the man. Under date of February 23, 1821, he says:

“Yesterday the Duke of York proposed to me to take the management of his horses, which I accepted. Nothing could be more kind than the manner in which he proposed it.”

“March 5.--I have experienced a great proof of the vanity of human wishes. In the course of three weeks I have attained the three things I have most desired in the world for years past, and upon the whole I do not feel that my happiness is increased.”

This is a good example, but far from the best of its kind, of that vein of apparently philosophical reflection running here and there through his journal, with which Mr. Greville deliberately intended, we believe, to hoodwink the critics, and in which anticipation he has been wonderfully successful. Coolly examined, it resolves itself as nearly as possible into a burlesque. His reflections, as La Bruyère says elsewhere of a like genius, “are generally about two inches deep, and then you come to the mud and gravel.” What were the three highest objects of human ambition in the mind of this ardent young man of twenty-seven, with the world before him to choose from? 1st. A berth in the civil service to creep into for the rest of his life. 2d. The place of head jockey and trainer in the prince’s stables. 3d. Unknown.

Alas! poor Greville, that the bubble of life should have burst so soon, leaving thee flat on thy back in a barren world, after having thus airily mounted to such imperial heights! Had either Juvenal or Johnson known thy towering ambition and thy fall, he would have placed thee side by side with dire Hannibal or the venturous Swede “to point a moral or adorn a tale”!

It is wonderful, however, how easily the diarist lays aside his philosophic tone to take up the more congenial _rôle_ of a spy upon the kings whose names are so ostentatiously displayed on his title-page, and from whose service alone he derived all the consideration he had.

On January 12, 1829, Lord Mount Charles comes to him for some information. Thereupon, under the guise of friendship and confidence, he avows with a curious shamelessness that he proceeded to interrogate his visitor about George IV.’s private life and habits. When he has got all he wants out of the unsuspecting Mount Charles, he sets it down in his journal and winds up with this reflection, everywhere quoted: “A more contemptible, cowardly, selfish, unfeeling dog does not exist than this king.” These were strong words to apply to a sovereign whose bread he was eating, and who had always personally treated him with marked confidence and kindness. Perhaps those who read Mr. Greville’s journal with attention, and note the slow portrait he therein unconsciously draws of himself, will be better able to judge where the terms more aptly apply. As a work of art, indeed, the journalist’s picture of himself is far superior to anything else in his book. Touch by touch he elaborates his own character. It is not a flattering one; it was never revealed to the artist. How pitiably does this coarse generalization of Greville’s compare with the fine but vigorous and indelible strokes of Saint-Simon’s pencil in his portrait of Louis XIV.! It is not a character, but a gross and clumsy invective.

But Mr. Greville had already plumbed a lower depth of baseness in his prurient eagerness for details.

August 29, 1828.--“I met Bachelor, the poor Duke of York’s old servant, and now the king’s _valet de chambre_, and he told me some curious things about the interior of the palace. But he is coming to call on me, and I will write down what he tells me then.” On the 16th of September he sent for Bachelor, and had a long conversation with him, drawing out all he could from the valet about his master’s habits.

May 13, 1829.--“Bachelor called again, telling me all sorts of details concerning Windsor and St. James.”

What a picture for the author of Gil Blas! It reminds one of some of those Spanish interiors the novelist has so deftly painted, where valet and adventurer put their heads together, scheming how best to open some rich don’s purse-strings, or ensnare his confidence before beginning some villanous game at his expense. If these be the springs of history, Clio defend us against her modern sister!

What makes all this prying the more indefensible is that Mr. Greville was without need of it even for the composition of these _Memoirs_. Elsewhere he boasts of the “great men” he has known. And it is true that he knew them; and had his ability equalled his opportunity, enough sources of information were honorably open to him to have made his journal valuable and interesting. But the truth is, Mr. Greville loved to dabble in dirty waters, as he has elsewhere plainly shown in his book.

A large part of these volumes--the major part of them, indeed--is taken up with political gossip. It would not be correct to give it any higher title. Its weight as a contribution to history, to use La Bruyère’s illustration, would be about two ounces. It consists chiefly of what he gathered at the council-table. But disloyal as this tampering with his oath may have been, his singular inaptitude to gather what was really important hardly offers even the poor excuse of interesting his readers in its results. The consideration of the eccentricities and sarcasms of his _bête noir_, the chancellor (Lord Brougham), during a large portion of the time covered by this journal, generally puts to flight in Mr. Greville’s mind all other topics. The rest of his political reminiscences are made up of conversations with the actors in the parliamentary scenes here presented; but even these lose the greater part of their value from his inveterate habit of confounding his own opinions and language with those of the person he happens to be “interviewing.” This confusion in Mr. Greville’s mind between what he thought and said and what others thought and said has been fully exposed by the numerous letters which have been drawn forth in England from the survivors of the persons named in his _Memoirs_ or from their friends. Mr. Greville adds very little to our knowledge of the events of the period he treats of. Nearly everything of importance in his journal has been anticipated. The correspondence of William IV. and Lord Grey, the life and despatches of Wellington, and the lives of Denman, Palmerston, and others, have left little to be supplied of this era of English history.

One of the most curious features--we might almost say the distinguishing feature--in a work full of curious traits of levity, conceit, and immature judgment, is the universal tone of depreciation in which the author speaks of the men of his acquaintance. This is not confined to ordinary personages who lived and died obscure, but embraces, as we have heretofore said, a large number of the names most illustrious in statesmanship and diplomacy in his times. Lord Althorpe, Melbourne, the late Earl Derby, Graham, Palmerston, O’Connell, Guizot, Thiers--one scarcely picks out a single name of eminence that he has not attempted to belittle. His opinions and prophecies have been in every instance flatly contradicted by events. Of Palmerston especially--of his stupidity, his ignorance, his lightness, his general want of capacity, and the certainty that he would never rise to be anybody--he is never done speaking slightingly. It is true that the late English premier passed through many years of obscurity in office, making, perhaps, some sort of excuse for Mr. Greville’s blindness; but this example is not an isolated one. The late Lord Derby comes in for an almost equal share of it, although he is allowed the possession of some brains--a claim denied to his after-rival. Mr. Greville is equally impartial in discoursing about crowned heads and plain republicans. His neat and finely-pointed satire stigmatized the king whose paid servant he was as a “blackguard,” a “dog,” and a “buffoon”; and he held his nose, as in the case of Washington Irving, did any “vulgar” American democrat come “between the wind and his nobility.”

Those of Mr. Greville’s subjects who have virtues are imbeciles; those who have talent are adventurers or knaves. He appears to have centred all the admiration of which he was capable upon Lord de Ros, a young nobleman absolutely unknown outside a small English circle. Mr. Greville seems, in fact, to have been one of those men who seek, and sometimes gain, a certain reputation for sagacity by depreciating everybody around them. Of the late Lord Derby he says: “He (Stanley) must be content with a subordinate part, and act with whom he may, he will never inspire real confidence or conciliate real esteem.” In another place, in summing up a conversation with Peel, he accuses him (Stanley), by direct implication, of being “a liar and a coward,” although he puts these ugly words in another’s mouth. How far these predictions and this estimate were just history has already decided. High and low all dance to the same music in Mr. Greville’s journal. On September 10, 1833, speaking of a speech of William IV.--not very wise, perhaps, but natural enough under the circumstances--he says: “If he (William IV.) was not such an ass that nobody does anything but laugh at what he says, this would be important. Such as it is, it is nothing.”

The circumstances that influenced his pique are sometimes of the most trivial character. Under date September 3, 1833, he notes that the king complained that no one was present to administer the oath to a new member of the Privy Council whom Brougham had introduced. “And what is unpleasant,” he says, “the king desires a clerk of the council to be present when anything is going on.” _Inde iræ._ A few days afterwards, in a notice of the prorogation of Parliament, he thus revenges himself for the king’s implied censure:

“He (William IV.) was coolly received; for there is no doubt there never was a king less respected. George IV., with all his occasional popularity, could always revive the external appearance of loyalty when he gave himself the trouble.” Thus one master, who was a “dog,” is made to do duty on occasion against an other who was an “ass.” But this is not all he has to say of the same monarch. At page 520, vol. ii., summing up his character after his death, he says:

“After his (William IV.’s) accession he always continued to be something of a blackguard and something more of a buffoon. It is but fair to his memory at the same time to say that he was a good-natured, kind-hearted, and well-meaning man, and that he always acted an honorable and straightforward, if not always a sound and discreet, part.”

That this statement, that “never was there a king less respected,” was false, it needs hardly the popular verdict about William IV. to prove. Mr. Greville contradicts himself on page 251 of the same volume, where he notes the “strong expressions of personal regard and esteem” entertained for the king by such competent witnesses as two of his ministers, Wellington and Lord Grey. Even their testimony is not needed. Whatever may have been William IV.’s private weakness and foibles, the regret felt for him was general, and the esteem for his character as a popular sovereign publicly expressed. In any case, the indecency in Mr. Greville’s mouth of the expressions he makes use of is too plain to need argument. Speaking, in one place, of Lord Brougham and referring to the chancellor’s habit of sarcasm, he says:

“He reminds me of the man in _Jonathan Wild_ who couldn’t keep his hand out of his neighbor’s pocket, although there was nothing in it, nor refrain from cheating at cards, although there were no stakes on the table.”

This description is true enough, in another sense, of Mr. Greville himself. A Sir Fretful Plagiary, he could see no man succeed without carping at him, nor resist criticising another’s performance for the sole reason that he had no hand in it. Noting the appearance of a political letter by Lord Redesdale, he says: “There is very little in it.” This single phrase gives the key to his character and the tone of his journal. At page 69, vol. ii., he sums up the whole subject of Irish national education in the profoundly-disgusted remark that there is nothing more in it than “whether the brats at school shall read the whole Bible or only parts of it.”

Page 105, vol. ii.: “O’Connell is supposed to be horribly afraid of the cholera.” “He dodges between London and Dublin” to avoid it, “shuns the House of Commons,” and neglects his duties. On pages 414-15: “He (O’Connell) is an object of execration to all those who cherish the principles and feelings of honor”--a high-toned remark, coming from a man of such delicate honor that, according to his own confession, he had no scruple in greasing the palm of a king’s valet for the secrets of his master’s bed-chamber; who avows without a blush that he deliberately led Lord Mount Charles, and Lord Adolphus Fitzclarence into confidences he there and then meant to betray; who in these _Memoirs_ is continually invading the privacy of homes in which he was a guest; and who, finally, takes advantage of his official position under oath to disclose the conversations of the Privy Council! Surely, no juster piece of self-satire was ever written!

“’Tis a man of universal knowledge,” says La Bruyère. His familiarity with constitutional law would lead him to unseat the bench. Judges Park and Aldersen, famous lawyers, known to all the courts, are “nonsensical” in a decision they come to about the sheriff’s lists. Mr. Justice Park is “peevish and foolish.”

His loose way of damaging private character is not less remarkable. To give a single instance: he gives a _bon mot_ about a certain Mr. Wakley, a parliamentary candidate of the day, who was forced to bring an action against an insurance company, which resisted the claim on the ground that the plaintiff was concerned in the fire. No further information is given--the verdict of the jury or the judgment. But Mr. Greville thus coolly concludes:

“I forget what was the result of the trial; but that of the evidence was a conviction of his instrumentality.” A “conviction” by whom? By Mr. Greville--who “forgets the result of the trial”! There is nothing to show that the friends or family of this Mr. Wakley are not still living to suffer from this unsupported libel. “Jesters,” says a French humorist, “are wretched creatures; that has been said before. But those who injure the reputation or the fortunes of others rather than lose a _bon mot_, merit an infamous punishment; this has not been said, and I dare say it.”

