CHAPTER II.

NEW IRELAND AND YOUNG ENGLAND.

How glad I felt when morning came, as it brought me nearer to seeing our fair guest! I gathered a bouquet for her, wet with the kisses of the lingering night-dew. I flatter myself that my bouquets are constructed with a tender regard for tone. I have sat for hours in Paris, upon an upturned empty basket in the Marché aux Fleurs, watching the _fleuristes_ deftly composing those exquisite poems in color which serve to render flowers a charming necessity. Upon this occasion I selected blood-red geraniums as the outer edge, with narrowing circlets of stefanotis and mignonette, the whole enshrined in a bower of maiden-hair fern. How lovely she looked when I presented them to her at breakfast; how enchanting her transparent complexion, that flushed as she spoke, and crimsoned when she was spoken to! Alphonse Karr speaks of a similar indefinable charm in his own delightful way: “_Elle avait ce charme poétiquement virginal, qui est la plus grande beauté de la femme._” Alas! my bouquet had been forestalled by the gift of a veritable last rose of summer which Harry Welstone had culled while I was engaged in imparting some finishing touches to my rather bristly hair. The words “too late” to meet me on the very threshold of my new career! It was truly disheartening.

She was attired in a tightly-fitting dress of pure white, adorned by a series of coquettish blue ribbons, the edgings being of the same color. Her cavalier collar and gauntlet cuffs finished a toilette which almost recalled my Virgil, as I could hardly refrain from exclaiming “_O Dea certe!_”

“Might I ask, if it is not an unparliamentary question, Mr. Ormonde, at what hour you allowed poor papa to retire to his bed? Was it late last night or early this morning?” she asked with a droll archness.

“Well, it _was_ rather late, Miss Hawthorne; but as your father was good enough to favor me with some exceedingly interesting passages in his senatorial career, the time galloped by at a break-neck pace and we took no note of it.”

I had already learned to play the hypocrite. O Master Cupid! and this was thy first lesson.

“Is my memory mocking me, or did I hear awful mention of Irish whisky?” she laughed.

This enabled me to explain the blunder of my retainer in his desire to uphold the honor of the family, and to exonerate myself from the _soupçon_ of having neglected her society for that of the bottle. Peter’s ideas upon the family _status_ seemed to afford her the liveliest merriment, and she laughed the silvery laugh with which, old playgoers tell me, Mme. Vestris used to bring down the house.

“Peter is a character, then?”

“You will find that out before very long, Miss Hawthorne.”

“I do _so_ love characters!”

I ran over my characteristics like a flash, and found them of the baldest and mildest nature. Not a single strong point came to the rescue, not a liking or a disliking. Pah! what a dull, drowsy weed; what a prosy, colorless nobody.

“Peter is a great admirer of the fair sex,” said my mother. “You must see him on Sunday standing at the chapel gate ‘discoorsin’’ the pretty girls as they pass in to last Mass.”

“Is he a bachelor?”

“Oh! yes. I have often asked him why he doesn’t marry, and his invariable reply is, ‘I’d rayther keep looking at them.’”

“Perhaps I might have a chance,” said Miss Hawthorne, with a delicious coquetry in her manner.

“Not a bit of it, my dear; he would not ally himself to a Saxon for a crock of gold.”

“He is a hard-hearted wretch, then,” laughed our guest, “and I shall not endeavor to make a conquest.”

Little did she imagine that she might have uttered _Veni, vidi, vici_ at that particular moment. A poor triumph, though—a paltry victory. I did not feel myself worthy of powder and shot.

Harry Welstone kept gazing at Miss Hawthorne from out his supremely handsome eyes. How I envied him those deep, dark, corsair-like organs of vision, inwardly railing against my own heavy blues! He chatted with her upon every conceivable topic, planning excursions, arranging her boating, riding, walking, and even the songs she was to sing, disposing of her time to his own especial advantage, and leaving me helplessly out in the cold with the prosy member for Doodleshire. I could not find a solitary topic to speak upon; at least, just as I had summoned up courage to “cut in,” as they say at whist, the wind had shifted and the current of the conversation had taken