His “blackguards” are not all seated on a throne. His hatred of the “mob” was greater, if possible, than his envy of his superiors. “Odi profanum vulgus et arceo” is the head-line of all his pages. Look at this entry, where the whole character of the man breaks forth irresistibly:

“Newmarket, October 1, 1831.--Came here last night, to my great joy, to get holidays, and leave reform and politics and cholera for racing and its amusements. Just before I came away I met Lord Wharncliffe, and asked him about his interview with radical Jones. This _blackguard_ considers himself a sort of chief of a faction, and one of the heads of the _sans-culottins_ of the present day.”

From radical Jones to Washington Irving is but a step for Mr. Greville’s nimble pen. The one is--what he says; the other, essentially “vulgar.” The same “vulgarity” offends his delicate taste in Thiers, Macaulay, and a score of others “the latchet of whose shoes he was unworthy to loose.” Is it to be wondered at that the venerable pontiff Pius VIII. (page 325, vol. i.) fails to satisfy this fastidious critic? The pope, however, escapes tolerably well. As a matter of course, “there is nothing in him”; but the distinguished urbanity and refined wit of the condescending Mr. Greville is satisfied to pronounce him a good-natured “twaddle.” These large airs of superior wisdom and refinement, this tone of pitying kindness, which Mr. Greville adopts towards the most illustrious men in Europe of his day, remind us of nothing so much as the majestic demeanor of the _burgo_, or great lord of Lilliput, who harangued Capt. Gulliver the morning after his arrival in that island. “He seemed to me,” says Capt. Gulliver, “to be somewhat longer than my middle finger. He acted every part of an orator, and I could observe many periods of threatening, and others of promises, pity, and kindness.”

The distinguished author of these _Memoirs_ was not always, however, as we have seen, in the same amiable mood that the _burgo_ afterwards manifested. After lashing each one of the persons he has known, separately and in turn, in the words which we have quoted, in another passage his acquaintances are all collected in a group and dashed off with graphic effect.

October 12, 1832.--Immediately after an entry giving a conversation with the accomplished Lady Cowper, he says: “My journal is getting intolerably stupid and entirely barren of events. I would take to miscellaneous and private matters, if any fell in my way. But what can I make out of such animals as I herd with and such occupations as I am engaged in?” A week after, at Easton, besides Lady Cowper, he names some other “animals”: “The Duke of Rutland, the Walewskis, Lord Burghersh and Hope--the usual party,” he exclaims with a sigh. Sad fate! The adventurous Capt. Gulliver elsewhere, in a letter to his cousin Sympson, says: “Pray bring to your mind how often I desired you to consider, when you insisted on the motive of Public Good, that the Yahoos were a species of animals utterly incapable of amendment by precept or example.”

Such appear to have been the melancholy reflections forced upon the mind of Mr. _Houyhnhnm_ Greville by the _Yahoos_ he tells us he was compelled to “herd with”! Ever and anon he turns a regretful eye to the nobler race he was suited to, and lets us into the secret of the company and occupations that relieved him from the desolating _ennui_ of uncongenial society.

“June 11, 1833.--At a place called Buckhurst all last week for the Ascot races. A party at Lentifield’s; racing all the morning; then eating, drinking, and play at night. I may say with more truth than anybody, _Video meliora proboque, deteriora sequor_.”

“Not at all,” it might have been answered. “A jockey and gamester _ab ovo usque ad mala_. Fortune has now placed thee in the rank kind nature fitted thee to adorn, had not a too avid uncle snatched thee therefrom, and dry mountains of crackling parchment and red tape crushed thy yearning ardor for the loose boxes and the paddock!”

“March 27.--Jockeys, trainers, and blacklegs are my companions, and it is like dram-drinking: having once entered upon it, I cannot leave it, although I am disgusted with the occupation all the time.” Truly a long and fond “disgust,” since it lasted from his eighteenth year until his death!

“While the fever it excites is raging and the odds are varying, I can neither read nor write nor occupy myself with anything.”

Let us not be unjust to Mr. Greville. Kings, pontiffs, statesmen, and authors may have been “blackguards” or “vulgar buffoons,” the most refined society of both sexes in England a “herd” of _Yahoos_; but that he was not insensible to real merit, that he had a true appreciation of the good and the beautiful when he found it, one single example, shining out in these many pages of depreciation, proves beyond peradventure. In the flood of universal cynicism that pours over them, one man there is at least who lifts his head above the waters--one other gentle Houyhnhnm, fit companion for Mr. Greville, possessing all that wisdom and discretion denied to the rest of the world, and, more wonderful still, that elegant taste the fastidious critic finds nowhere else. This phenomenon is Mr. John Gully, prize-fighter retired! “Strong sense,” “discretion,” “reserve and good taste”--these are the encomiums heaped upon him; to crown all, “remarkably dignified and graceful in his manners and actions.” Ah! poor Macaulay, or thou, gentle Diedrich Knickerbocker, where wanders now thy ghost, condemned for thy “vulgarity” to pace the borders of the sluggish Styx, while the “champion heavy-weight” is ferried over to immortality by this new Charon of gentility?

We decline to soil our pages with any of Mr. Greville’s impure stories. Those who have seized on the book for the purpose of reading them must have been sadly disappointed if they hoped to find in them a doubtful amusement. Not a scintilla of wit relieves their baseness. Their vileness is equalled only by their dulness. They are simply falsehoods from beginning to end. Where Mr. Greville, with a singular depravity, does not himself admit them to be false while wilfully publishing them, they have been elsewhere fully and indignantly disproved. In a single word, as Mrs. Charles Kean aptly says in her letter published in the _Times_, “the grossness was in Mr. Greville’s mind,” not in the conduct of those he slanders.

If it be said that our criticism upon these volumes and their author has been too unsparing; that the old saying, _De mortuis nil nisi bonum_, should have inspired a smoother tone, the answer is given by Mr. Greville himself. “Memoirs of this kind,” he said in a conversation held some time before his death with his editor, Mr. Reeve, “ought not to be locked up till they had lost their principal interest by the death of all those who had taken any part in the events they describe.” In other words, the diseased vanity and cynicism which made him rail at everybody while he lived made him unwilling to lose the pleasure by anticipation of wounding everybody after his death. The shallow eagerness to have himself talked about after he was gone made him insensible to those ideas which seem to have animated Saint-Simon, who was content to look forward to an indefinite time for the publication of his _Memoirs_, desiring them rather to be a truthful and interesting contribution to history than a hasty means of venting his passing spleen. Mr. Greville has indeed been talked about sufficiently; but that the conversation would be pleasing to him, could he hear it, is more doubtful.

One thing at least is to be commended in Mr. Greville--his style. This, for certain uses, is admirable. It is easy and plain. He is a master of that part of the art of writing which Horace describes in the 10th _Satire_:

“Interdum urbani, parcentis viribus atque Extenuantis eas consulto.”

His is “the language of the well-bred man,” the pure English of the society in which he lived. We do not take account here of his occasional coarseness, and even oaths--these were of the character of the man, not of his style. The latter, for purposes of correspondence, or even a short diary, might generally be taken for a model. Any single page will be read with pleasure. But as, on the other hand, he neglects the other side of the Venusian’s advice, seldom rising to “support the part of the poet or rhetorician,” these closely-printed volumes eventually become tiresome to the reader. Even good English will grow monotonous if it has nothing else to sustain it.

Little room is left to speak of the greatest of French memoir-writers, or perhaps of any literature--Saint-Simon. A few remarks may be jotted down, having reference chiefly to the points of contrast suggested by the Greville _Memoirs_. Of the substance and texture of Saint-Simon’s great and voluminous work, as it unrolls itself slowly before us--the opening splendor, the daring, the eccentricities, the wit, and the vices of the courts under which he lived; the prodigies of baseness and monuments of heroic virtue that rear themselves opposed in that marvellous age; the long line of portraits, dark, lurid, threatening, radiant, gentle, so full of surprises to the student of history as ordinarily written; the turning of the fate of campaigns by the caprice of an angry woman; the crippling of fleets by the jealousy of a minister; the desolation of whole provinces by the corruption of intendants; the closing scenes of profligacy and bankruptcy under the regency--many pages would be required to give even an outline. The analysis of his genius and character would make a distinct essay. Sainte-Beuve and other masters of criticism have labored in the field; yet the soil is so rich that humbler students will still find enough to repay them. We indicate the landmarks of the country, without entering on it. Nor would we be supposed to endorse or give our sanction to many of the opinions and sentiments Saint-Simon so freely gives utterance to. His Gallicanism, which he shared with the court; his sympathy with the Jansenist leaders, if not with their heresy; his violent hatred of the Jesuits--these are blots on his work that cover many pages.

The Duc de Saint-Simon was born in 1675. During the lifetime of his father he bore the name of the Vidame de Chartres, and in a subsequent passage of his _Memoirs_, relating to the birth of his own eldest son, he gives a highly characteristic account of the title. At his first appearance at court the king was already privately married to Mme. de Maintenon, the widow Scarron, whose character and astonishing fortunes are nowhere more vividly described than in the pages of Saint-Simon. Louis XIV. was at the summit of his glory. Henceforward, though none could then foresee it, the course was all down-hill. Saint-Simon in his first campaigns accompanied the king into Flanders. Some discontent about promotion, to which he believed himself entitled, caused him to retire from the service. Henceforward he continued to live chiefly at court, having already begun the composition of his _Memoirs_. On the death of his father, the confidential adviser of Louis XIII., even under the ministry of the famous Cardinal Richelieu, he succeeded to the title and the government of Blaye. At this early age he was accustomed secretly to visit the monastery of La Trappe for meditation and retreat. His gravity and seriousness of mind are everywhere felt through his _Memoirs_, although these qualities do not lessen the pungency of his style, nor blunt the _bon mots_ of the court, or his graphic description of the surprising adventures of the men of his day. He married Mlle. de Durfort, the daughter of Marshal de Durfort. This union was one of singular happiness, interrupted only by her death.

The death of the Dauphin, the pupil of Fénelon, destroyed the hopes that were opening up before Saint-Simon of becoming the chief minister of the next reign. Under the regency he continued to be the intimate and sometimes confidential adviser of the Duke of Orleans, although supplanted in state affairs by Cardinal Dubois. His embassy to Madrid to negotiate the marriage of the young king, Louis XV., with the Infanta of Spain, is well known. After the death of the regent he retired to his château of La Ferté-Vidame, where chiefly he continued henceforward to live in retirement, composing his immortal _Memoirs_. He died in Paris in 1755. Having known the subtle sway of a Maintenon, he lived to see the audacious empire of the Pompadour; and having served in his first campaigns under Luxembourg, he witnessed before his death the Great Frederick launch his thunderbolts of war, and the rise of Prussia among the great powers of Europe.

To attempt, in these few concluding remarks, to give any criticism of Saint-Simon’s great work would be a hopeless task. Its character is so many-sided, even contradictory, that any single judgment about it would be deceptive. We were impelled to connect the author’s name with that of the later memoir-writer by the contrasts which irresistibly suggested themselves.

Stated broadly, the main distinction between Saint-Simon and such writers as Greville and his kind is this: that Saint-Simon presents a connected narrative, flowing on largely, fully, evenly, abundantly, like a majestic river sweeping slowly past many varieties of scenery; while Greville gives nothing more than a hodge-podge diary, with no connection except the illusory one of dates, a jumble of short stories, petty details, and ill-natured remarks, bubbling like a noisy brook over stones and shingle, often half lost in the mud and sand, and not unlikely to end in a common sewer. It follows that, while it is difficult to remember particular events or conversations in Greville’s journal, many scenes from Saint-Simon remain for ever fixed in the memory. Take, for instance, one--not the most striking--that of the death of Monseigneur. Who can forget the picture of the old king, in tears, only half-dressed, hastening to the bedside of his son; the sudden terror of the prince’s household; the flight of La Choin, hastily gathering up her jewelry; the row of officers on their knees in the long avenue, crying out to the king to save them from dying of hunger; the well-managed eyes of the courtiers at Marly!

Greville is cynical or satirical by dint of the child’s art of using hard words. Saint-Simon seldom, comparatively speaking, puts on the garb of a cynic; but his narrative, with scarcely any obtrusion of the writer, often becomes a satire as terrible as that of some passages of Tacitus, or, in another vein, of Juvenal.

Many of the historical characters introduced into these works are no favorites of ours; but our purpose in this article has been, not to discuss them, but rather the capacity and good taste, or otherwise, of their critics.

Sainte-Beuve, in one of his felicitous periods, expresses the wish that every age might have a Saint-Simon to chronicle it. As a paraphrase of this remark, it might be said that it is to be wished no other age may have a Greville to slander it.

DOM GUÉRANGER AND SOLESMES.[87]

I.

The church in France has just sustained a severe loss in the death of Dom Guéranger, the illustrious Abbot of Solesmes, who, on the 30th of January last, rendered up his soul to God in the noble abbey which he had restored at the same time that he brought back the Benedictine Order to France; and where, during the last forty years of his life, he had lived in the practice of every monastic virtue, and in the pursuit of literary labors which have rendered him one of the oracles of ecclesiastical learning.

We are not about to enter into details of the religious life of the venerable abbot. It belongs rather to those who have been its daily witnesses to trace its history; but we feel that it may be of interest to touch upon certain features of the character and public works of this humble and patient religious, this vigorous athlete, the loss of whom is so keenly felt by the Holy Father, whose friend and counsellor he was, and by the church, of which he was the honor and the unwearied defender.

Dom Guéranger, in mental temperament, belonged to that valiant generation of Catholics who, after 1830, energetically undertook the cause of religion in their unhappy country, more than ever exposed to the attacks of the Revolution. The university had become a source of antichristian teaching; the press everywhere overflowed with evil and daring scandals of every kind were rife. A new generation of Jacobins had sprung from the old stock, and were eager to invade everything noble, venerable, and sacred; legal tyranny threatened to do away with well-nigh all liberty of conscience, while the government, either not daring or not desiring to sever itself from the ambitious conspirators to whom it owed its being, allowed free course to the outrages and persecutions against the church. It was the most critical and ominous period of the century, and French society was rapidly sinking into an abyss.

One man, who had foreseen all this evil, and whose genius would have probably sufficed victoriously to combat it, had he only possessed the virtue of humility, was M. de Lamennais. Happily, the pleiades of chosen minds whom he had gathered around him did not lose courage after the melancholy defection of their brilliant master. The three most illustrious of these shared among them the defence of the faith against the floods of unbelief that threatened to overwhelm the country. Montalembert remained to defend the church in the public assemblies; Lacordaire adopted as his own the words of S. Paul to his disciple, _Prædica verbum, insta opportune, importune_,[88] and succeeded so effectually that he brought back the robe of S. Dominic into the pulpit of Notre Dame, amid the applause of the conquered multitude; Guéranger felt that prayer and sound learning were the two great wants of society. The number of priests was insufficient for the labors of the sacred ministry. The needs of the time had indeed called forth some few weighty as well as brilliant apologists; but deep and solid learning as yet remained buried in the past, and the patient study so necessary for the polemics of the present and the future threatened indefinitely to languish. It was to this point, therefore, that the Abbé Guéranger directed his especial attention, and he it was who was chosen of God to rekindle the expiring, if not extinguished, flame.

He was led to this sooner than he himself had perhaps anticipated, and by a circumstance which rather appeared likely to have disturbed his projects. Solesmes, which, up to the Revolution, had been a priory dependent on S. Vincent de Mans, had just been sold to one of those “infernal bands” who in the course of a few years destroyed the greatest glories of France. Everything was to be pulled down: the cloister of eight centuries and the church, renowned for the admirable sculptures now doomed to fall beneath the “axe and hammer”; the authorities of the time doing nothing to check the devastation effected by the bandits who were rifling their country after having assassinated her.

The Abbé Guéranger could not endure to witness the annihilation of so much that was sacred and venerable; besides, the ruins of Solesmes were especially dear to him, and had been the favorite haunt of his early childhood and youth, so much so that from this and other characteristic circumstances he was at that period known among his school comrades at Le Sablé as _The Monk_. In concert with Dom Fontaine and other ecclesiastics of the neighborhood he rescued the abbey from the hands of its intending destroyers. It had already suffered considerably from the Revolution, but remained intact in all essential particulars. He spent the winter of 1833 at Paris, going about the city in his monk’s habit--which at that time had become a novelty--and knocking at every door, without troubling himself about the religious opinions or belief of those to whom he addressed himself. The sceptical citizens of the time amused themselves not a little at his expense; but the learned world received with distinction the energetic young priest who was so bent upon giving back the Benedictine Order to France. He never once allowed any obstacles to hinder or discourage him in the prosecution of his undertaking. In 1836 he repaired to Rome, there to make his novitiate; and, after a year passed in the Benedictine Abbey of San Paolo Fuora Muri, he pronounced his solemn vows, and occupied himself in preparing the constitutions of Solesmes. These, on the 1st of September, 1837, were approved by Pope Gregory XVI., who at the same time raised the Priory of Solesmes into an abbey, and authoritatively nominated Dom Guéranger to be its first abbot.

Solesmes and the grand Order of S. Benedict were thus restored to France. The new abbot was soon surrounded by men nearly all of whom have taken a distinguished rank in learning and science, and during forty years the austere discipline and deep and extensive studies of the sons of S. Benedict flourished under his able rule.

Dom Guéranger, moreover, restored Ligugé, the oldest monastery in France, built in 360 by S. Martin of Tours. He also founded the Priory of S. Madeleine at Marseilles, and at Solesmes the Abbey of Benedictine Nuns of S. Cecilia.

The attention he bestowed upon these important foundations did not hinder this indefatigable religious from amassing the treasures of erudition which he dispensed with so much ability in defence of the truth and of sound doctrine. To the end of his life his pen was active either in writing the numerous works which have rendered his name so well known, or in correcting the errors of polemics and answering his adversaries when the interests of religion required it; habitually going straight to the point in his replies, fearlessly attacking whatever was false or mistaken, and never allowing any approach to a compromise with error. The defence of the church was his constant and engrossing thought, and no important controversy arose but he was sure to appear with the accuracy of his learning and the always serious but unsparing process of a logic supported by a thorough acquaintance with doctrine and facts.

The Abbot of Solesmes was endowed with a large amount of prudence and good sense. When his former companions of La Chesnaie undertook to popularize “liberal Catholicism,” the precise creed of which has never yet been ascertained, and the unfailing results of which have been scandal and division, he undertook to bring back the church in France to unity of prayer by writing his book entitled _Institutions Liturgiques_, which, exhibiting in all their beauty the forgotten rites and symbols, succeeded in securing for them the appreciation they merit; so that from that time the liturgy in France began to disengage itself from the multiplicity of particular observances.

In this matter Dom Guéranger had engaged in no trifling combat, his opponents being many and powerful; but he energetically defended his ground, and did not die until he had seen his undertaking crowned with full success by the restoration of the Roman liturgy in France.

Besides these liturgical labors, which chiefly occupied him, and his _Letters_ to the Archbishops of Rheims and Toulouse, as likewise to Mgr. Fayet, Bishop of Orleans, in defence of the _Institutions_, he undertook the _Liturgical Year_, which, unfortunately, was left unfinished at his death. His _Mémoire_ upon the Immaculate Conception was included among those memorials sent to the bishops by the Sovereign Pontiff on the promulgation of the dogma. His _Sainte Cécile_, remarkable for its historical accuracy, as well as for its excellence as a literary composition, is a finished picture of Christian manners during the earliest centuries.

When the Vatican Council was sitting, Dom Guéranger appeared for the last time in the breach. Confined a prisoner by sickness, but intrepid as those old captains who insist on being borne into the midst of the fight, he wished to take part in the great debate which was being carried on in the church. He fought valiantly, and answered the adversaries of tradition by his work on _The Pontifical Monarchy_, defending Pope Honorius against the attacks of an ill-informed academician.

We are unable to give a complete list of the writings of Dom Guéranger, numerous articles having been published by him in the _Univers_--notably those on Maria d’Agreda and the reply to an exaggerated idea of M. d’Haussonville on the attitude of the church under the persecution of the First Bonaparte. We will only name, in concluding this part of the subject, his _Essais sur le Naturalisme_, which dealt a heavy blow to free-thinking; his _Réponses_ upon the liturgical law to M. l’Abbé David, now Bishop of St. Brieuc; and a _Défense des Jesuites_.

Should it be asked how the Abbot of Solesmes could find the time for so many considerable works, the answer is given in the _Imitation_: _Cella continuata dulcescit_. He had made retreat a willing necessity for himself, and, being in the habit of doing everything in its proper time, he had time for everything without need of haste.

From the day that he became Abbot of Solesmes he was scarcely ever seen in the world, never absenting himself without absolute necessity or from obedience. Of middle height, decided manner, with a quick eye and serious smile, Dom Guéranger attracted those who came to him by the simplicity and kindness of his reception, and those who sought his advice by the discerning wisdom of his counsels. High ecclesiastical dignities might have been his had he not preferred to remain in the seclusion of his beloved abbey.

He leaves behind him something far better than even his books, in bequeathing to the church and to society a family of monks strongly imbued with his spirit, and destined to perpetuate the holy traditions which he was the first to revive in his native land.

The imposing ceremonies of the funeral of Dom Guéranger, which took place on the 4th of February at the Abbey of Solesmes, were conducted by the Bishops of Mans, Nantes, and Quimper; there were also present the Abbots of Ligugé, La Trappe de Mortagne, Aiguebelle, and Pierre-qui-Vire, besides more than two hundred priests of La Sarthe.

The remains of the reverend father, clothed in pontifical vestments, with the mitre and crozier, were exposed in the church from the evening of the 30th (Saturday) for the visits of the faithful, crowds of whom came from all the country round, in spite of the exceeding inclemency of the weather, to pay their last respects and to be present at the funeral of the illustrious man, who, during his forty years’ residence among them, had made himself so greatly beloved. Just before the close of the ceremony, when the Bishop of Mans invited those present to look for the last time upon the holy and beautiful countenance of the departed abbot, who had been a father to many outside as well as within the cloister walls, a general and irrepressible burst of sobs and tears arose from the multitude which thronged the church.

Among those present were many noble and learned friends of the deceased, besides the mayor and municipal council of Solesmes, and also of Sablé (Dom Guéranger’s native place), a deputation of the marble-workers of the district, and people of every class.

II.

“La voyez vous croitre, La tour du vieux cloitre?”

Before concluding our notice we must devote a page or two to the “Old Cloister Tower,” which is discernible from a considerable distance, with its four or five stories and its heraldic crown rising above the walls of the ancient borough of Solesmes. The abbey itself next appears in sight, majestically seated on the slope of a wide valley, through which flows the Sarthe, on a level with its grassy borders.

The locality, which is pleasing rather than picturesque, is fertile, animated, and cheerful. Besides several châteaux of recent construction, which face the abbey from the opposite side of the river, may be seen, at some distance off, the splendid convent of Benedictine Nuns, built some years ago by a lady of Marseilles, and on the horizon appears the Château of Sablé, with its vast terraces and (according to the country-people) its three hundred and sixty-five windows.

The Abbey of Solesmes, founded about the year 1025, has preserved, in spite of several reconstructions, the architectural arrangement, so suitable for community life, copied by its first monks from the Roman houses of the order. The enclosure consists of a quadrangle, with an almost interminable cloister, out of which are entrances into the church, the chapter-house, the refectory, the guest-chamber, and all the places of daily assembly. There silence and recollection reign supreme. Excepting only during the times of recreation, no sound is to be heard save the twittering of birds, the sound of the _Angelus_ or some other occasional bell, or the subdued voice of a monk who, with some visitor, is standing before a sculptured saint, or examining the fragments of some ancient tomb.

It is chiefly the abbey church which attracts the curiosity and interest of artists and antiquaries. There is not an archæologist who has not heard of the “Saints of Solesmes,” as the groups of statues and symbolic sculptures are called which fill the chapels of the transept from roof to pavement. These wonderful works, executed for the most part under the direction of the priors of Solesmes, form one of the finest monuments of mediæval sculpture to be found in France. They are mystic and somewhat mannered in style, but of bold conception, vigorously expressed.

A multitude of personages, sacred, historical, or allegorical, intermingle with coats-of-arms, heraldic devices, bandrols, and all the details of an ornamentation of which the skilfully-studied arrangement corrects the redundance, which would otherwise be confused. This, however, is but the purely decorative portion; the principal works being enshrined in deep niches or recesses, in which may be seen groups of seven or eight figures, the size of life, and wonderfully effective in attitude and action.

In a low-vaulted crypt resting on pillars, to the right, is represented the Entombment. This group, which is the earliest in date, having been executed in 1496 under the direction of Michel Colomb, “habitant de Tours et tailleur d’ymaiges du roy,” is the most considerable, and perhaps also the most striking. All the figures, ten in number, have impressed on their countenances and movements the feeling of the dolorous function in which they are engaged. Most of them are represented in the costume, and probably with the features, of persons of the time. Joseph of Arimathea in particular has the look and bearing of the lord of the place, or, it may be, of the prior of the monastery. But nothing attracts the attention more than a little statue with features so refined that it might have descended from the canvas of Carlo Dolci. It is the Magdalen, seated in the dust; the elbows supported on the knees, the hands joined, the eyes closed. All her life seems concentrated in her soul; and that is absorbed in penitence and prayer, grief, love, and resignation--she is as if still shedding her sanctified odors at the Saviour’s feet.

The left transept is devoted to the honor of the Blessed Virgin. She has fallen asleep in the Lord, surrounded by the apostles. Then follow her burial, her Assumption, and finally her glorification. She tramples under foot the dragon, who, with bristling horns and claws, vainly endeavors to reach her. He is bound for a thousand years. This subject, rarely attempted, is here powerfully treated; all these heads, with horrible grimaces, appear to be howling and blaspheming in impotent fury--_Et iratus est draco in mulierem_[89]--but the Woman is raised on high, and with her virginal foot tramples on the enemy of mankind. Facing this subject are the patriarchs and prophets, in niches royally decorated. This work was executed in 1550 by Floris d’Anvers, after the plan given by Jean Bouglet, Doctor of the Sorbonne, and Prior of Solesmes.

But time would fail us to describe all these remarkable sculptures, which so narrowly escaped destruction or desecration at the hands of the revolutionists. The First Napoleon had the idea of transporting them to some museum as curiosities of art. It would have been a sacrilege, and one which, alas! has been too often perpetrated in other countries besides France. But what Catholic that visits the garden even, to say nothing of the museum, of the ancient monastery of Cluny (now Musée de Cluny, at Paris), is not pained at seeing saints and virgins, angels and apostles, more or less shattered and dismembered, torn from their places in the sanctuary, and figuring as statues on the lawn, or mere groups of sculpture picturesquely placed to assist the effect of the gardener’s arrangement of the shrubs and flower-beds?

Bonaparte, however (after testing with gimlet and saw the hardness of the stone), found himself obliged to leave the “Saints of Solesmes” where they were, as, unless the whole were to be ruined, the entire transept would have had to be transported all in one piece, every part of this immense sculptured fresco being connected and, as it were, enwound with the other portions, and each detail having only its particular excellence in the completeness of the rest.

It is amid the ceremonies of Solesmes that those who enter into the spirit of Christian art can penetrate more deeply into the meaning of the vast poem carved upon the walls of the church. During the simple recital of the psalms, as in the most solemn and magnificent ceremonies, there is a striking harmony between the decoration and the action, the one being a commentary on the other. The monks, motionless in their carven stalls, or disposed on the steps of the altar, seem to make one with the Jerusalem in stone, while the saints in their niches may almost be imagined to sing with the psalmody and meditate during the solemn rites at which they are present. At the most solemn moment of the Mass, when clouds of incense are filling the holy place, the mystic dove descends, bearing between her silver wings the Bread of Heaven, and, when it is deposited in the pyx, mounts again into her aerial shrine, which is suspended from a lofty cross.

This custom of elevating the tabernacle between heaven and earth was not the only one in which the venerable abbot exactly copied the ancient rites. The ceremonies of Solesmes are full of the spirit of the church’s liturgy, and the community formed by his teaching and example will not fail to perpetuate the pious and venerable observances which he was the first to restore in France.

LEGEND OF THE BLUMISALPE.

There was a time when around this mountain, now covered with perpetual snow, swarms of bees produced aromatic honey; fine cows, pasturing the entire year in the green fields, filled the dairy-women’s pails with rich milk; and the farmer by trifling labor obtained abundant harvests. But the inhabitants of this fertile country, blinded by the splendor of their fortune, became proud and haughty. They were intoxicated with the charms of wealth; they forgot that there are duties attached to the possession of wealth--the duties of hospitality and of charity. Instead of using their treasures judiciously, they employed them solely in ministering to a more luxurious idleness, and in a continual succession of festivities. They closed their ears to the supplications of the unfortunate, and sent the poor from their doors; and God punished them.

One of these proud, rich men built on the verdant slopes of the Blumisalpe a superb château, intending to reside there, surrounded by his unworthy associates. Every morning their baths were filled with the purest milk.

The terraced steps of the gardens were made, according to the legend, of finely-cut blocks of excellent cheese. This Sardanapalus of the mountains had inherited all his father’s vast domains, and, whilst he revelled in this manner in his rich possessions, his old mother was living in want in the seclusion of the valley. One day the poor old woman, suffering from cold and hunger, supplicated his compassion. She told him that she was living alone in her cabin, unable to work; indigent, without assistance; infirm, without support. She begged him to grant her the fragments of his feast, a refuge in his stables; but, deaf to her entreaties, he ordered her to leave. She showed him her cheeks, wrinkled by grief more than by age; her emaciated arms, that had carried him in his infancy; he threatened to command his attendants to drive her away.

The poor woman returned to her cabin, overwhelmed with grief by this cruel outrage. She tottered through his beautiful grounds with bowed head, and sighs that she could not restrain burst from her oppressed heart, and bitter tears streamed from her eyes. God counted the mother’s tears.

She had scarcely arrived at her hut when the avenging storm came.

The château of the ignominious son was struck by lightning, his treasures were consumed by the flames, from which he himself did not escape, and his companions perished with him.

Those fields, that once yielded so abundantly, are now covered with a mass of snow that never melts. On the spot where his mother vainly implored his compassion, the rent earth has opened a frightful abyss; and where her tears then flowed now, drop by drop, fall the tears of the eternal glaciers.

NEW PUBLICATIONS

THE YOUNG CATHOLIC’S ILLUSTRATED FIFTH READER. Pp. 430, 12mo. THE YOUNG CATHOLIC’S ILLUSTRATED SIXTH READER AND SPEAKER. By Rev. J. L. Spalding, S.T.L. Pp. 477, 12mo. New York: The Catholic Publication Society, 9 Warren Street. 1875.

These books have been prepared with great care and rare tact. We have examined, from time to time, the various Readers which are used in this country, and the Young Catholic’s Series is certainly the best which we have seen. But the Fifth and Sixth Readers of this series are especially good, and we are confident that they are destined to become the standard Readers of the Catholic schools of the United States. They are indeed more than reading-books: they are collections of choice specimens of English literature, in prose and poetry, so arranged as to present every variety of style, that opportunity may be given to the pupil to cultivate all the different forms of vocal expression.

In the Fifth Reader the attention of the young Catholic is called to the history of the church in the United States by the attractive biographical notices of some of the most distinguished bishops and archbishops of this country; and, as an introduction to the Sixth, we have a brief but exhaustive treatise on elocution. We have not the space to enter into a minute criticism of these books; but we have expressed our honest conviction of their excellence, and we are quite sure that their own merits will open for them a way into Catholic schools throughout the land.

PAX. THE SYLLABUS FOR THE PEOPLE: A Review of the Propositions condemned by His Holiness Pope Pius IX., with Text of the Condemned List. By a Monk of S. Augustine’s, Ramsgate, author of _The Vatican Decrees and Catholic Allegiance_. New York: The Catholic Publication Society. 1875.

This is an almost necessary complement to the publications forming the Gladstone controversy, the original being so frequently referred to by Mr. Gladstone and his reviewers.

We cannot do better than quote the editor’s preface, by way of comment:

“The Syllabus of Pius IX. has been the subject of so many misconceptions that a plain and simple setting forth of its meaning cannot be useless. This is what I have tried to do in the following pages. A vindication or defence of the Syllabus was, of course, out of the question in so small a compass; but I think that more than half the work of defence is done by a simple explanation. During the ten years just completed since its promulgation, much has occurred to show the wisdom that dictated it. The translation I have given is the one authorized by His Eminence the Cardinal Archbishop of Dublin.”

POSTSCRIPT TO A LETTER ADDRESSED TO HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF NORFOLK, ON OCCASION OF MR. GLADSTONE’S RECENT EXPOSTULATION, AND IN ANSWER TO HIS “VATICANISM.” By John Henry Newman, D. D., of the Oratory. New York: The Catholic Publication Society. 1875.

In this _Postscript_ Dr. Newman pulverizes the different statements of Mr. Gladstone’s rejoinder, one by one. The blunders of the ex-Premier are not surprising, seeing that he attempts to write about matters in which he is not well informed, but they are certainly very gross. Dr. Newman has taken him by the hand with a very gentle smile on his countenance, but he has broken his bones as in a vise.

PERSONAL REMINISCENCES. By Moore and Jerdan. Edited by Richard Henry Stoddard. New York: Scribner, Armstrong & Company. 1875.

This small and dainty-looking little volume is one of the “Bric-a-Brac” Series. Its two hundred and eighty-eight pages profess to give us the “personal reminiscences” of Moore and Jerdan. They give nothing more than such extracts from the original as have taken the fancy of the editor. Whether that fancy has always been wise in its choice is fairly open to question. There is much of Moore’s reminiscences omitted that might have been very profitably inserted, at least in exchange for many things which have found their way into the volume. It is Moore “bottled off,” so to say, and given out in small doses. The experiment is not very satisfactory. Moore suffered irretrievably in his biographer, Lord John Russell, of whose “eight solid volumes,” as Mr. Stoddard says, “the essence is here presented to the reader.” Lord Russell will be credited with many blunders in after time, and very grave ones some of them; but never did he make a more exasperating mistake than in undertaking the editing of Moore’s _Memoirs, Journal, and Correspondence_, in rivalry of Moore’s own admirable biography of Byron. Readers of _Personal Reminiscences_ must be prepared to meet with a vast quantity of nonsense and trash. But much of this constitutes the chief value of such works. In the jottings down of daily journals no one expects to meet with profound reflections and labored thoughts. They are rather, in the hands of such men as Moore, “the abstract and brief chronicle of the time” in which they are made. Moore’s witty and graceful pen was just adapted to such work as this. Whoever or whatever was considered worth seeing in the world in which he lived and moved as one of its chief ornaments, he saw, and set down in his private journal. Bits of this Mr. Stoddard gives us in the present volume; but those who care for this kind of literature at all will prefer the whole to such parts as have pleased the editor; and the whole does possess an intrinsic value to which the present volume does not pretend. Mr. Stoddard’s preface is not encouraging. He seems to write under protest that his valuable time should be consumed in this kind of work. “I cannot put myself in the place of a man who keeps a journal in which he is the principal figure, and in which his whereabouts, and actions, and thoughts, and feelings are detailed year after year,” says Mr. Stoddard; and the obvious comment is: “Very probably; but no one has asked Mr. Stoddard to do anything so foolish.” Persons who keep “journals,” however, are not in the habit of keeping them for other people. “I cannot put myself in the place of Moore,” insists Mr. Stoddard, with unnecessary pertinacity, “who seems to have never lost interest in himself.” The comment again is very obvious: Mr. Stoddard is a very different man from Mr. Moore. The truth is, Mr. Stoddard does not like either Moore or his poetry. “The reputation which had once been his had waned.” “A new and greater race of poets than the one to which he belonged had risen.” “_Lalla Rookh_ was still read, _perhaps_, but not with the same pleasure as _The Princess_ or _The Blot on the Scutcheon_. Moore had ‘ceased to charm.’” Such statements as these Mr. Stoddard would seem to consider self evident facts of which no proof is needed. And he would be astonished were some one to ask him to point out the “new and greater race of poets” which has arisen since Moore’s death. Still more would he be astonished if asked to point out, not “a race of poets,” but a single member of the race whose writings are more read, whose name and fame are better known, who is “greater,” than Moore. He would be thunderstruck were he informed that for a hundred who had read _Lalla Rookh_ not twenty had read _The Princess_, knew its author or of its existence, and not ten knew even of the name of the other poem mentioned. Altogether, though Mr. Stoddard’s preface is short, it is certainly not sweet, and both himself and the reader are to be congratulated at his not having extended it.

OUR LADY’S DOWRY; or, How England Gained and Lost that Title. A compilation by the Rev. T. E. Bridgett, of the Congregation of the Most Holy Redeemer. London: Burns & Oates. 1875. (New York: Sold by The Catholic Publication Society.)

This book is among the most delightful and the most valuable which it has been our good-fortune to meet with. It establishes not only the fact of England having been called “throughout Europe Our Lady’s Dowry,” but her right to the glorious title.

Those who imagine what is known to-day as Catholic devotion to Our Lady a thing of comparatively modern growth, or, again, that it can only bloom luxuriantly in the sunny climes of Spain and Italy, will find both illusions dispelled in these pages. The old Anglo-Saxon love of Mary was as warm and tender as any of which human hearts are capable. And instead of finding our English ancestors behind us in this devotion, we must rather own ourselves behind them.

We would gladly give our readers an analysis of Father Bridgett’s “compilation,” but this cannot be done except in an elaborate review. Suffice it to say that never was a “compilation” (as the author modestly calls it) less like what is ordinarily understood by the term--we mean in point of interest and style.

We subjoin a passage from Chapter V. on “Beads and Bells” (p. 201). We think the information it contains will be new to almost all:

“The word ‘bead’ has undergone in English a curious transformation of meaning. It is the past participle of the Saxon verb _biddan_, to bid, to invite, to _pray_. Thus in early English it is often used simply for _prayers_, without any reference whatever to their nature or the mode of reciting them. To ‘bid the beads’ is merely to say one’s prayers. ‘Bidding the beads’ also meant a formal enumeration of the objects of prayer or persons to be prayed for. Beadsmen or beads-women are not necessarily persons who say the Rosary, but simply those who pray for others, especially for their benefactors.

“But as a custom was introduced in very early times of counting prayers said, by the use of little grains or pebbles strung together, the name of prayer got attached to the instrument used for saying prayers; and in this sense the word beads is commonly used by Catholics at the present day.

“Lastly, the idea of prayer was dropped out altogether in Protestant times, and the name of ‘beads’ was left attached to any little perforated balls which could be strung together merely for personal adornment, without any reference to devotion.”

BULLA JUBILÆI 1875; seu, Sanctissimi Domini nostri Pii Divina Providentia Papæ IX. Epistola Encyclica: Gravibus Ecclesiæ, cum Notis, Practicis ad usum Cleri Americani. Curante A. Konings, C.SS.R. Neo-Eboraci: Typus Societatis pro Libris Catholicis Evulgandis. MDCCCLXXV.

The reverend clergy will be grateful to Father Konings for this convenient and beautiful edition of the text of the bull announcing the present Jubilee, and for the accompanying notes.

SEVEN STORIES. By Lady Georgiana Fullerton. Baltimore: Kelly, Piet & Company. 1875.

This is a handsome reprint of a work the English edition of which was noticed, on its first appearance, in these pages.

READINGS FROM THE OLD TESTAMENT. Arranged with Chronological Tables, Explanatory Notes, and Maps. For the Use of Students. By J. G. Wenham, Canon of Southwark. London: Burns & Oates. 1875. (New York: Sold by The Catholic Publication Society.)

The title of the work is almost a sufficient description of its contents. The primary object of the book is to give a consecutive history of the events related in the Old Testament, in the words of Holy Scripture. It includes a history of the patriarchs from the beginning to the birth of Moses; of the Israelites from the birth of Moses to the end of the Judges; of the Kings from the establishment of the kingdom to its end; and of the Prophets from B.C. 606 to the birth of Christ, embracing an account of the prophetic writings.

THE CATHOLIC WORLD.

VOL. XXI., No. 123.--JUNE, 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.

SPECIMEN CHARITIES.

Charity is generally acknowledged to be, particularly by those who do not practise it, the greatest of the virtues. Judged by this standard, everything connected with it ought to command a special interest. Among ourselves the most practical form of it is exhibited in the institutions provided for the care of that large section of society that may be classed as the unfortunate. It is only natural to suppose, then, that the reports of these institutions would be caught up and studied with avidity by the public, who in some shape or form pay for and support them. Nothing, however, is further from the truth. It is safe to say that not one man out of every hundred ever sees a report of any single institution, or ever dreams even of the existence of such a thing.

This indifference to how our money goes is one of the chief causes of the gross peculations and frauds that startle and shock the public mind from time to time. Where scrutiny is not close and constant, the conduct of those who have reason to expect scrutiny is apt to be proportionately loose and careless. There is no intention in saying this to arraign the managers of public institutions with loose and careless conduct in the discharge of their duties and the dispensing of the large sums of money confided to their care. All that we would say is that the public is too inert in the matter. A sharp lookout on officials of any kind never does harm to any one. It will be courted by honest men, while it hangs like the sword of Damocles over the heads of the dishonest. At all events, it is the safest voucher for activity, zeal, and honesty on all sides.

The reports of several of the institutions best known to the public in this city have been examined, and the result of the investigation will be set forth in this article. It may be said here that perhaps a chief reason for the general apathy of the public regarding these reports is due to the reports themselves. As a rule, they seem to be drawn up with the express purpose of giving the least possible information in the most roundabout fashion. The very sight of them warns an inquirer off. While he is solely intent on finding out what such and such an institution does for its inmates, what it has done, what it purposes doing, how it is conducted, what it costs, what it produces, what success it can point to in plain black and white, and not in general terms, he is almost invariably treated to homilies on charity; to dissertations on the growing number of the poor and the awfulness of crime; to tirades on the public-school question; to highly-colored opinions on the duty of enforcing education; to extracts from letters that, for all he can determine, date from nowhere and are signed by no one. Such is a fair description of the average “report” of any given charity or public institution, as any conscientious reader who is anxious for a sleepless night and morning headache may convince himself by glancing at the first half-dozen that come in his way.

This is much to be regretted. Little more than a year ago public inquiry was stimulated by the public press to examine into the record of the institutions that for years and years have been absorbing vast sums of money, with no very apparent result. Grave charges were then made and substantiated by very ugly figures, showing that the cost of the majority of institutions was enormously in excess of the good effected. It was charged that the statistics were not clear, that the managers shirked inquiry, that the salaries were enormously disproportionate to the work done--in a word, that the least benefit accrued to those for whom the institutions were founded, erected, and kept a-going. Suspicion speedily took possession of the public mind that what went by the name of public charity was nothing more nor less than a system of organized plunder.

That opinion is neither endorsed nor gainsaid here. The result of such investigations as have been made of reports drawn up for the past year have been simply set forth, so that every reader may judge for himself as to the benefits accruing to the public from the institutions in their midst which every year absorb an aggregate of several millions of public and private funds.

The institutions whose reports have been examined are for children of both sexes and of all creeds. Some of them are more, some less, directly under State control. All, at least, are under State patronage. Their aim and purport is to relieve the State of a stupendous task--the care and future provision for children who, without such care and provision, would in all probability go astray, and become, if not a danger, at least a burden, to the State. On this ground the State or city, or both together, make or makes to each one certain apportionments and awards of the public moneys. Those apportionments and awards are not in all cases equal either in amount or in average. It is not claimed here that they are necessarily bound to be equal either in amount or in average. The gift is practically a free gift on the part of the State, although between itself and the institutions the award made partakes of the nature of a contract. So much is allowed for the care of State wards. What may be fairly claimed, however, is that the awards of the State should be regulated by justice and impartiality. Most money ought to be given where it is clear that most good is effected by it. This system of award does not prevail.

Again, as these institutions undertake the entire control of their inmates, and to a great extent their disposal after leaving, they are charged with the mental, moral, and physical training of those inmates. A vast number of the children are in all cases of the Catholic faith.

As the general question of religion in our public institutions was dealt with at length in the April number of THE CATHOLIC WORLD, there is no need of returning to it here further than to remind our readers that the moral training of Catholic children in public institutions is utterly unprovided for. Our main questions now are: What do our public institutions do for the public? What do they do for the inmates? How much does it cost them to do it? Whence does the money that sustains them come, and whither does it go?

It is far easier to put these questions than to obtain a satisfactory answer to them. Of the fitness of putting them and the importance of answering them fully and fairly no man can doubt. They are equally important to the public at large, to the State, and to the institutions themselves. It is fitting and right that we know which institutions do the best work in the best way; which merit the support of the public and of the State; which, if any, are concerned chiefly about the welfare of their inmates; which, if any, are concerned chiefly about the welfare of their officers and directors. Let us see how far the _Fiftieth Annual Report of the Managers of the Society for the Reformation of Juvenile Delinquents_ may enlighten us on these interesting points.

In this institution there were received during the year (1874) seven hundred and twenty-four children, of whom six hundred and thirty-six were new inmates. The total number in the institution for the year was one thousand three hundred and eighty-seven. The average figure taken on which to calculate the year’s expenditure is seven hundred and forty. Whence the children come may be inferred from the words of the superintendent’s report (page 38): “By its charter the House of Refuge is authorized to receive boys under commitment by a magistrate from the first three judicial districts, and girls from all parts of the State. The age of subjects who may be committed is limited to sixteen years.[90] State Prison Inspectors have power to transfer young prisoners from Sing Sing prison, under seventeen years of age, to this institution, if in their judgment they are proper subjects for its discipline.… Prior to 1847 this was the only place, except the prisons, in the State, authorized to receive juvenile delinquents. At that time the Western House of Refuge was organized at Rochester, and boys from the fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, and eighth judicial districts were directed, by the act under which that institution was organized, to be sent there. The State Prison Inspectors may transfer young prisoners from the State prisons of Auburn and Dannemora to the Western House, the same as from Sing Sing here. The United States courts, sitting within the State, may commit youthful offenders under sixteen years of age to either institution. The expense for the support of these is paid by the United States government. Girls from all parts of the State are sent to this house, there being no female department at the Western House.”

The expenses for support of the (average) seven hundred and forty children for 1874 amounted to $103,524 23, according to the superintendent’s report. To defray this, there was contributed in all $74,968 61 of public moneys, in the following allotments:

By Annual Appropriation, $40,000 00 By Balance Special Appropriation, 10,500 00 On account Special Appropriation, 1874, 10,000 00 By Board of Education, 7,468 61 By Theatre Licenses, 7,000 00 ----------- $74,968 61

There is one remark to be made on these figures, which have been copied item by item from the report. They do not tally with the report of the State Treasurer. In his report the award to the society is set down as $66,500. There is evidently a mistake somewhere. A small item of $6,000 is missing from the report of the society. Where can it have gone? The president himself, Mr. Edgar Ketchum, endorses the figures of the superintendent and treasurer. He tells us (page 14) that the receipts for 1874, “from the State Comptroller, annual and special appropriations,” are $60,500; but there is that page 34 of the annual report of the State Treasurer, which sets it down plumply at $66,500. There will doubtless be forthcoming an excellent explanation of this singular discrepancy between the reports. The State Treasurer may have made the mistake; but, if not, one is permitted to ask, is this the kind of arithmetic taught in the Society for the Reformation of Juvenile Delinquents?

The remaining deficit is covered by “labor of the inmates”--which is rated at $41,594 48--sale of waste articles, etc. There is no mention whatever made of private donations. With an exception that will be noted, there is not a hint at such a thing throughout the sixty-eight pages of the report. If private donations were received at this institution during the year, the donors will search the fiftieth annual report in vain for any account of them. Attention is called to this point, because in every other report examined the private donations have been ample, duly acknowledged, and accounted for; but the managers of the Society for the Reformation of Juvenile Delinquents observe silence on this subject.

Looking to see how the money went, we find the largest item of the expenses set down as $44,521 62, for “food and provisions.” The next largest item is $34,880 52, for salaries--as nearly as possible one-third of the whole expense. This is a very important item. One-third of the entire expenses, and considerably over half the net cost for the support of the institution during the year, was consumed in salaries. Into the various other items it is not necessary to go, as in these two by far the largest portion of the expenses is accounted for. The sum of the remainder for “clothing,” “fuel and light,” “bedding and furniture,” “books and stationery for the schools and chapel,” “ordinary repairs,” and “hospital,” amounts only to $27,555 84, or over $7,000 less than the salaries; while “all other expenses not included” in what has already been mentioned amount only to $23,339 23.

As this is the fiftieth annual report, the managers of the institution have thought it a fitting time to publish a review of the work done during the last half-century and of the cost of its doing. The “financial statement for fifty years” informs us that “the cost for real estate and buildings for the use of the institution, including repairs and improvements,” was $745,740 31. This amount was paid “in part by private subscriptions and donations”--the solitary mention to be found of anything of the kind throughout the report--and the remainder “by money received for insurance for loss by fires, money received from sale of property in Twenty-third Street, New York, and by State appropriations.” The amount of private subscriptions and donations was $38,702 04; thus leaving $707,038 27, by far the greater portion of which, it is to be presumed, was paid by State appropriations.

So far for the real estate and buildings for fifty years. Let us now look at the cost of support for the same period.

Including every item of expense, except for the grounds and buildings, the sum total is $2,106,009 16. Of this $767,189 31 was paid from labor of the inmates and sale of articles; the remaining $1,338,819 85 was paid “from moneys received from appropriations made by the State and by the city of New York, from the licenses of theatres, from the excise and marine funds.” In short, with the exception of the $38,702 04 already mentioned as coming from private subscriptions and donations, of the money received from sale of property in Twenty-third Street, New York, and the amount earned by the inmates, the State has covered the entire expenses of the Society for the Reformation of Juvenile Delinquents since its founding, fifty years ago. Those expenses, according to their own showing, were $2,045,868 12. Thus it is within the truth to say that this society has received $2,000,000 from the State within the last fifty years, one-third of which amount, if the figures for last year be a fair gauge, was consumed in salaries.

Such has been the cost--a weighty one. What is the result? What has been achieved by this immense outlay?--for immense it is. We are informed (p. 39) that “when a child is dismissed from the house, an entry is made under the history, giving the name, residence, and occupation of the person into whose care the boy or girl is given. Pains are taken, by correspondence and otherwise, to keep informed of their subsequent career as far as possible, and such information when received, whether favorable or unfavorable, is noted under the history.”

The result may be given briefly: Fifteen thousand seven hundred and ninety-one children have passed through the institution in fifty years. Of these thirty-eight per cent. have been heard from “favorably,” fourteen per cent. “unfavorably,” while forty-eight per cent. are classified as “unknown.” Thus it is seen that not nearly one-half have turned out well; a very considerable number have turned out badly; and of a larger number than either--of almost half, in fact--nothing is known. And it has taken about three millions of dollars (a far higher figure if the private donations, of which no account is given, ranked for anything) to achieve this magnificent result!

We have only one comment to offer. If, with the practically unlimited means at their disposal, the managers of the society can do nothing better for and with the children than they have done after fifty years of trial, the experiment is, to say the least, a costly failure. Indeed, it is not at all extravagant to assert that, taking into consideration the migratory habits of our people and the ups and downs of life, these children, if allowed to run their own course, would, were it possible to follow up their histories, probably show as high a percentage of “favorable” as this society has been able to show. In the proud words of the superintendent’s report, “The results of half a century of labor in the cause of God and humanity are now before us!”[91]

An institution similar to the one just examined is the New York Juvenile Asylum, whose _Twenty-second Annual Report_ is published. Unlike its predecessor, it acknowledges “the readiness with which the necessary funds, beyond those received from the public treasury, are supplemented by private beneficence.” It has a Western agency, whose business it is to “procure suitable homes for children placed under indenture, and conduct the responsible work of perpetuated guardianship, which forms the distinguishing feature of our chartered obligations” (_Report_, p. 12). We are informed that “an analysis of the treasurer’s report confirms the uniform experience of the board, that the appropriations from the city treasury of $110, and from the Board of Education of about $13 50, per annum, for each child, are inadequate to the support of the institution on its present required scale of superior excellence.”

The treasurer’s report is a study. The expenses for the year (1874) were $95,976 83. Of this sum $67,452 05 is set down plumply as for “salaries, wages, supplies, etc., for Asylum.” How much of it was devoted to “salaries,” how much to “wages,” how much to “supplies,” and how much to “etc.,” whatever that financial mystery may mean, is left to conjecture. A similar entry for the House (connected with the asylum) amounts to $16,875 59; and a third, for the Western agency, to $5,303 18. By this happy arrangement there only remain some two thousand odd dollars to be accounted for, and the balance-sheet pleasantly closes, leaving the reader as wise as ever on the important query, Who gets the lion’s share of the money, the children or the managers?

To cover the expenses of the year, the corporation gave $68,899 40; the Board of Education, $8,833 23. Thus public moneys covered the great bulk of the annual expense. The carefully-confused figures of the treasurer make it impossible to say whether or not a judicious paring of the “salaries, wages, etc.,” might not have enabled the same moneys to cover it all and still leave a balance in the bank.

As it is hopeless to investigate how the money went, item by item, let us turn to the children for whose benefit it was given.

The whole number in the Asylum and House of Reception at the beginning of the year was 617; received during the year, 581; discharged, 585; average for the year, 617. Of the discharged, 9 were indentured, 103 sent to the Western agency, 466 discharged to parents and friends.

The managers are very strongly in favor of placing the children in “Western homes,” and doubtless most persons interested in the question of caring for these children would agree with them, could satisfactory evidence only be given of the actual advantages of the plan. But such evidence is not furnished by any of the reports we have examined. This asylum, for instance, has been sending children West year after year, and yet the superintendent informs us, as a piece of special news, that “in the early part of November last the superintendent went to Illinois, for the purpose of becoming better acquainted with the practical workings of the agency, and visiting the children sent West in their new homes.” This is given as an event in the workings of the institution. In other words, the children sent out were left absolutely to the Western agent, who may have been a very worthy and conscientious person, or who may have been nothing of the kind. The amount expended on the Western agency would not seem to indicate any very extensive or arduous labors. The result of the superintendent’s trip was a visitation of twenty-five children, and, on the strength of that very limited number of visits and the representations of the agent, he states that “it was evident that great care was taken and good judgment exercised in providing children with the best of homes and looking after their general welfare.”

The Western agent himself reports: “For sixteen years the Asylum has been sending to Illinois, and placing in families as apprentices, those who have become permanently its wards, and during that time two thousand three hundred and ninety-nine have been thus cared for. Their employers have been required to make a legal contract in writing, binding themselves to provide suitably for their physical comfort during their minority, instruct them in a specified trade, allow them to attend school four months in each year, _give them moral and religious training_, and make a stipulated payment of clothing and money at the expiration of their apprenticeship.… The Asylum is required by its charter to see that the terms of every contract are faithfully performed throughout the entire period of the apprenticeship.”

Of course these conditions are very favorable to the children, provided only that they are carried out. That they are always carried out is doubtful, and the number of complaints made by both children and employers, mentioned incidentally, tend to strengthen this doubt. Then as regards the “moral and religious training”: What in the case of Catholic children such training is likely to be may be inferred from the fact that the Catholic religion is proscribed in the Asylum and House, as also from the fact mentioned by the agent himself (p. 42) that among the employers “prejudiced against indentures,” “occasionally one objects to them _on the ground of conscientious scruples_;” “but,” he adds, “it rarely occurs that they cannot be prevailed upon to comply with our regulations in this particular.”

What the Western “Home” is may be judged from the following pregnant sentence of the agent’s report: “I am not instructed by the committee, nor would it be well to make it an attractive rendezvous, and the children are neither drawn to it by factitious allurements nor encouraged to make a protracted stay.” The unsolicited testimony on this point may be taken as unimpeachable. He admits that “instances of wrongs frequently come to our knowledge, and doubtless many others exist of which we have not been made aware.” Accordingly, “to prevent such abuses,” “an additional agent has _recently_ been engaged, who will be employed exclusively as a visitor.” This additional agent commenced service “about five weeks” from the date of the Western agent’s report; but “unprecedentedly stormy weather and difficult travelling have rendered it impossible for him to enter upon his special work.” And such is all the practical information furnished us concerning the Western branch of this institution, notwithstanding that “every employer and every apprentice is _written to_ at least once annually.”

The report of the agent tells us really little or nothing. Indeed, its tone is not at all sanguine. His “time has been too fully occupied to accomplish much in the way of gathering statistics of what is, in my belief, a demonstrable fact: that, with as few exceptions as occur among other children, asylum wards become reputable and prosperous citizens.” No doubt; proof will be given afterwards that this belief is well founded, but not as regards the institution in question. In its case, unfortunately, the demonstration is the one thing wanting.

The total number of children admitted to the institution from 1853 to 1873 is 17,035, of whom 12,975 were of native, 3,820 of foreign birth. Ireland contributed 2,006; France, 71; Spain, 6; Italy, 75; South America, 5; Austria, 5; all of whom may be safely classed as Catholics. Of the native-born New York alone contributed eleven thousand five hundred and seventy-one, all the other States together adding only one thousand three hundred and ninety-six. The number of native-born children of Irish parents in the State of New York within the last twenty years may be left to easy conjecture. One thing is certain: that the faith of all the Catholic children admitted to this institution was, while they remained in it, and as long as they remained under its supervision, proscribed, while they were compelled to conform to the Church Established in Public Institutions. There is no financial statement for the twenty years.

The Children’s Aid Society has also published its _Twenty-second Annual Report_. This is one of the most extensive organizations in the city, and has quite a net-work of homes, lodging-houses, and industrial schools connected with it, as well as a Western agency similar in its office to that already noticed. Although not, in the accepted sense, a “public institution,” it depends in a great measure on State aid for its support. It professes to be superior in its mode of work to any public institution. That point is too extensive to enter upon here. We merely pursue our plan of searching its own record to see what it has done. One of its chief aims may be gathered from the following statement of the report (page 4): “The plan which this society has followed out so persistently during twenty-two years, of saving the vagrant and neglected children of the city, by placing them in carefully-selected homes in the West and in the rural districts, is now universally admitted to be successful. It has not cost one-tenth part of the expense which a plan demanding support in public institutions would have done, and has been attended by wonderfully encouraging moral and material results.”

As it is impossible within present limits to examine every detail of this extensive report, which fills 96 pages, we pass at once to the treasurer’s figures. The expenses for the past year amount to $225,747 92. To cover this the city and county of New York contributed $93,333 34; the Board of Education, $32,893 95; being a total of $126,227 29 contributed from the public moneys. The rest is made up by private donations, legacies etc.

As an illustration of the difficulties to be met with in trying to extract the gist of the various reports, the following sentence from the one in hand may serve. In describing “the year’s work” the superintendent says (p. 8): “The labors of charity of this society have become so extended and multifarious that it is exceedingly difficult to give any satisfactory picture of them.” If this is his opinion, what is ours likely to be? However, we will make such use of the limited means at our disposal as may tend to give some idea of the workings of this society.

The “industrial schools” constitute a prominent feature of it. There are twenty-one of them and thirteen night schools. They give occupation to eighty-six salaried teachers and a superintendent, and to a volunteer corps of seventy ladies in addition. The volunteers, we are informed, “produce results of which they have no adequate idea themselves.” The industries taught in these “industrial schools” are not brought out very prominently. The army of teachers, regulars and volunteers together, have acted upon “an average number” of 3,556, and an aggregate number of 10,288. Dropping the volunteers, that gives each of the eighty-six “salaried teachers” just 41 and the 30/86th part of a child to devote his or her sole attention to during the year. It is for these schools that the Board of Education awarded the $32,893 95 already mentioned.

The schools alone consume of the whole expenses of the society for the year $70,509 88, which is divided in the following pleasing manner:

Rent of school-rooms, $11,455 25 Salaries of superintendent and 86 teachers, 39,202 33 Food, clothing, fuel, etc., 19,852 30

That is to say, the salaries of the school superintendent and 86 teachers for 3,556 children cost considerably more than rent, food, clothing, fuel, children, and everything else put together. This is worse even than the Society for the Reformation of Juvenile Delinquents, whose officers were modestly contented with a good third of the whole amount of money spent on the institution. But here at the present ratio more than one-half is absorbed in salaries. The public seems to labor under an idea that the institutions which they so cheerfully support are intended chiefly for the benefit of poor children. It is to be hoped that their eyes may at last be opened to their fatal mistake. At all events, in the present instance it is clear that the schools are less intended to instruct the children than to support the teachers. The very liberal allowance granted to these schools by the Board of Education falls miserably below the teachers’ salaries.

The cheerfulness with which these figures are contemplated by the officers of the society is positively exhilarating. We are informed (p. 45) that “the annual expense of twenty-one day and thirteen evening schools, with salaries of superintendent and eighty-six teachers, would be an intolerable burden to the society, did not the city pay semi-annually a certain sum for each pupil, as allowed by law.” The number of pupils paid for by the city is, of course, 10,288--“a gain over last year of 704.” Here is a sample of how the list is made up:

No. on Average Rolls. Attend’ce. Fifty-third Street School, 1,212 260 Fifty-second Street School, 561 199 Park School, 807 301 Phelps School, 417 80 Girls’ Industrial School, 298 91 Fourteenth Ward School, 650 219 Water Street School, 101 31

And so they go on. Comment is unnecessary. It is to be taken for granted that the average attendance here given by the society is not likely to be below the mark. Taking it then as correct, it may be left to honest men to judge whether half the number of teachers would not be amply sufficient. As to the question of salaries, it is needless to remark further upon that. Who can resist the piteous appeal of the treasurer after closing the account of the “thirty-four” schools? “Surely, then,” he says, “this branch of the society’s work may claim the merit of economy when considered in detail, although the aggregate cost is large.”

Mention of salaries occurs twice after. Five “executive officers” are paid $8,944 14; five “visitors,” $3,944 06. The total “current expenses” are set down at $174,821 38. Thus, as seen, salaries already absorb more than a quarter of the current expenses, and the chief salaried officers of the institution, as well as another small army of inferior officials, remain to be portioned off. No mention is made of them in the treasurer’s figures. Nor will it do to average the salaries of the superintendent and eighty-six teachers of the schools, setting them down at the modest allowance of $450 a head, granting, as seems incredible, considering the number of pupils, that the number of teachers is accurately given. The point is plain to all men: There is no need for such a number of teachers. Some of them, it is to be presumed, are only employed in the night-schools; consequently their salaries would be considerably diminished. The salaries are not all equal, and, even were they all equal, the amount of work done would be too costly at the price. To say that twenty-one schools and eighty-seven teachers, with a contingent of seventy volunteers, are needed for 3,446 children is simple nonsense.

Judging by what we have seen, if one-fourth the moneys spent on the Children’s Aid Society is devoted exclusively to the children, both children and public are to be congratulated on the self-denial of the management. It is for those who support the society to consider how long this state of things is to continue.

Among other benevolent works undertaken by the society is an Italian school, for the special benefit of the poor little Italian children decoyed from their homes to labor and beg for _padroni_ and such like in this city and elsewhere throughout the country. There can be no doubt about the religion of these children. The report informs us that this school is under the care of the “Italian School Young Men’s Association.” Their “collection of books has been enlarged by the contributions of friends, and the reading-room will soon contain a large assortment of Italian books forwarded by the Italian government, who, with provident care, watches over our work and furthers the benevolent purposes of the Children’s Aid Society.”

The object of organizing such a school is evident. There is no incentive so effective with the large majority of Protestant hearts, nothing so well calculated to draw contributions from their pockets, as the hope to “convert to Christianity” Papist children. This school is intended for just such a purpose, and the society would be the last in the world to deny it. “The increase of _newly-arrived_ children attests the popularity of the school. The benevolence of our patrons continues to make itself unceasingly felt in various ways, more especially at the Christmas festival, when the congregation of _the First Presbyterian Church_--Dr. Paxton’s--come almost in a body to gladden our children with useful and substantial gifts, and an outpouring of unmistakable Christian sympathy” (page 32).

The Western agency of this society is on a par with that already examined. The number of miles travelled by the agents is given, as also the number of children placed out. The very names of the agents bristle with activity. They are: Messrs. Trott, Skinner, Fry, Brace, and Gourley. The warm temperament of Mr. Fry, “the resident Western agent,” may be judged from the opening of his report. He writes from St. Paul, Minnesota, under date October 18, 1874, to tell us: “I am up among the saints, and ought to feel encouraged; but it seems such a hopeless task to convey to others the happiness and contentment I witness in my rounds of visitation that I always commence my annual report with a degree of hesitation.”

There are many passages of equal beauty with this, but unfortunately Mr. Fry’s pious enthusiasm is not exactly what is called for. What we want to know is what has actually been done with the 1,880 boys and the 1,558 girls whom we are informed by the report “have been provided with homes and employment” during the year. Men and women to the number of 242 and 305 respectively were sent out also during the year. Of the entire 3,985, 657 were Irish, 28 French, 13 Italian, 8 Poles, 10 Austrians--all of whom may be set down as Catholics. The “American born” were 1,866, the German, 879. Of these also a fair percentage were probably Catholic. What has become of them and of all? What has become of the 36,363 who have been sent out in the same manner by the same society since 1853? How many prospered? How many failed? How many died? How many turned out well? How many ill? What was done for the Catholic portion of the emigrants? It is absurd to put such questions to Mr. Fry, who is “up among the saints,” “wrapped in the third heaven” of S. Paul. A man in such an exalted state of terrestrial beatitude cannot be expected to descend to such sublunary matters as those presented. Consequently, Mr. Fry contents himself with vague generalities and a few specimen letters of the kind characterized at the beginning of this article.

However, “Mr. Macy and his clerks in the office have kept up, as usual, a vast correspondence with the thousands of children sent out by us. We unfortunately can have room but for a few of the numerous encouraging letters that have been received.” We may be permitted to give one, which will explain itself and also what is in store for the Catholic children cared for by this society. Needless to say, it does not find a place in the report which we have been examining. It is, however, an authentic copy, as Mr. Macy himself will testify, if necessary.

Mr. Macy’s letter, or the letter signed by him, needs a little explanation, most of which will be supplied by the letter from the “American Female Guardian Society,” which is also given. The story in brief concerns two Catholic children, a boy and girl, whose mother was dead and whose father was called away to the late war. They fell into the hands of the Female Guardian Society, who handed them over to the Children’s Aid Society to be “provided with homes in the West” or elsewhere. The boy was sent to a Protestant in Dubuque, Iowa, the girl to a Methodist family in the State of New York. After returning from the war and coming out of hospital the father was anxious to learn something of his children. His efforts were futile until, as said in the letters, he interested the Society of S. Vincent de Paul in the matter. After such trouble as may be imagined the society succeeded in gaining possession of the children. _They had both become, or rather been made, Protestants_, and hated the very mention of their religion. The following letters are exact copies of the originals:

AMERICAN FEMALE GUARDIAN SOCIETY, 29 E. 29th Street, and HOME FOR THE FRIENDLESS 30 E. 30th St., N. Y.

May 14th, 1874.

Mr. Wilson:

DEAR SIR: Very unexpectedly to us, a few days since the father of Edward Nugent, came to the Home, to inquire about his children, we had not seen him for six years, and as he had not even written during that time, we supposed he was dead; he has been in the Hospital it appears most of the time, is lame, having been injured in the feet during the war, he is not able to take care of his children, yet still claims he has a right to know where they are, though _we_ do not feel after all these years he has any claim at all, but we learned something of importance yesterday, which explains why he wants to know the children’s whereabouts, it seems he is a Catholic, and has been to the priests with his story about us whom they call heretics, and the priests have influenced him to demand the children, so we felt it our duty to let you know how the matter stands, for they are very persistent, and may send some one in that part of the country to ask the neighbours around there, if such a boy is in that neighbourhood, and if they can get him, no other way they will steal him, so if you have become attached to the child, and would desire to save his soul from the power of the destroyer of souls, we would say to you it would be better for you to send the boy away for a year from you, that you could say truthfully you do not know where he is; _when fourteen_ he can choose his own guardian, then if he chooses you, no power can take him from you. Had he been fully committed to us they would have no right to interfere, but as he was not, they will do all in their power to get him from you, we would feel very sorry to have them find him, as we dread Catholic influence more than the bite of the rattle-snake, for that only destroys the body while the other destroys the immortal soul, too precious to be lost; if you have become attached to that dear boy, save him from the power of the fell-destroyer, and the conscious approving smile of your Heavenly Father will be your reward. I cannot say what course they will pursue, but if you wish the child, you must be very guarded how you act, and must _not_ confide in anyone, not even your own brother what your plans are, act cautiously, but decidedly. Please write immediately on receipt of this, and let us know what your course will be, as we feel the deepest interest in the matter. Yours truly,

(Signed)

MRS. C. SPAULDING, For “Home Managers.”

Please send Mr. Wilson’s first name.

[Verbatim copy, even to italics and punctuation.]

LETTER NO. II.

CHILDREN’S AID SOCIETY, No. 19 East Fourth St.,

NEW YORK, May 19th, 1874.

[Writing to Mr. Williams, who had charge of the boy Edward Nugent, in relation to the father of the boy.]

“He has recently called at the Home for the Friendless for information in relation to Eddie and has interested the Society of St. Vincent de Paul to hunt up and return Eddie. They have begun to look into the matter and I presume that you will hear from them one of these days. We wrote to you some time ago that you had better have Eddie bound to you by the authorities and hope that you did so. I feel that Eddie has a good home and do not care to have him disturbed. It would be cruel to him and wrong by you and so I trust you will do what you can to prevent it. Please let me hear from him and you.”

Yours truly,

(Signed) J. MACY, Asst. Sec’y.

To comment on the letter of the “Female Guardians” or the easy conscience of the “Children’s Aid Society” would be “to gild refined gold”; certainly, in the case of Mrs. C. Spaulding, “to paint the lily.” Honest-minded men of any creed may now understand why it is that Catholics who have any faith in their religion at all, who believe it in their conscience to be the only true religion, demand in the name of justice that associations and institutions of this character be thrown open to the ministers of their religion, or that the State, to prevent all that is shameful and horrible in proselytism, imitate all civilized states, and adopt the denominational system of charities, which, as will be shown in the case of Catholics at least, will not only not cost it a penny more, but considerably less, and with results astounding in their contrast.

We have now examined three of our principal institutions with a view to their cost and results. With the exception of the two letters quoted, no information has been used which is not presented in public reports. It is seen that the Society for Juvenile Delinquents expends one-third of its resources in salaries; the Children’s Aid Society, as far as it is possible to base an opinion on its loose and incomplete figures, perhaps three-fourths; while the figures of the Juvenile Asylum are too confused to allow of any judgment in the matter at all. The results as affecting the children, in the first instance, are avowedly far from satisfactory; in the second and third instances no attempt is made to give such results, though the inferences to be drawn from such evidence as is given are far from hopeful. And so, unless a radical change is effected in the training and management of the institutions, matters are likely to continue. The excuse of inexperience in the management cannot hold here with half a century at the back of one and over twenty years at the back of the other two. The moral training of the children is in all instances distinctly and avowedly Protestant. As shown sufficiently in a previous article, there is no such thing possible as a religious education which is “non-sectarian.” Consequently, Catholic children, who form a large contingent of the inmates of these institutions, are subjected to a course of instruction and moral training which is a gross and persistent violation of the rights of conscience and of the constitution of the State, and to this training have they been subjected ever since the institutions were first founded. The only means of adjusting this grave difficulty, of righting this great wrong, is to follow out the plan which prevails in every civilized country with the exception of our own, of either adopting the denominational system, or at least of allowing free access to the clergymen of the religious denomination professed by the children. The means of adjusting the salaries so as to bear a more rational proportion to the work done is for the public to consider.

The effects of the denominational system are exemplified in the New York Catholic Protectory, which has just presented its _Twelfth Annual Report_. An examination of its working cannot fail to be instructive, inasmuch as it was founded expressly to meet the difficulty noticed above concerning the Catholic inmates of public institutions. From the beginning it has been looked on rather as an enemy than a friend by those who work the engine of the State. At the very least it was regarded as a suspicious intruder into ground already occupied. It was Catholic, therefore sectarian; therefore not a State institution, and consequently not to be supported by the State. State funds could not go to teach Catholic doctrine. But we need not repeat the arguments against it. They are too well known, and are met once for all by the provision in the constitution allowing liberty of conscience and freedom of worship to all members of the State. If moral and religious training be provided for children in all our public institutions, it is against all conscience, law, right, and the spirit of the American people at large to convert that moral and religious training into a system of proselytizing, no matter to what creed. In the case of Catholic children such a system, as known and shown, has prevailed from the beginning; and the first step in the reformation of a Catholic child has been to seek by every means possible to make it a renegade from its faith.

At the opening of the year there were in the Protectory 1,842 children; during the year 2,877; average (entitled to per capita contributions), 1,871. To their support all that was contributed of public moneys was the _per capita_ allowance for each child, which is common to all the children of the institutions examined. Nothing was allowed by the Board of Education, although the children are educated; nothing by “special appropriations”; nothing from “theatre licenses”; nothing from “excise funds”--nothing in a word, from any source at all, save the bare _per capita_ allowance.

This is not an exceptional instance, but the normal relation between the Catholic Protectory and the State. Within the twelve years of its existence the whole amount of State aid received by it, through share of charity fund, special grants, or from whatever source, has amounted to $93,502 08--that is to say, at not $8,000 per annum--while its entire grant for building purposes was $100,000.

The current expenses for the past year were $211,349 87. This includes all outlays, except for the construction of buildings or other permanent improvements. The _per capita_ allowance, received from the comptroller covered $192,339 22 of this amount. It is to be borne in mind that this allowance would have been paid for the children in any case, whatever institution they had entered. Consequently, it is no favor at all to the Protectory. The remaining $19,010 65 had to be met by the charity of private individuals or not met at all. Of course the labor of the inmates and the produce of the farm covered a considerable sum; but the age of the children admitted to the Protectory is limited to fourteen years, and the vast majority of them are considerably under fourteen, and consequently cannot contribute by their labor so efficiently as the inmates of the Society for Juvenile Delinquents, whose average age runs so much higher.

But the expenses by no means ended here. The Protectory is still really in course of erection. The aggregate expenditures during the past year for buildings and permanent improvements, “all of which were indispensable for the carrying out of the mandate of the State in the shelter and protection of its wards,” were $107,491 65. To this heavy sum State and city contributed nothing at all. The bare _per capita_ allowance was the only public money received to aid in the sheltering, educating, clothing, and feeding of these wards of the State; while to all other public institutions, even to institutions not strictly public, liberal special grants or appropriations from special funds were made. The Catholic Protectory alone was left to meet a bill of $126,502 30 as best it might.

In its struggle for existence the Protectory has had little in the shape of aid for which to thank the State. There was great fear even within the present year that the _per capita_ allowance would also be withdrawn, avowedly because the Protectory was a Catholic institution, and consequently without the range of assistance from public funds. This is highly conscientious, no doubt. But the report of the State Treasurer for the past year shows grant after grant to seminaries and “sectarian” (to use the orthodox word) institutions of every kind, with the sole exception of those professing the Catholic faith. A glance at the whole work done by the Protectory and the aid afforded it by the State shows the following:

It has been twelve years in existence. Within that period it has “sheltered, clothed, afforded elementary education, and given instruction in useful trades” to 8,771 children. This work cost in the aggregate for current, expenses $1,257,189 41. To this sum the State contributed through the comptroller out of the city taxes $1,057,578 66. This was merely the _per capita_ allowance still. There remained, consequently, for current expenses $199,610 75 to be paid by whatever means possible.

But the Protectory had to be built. Land had to be purchased, buildings to be erected, and so on. In a word, the Protectory, like all other institutions, had to grow, while there was a ravenous demand, as there continues to be, for admission within its walls. In these twelve years the outlays for land, buildings, and other permanent improvements amounted to $806,211 74. The amount of contracts now being carried to completion on the girls’ building, new gas-house, etc., is over $100,000. To help to meet this necessary sum of $906,211 74 the State made a munificent grant for building purposes of $100,000; while all its other grants, of whatever kind, amounted to just $93,502 28. This left another little bill for the Protectory to meet of $912,320 21 by the best means it could. Is it to be wondered at that there rests on the institution a floating debt of some $200,000, which seriously threatens its existence? Our wonder is, with the encouragement which it has received from the State and city, that it continues to exist at all. Private charity has been its mainstay thus far; but private charity has always an abundance of pressing demands on it, and may at any time give out, for the very best of reasons, in a case where there is really no great call for private charity at all. The children thus cared for, for whom these vast sums have been paid, would have had in any case to be supported by the State, and would have proved a costlier burden than in their present hands. All we urge is that the State be just; that it assist this institution in the same manner in which it assists other institutions, by grants from the same funds, by appropriations from the same sources, without cavil about religion or no religion. The crime of instructing these children in their own religion is evidenced in the results achieved. Of the 8,771 who have passed through the Protectory since its opening, _exactly two have turned out badly_. So much for Catholic education and mental and moral training.

We have reserved for the last an examination of the salaries. The entire amount expended on salaries for the officers and employés of every branch of the institution is $20,736 51; that is, between one-tenth and one-eleventh of the sum total of the current expenses of the year. This is the year’s pay of all officials and employés of an institution which cared for and sheltered within its walls for that period 2,877 children. Contrast this with the $34,880 52 paid the officials and employés of the Society for Juvenile Delinquents for the care during the same period of 1,387 children, and the $39,202 33 paid by the Children’s Aid Society for the teachers of 3,556 children. Contrast the result of the labors of each society. Then contrast the sums lavished by city and State from special appropriations and funds on societies whose chief claim for such special grants consists in their devoting so large a portion of their means to salaries, with their persistent deafness to the urgent appeals of a society which has only good to show everywhere and an army of workers such as the Brothers and Sisters, whose salary is embraced in their food and dress. Let us look at these things, and blush at our pretensions to justice and liberality. Why, it is not even honesty. We are too conscientious to grant a penny out of the educational fund to Catholic children educated by Catholics, while we give thousands freely for the stowing away of Catholic children in asylums that pervert them and can give no account of their stewardship. It is time to drop “conscience,” that counterfeit so recently and so admirably described by Dr. Newman, and fall back on common-sense. Of the institutions here examined the Catholic Protectory combines beyond comparison the greatest economy with the most extraordinarily successful results as affecting the wards of the State. Such an institution has a solemn and the truest claim on the heartiest co-operation and favor of the State.

THE BLIND BEGGAR.

I cannot pass those sightless eyes, Or, if I pass them, I return, Led by resistless sympathies Above their rayless orbs to yearn, And place within the outstretched palms The patiently-awaited alms.

Then, as my footsteps homeward speed. I dare with moving lips to pray That God, who knows my inmost need, May guide me on my darkened way, And place within my outstretched palms The patiently-awaited alms.

ARE YOU MY WIFE?

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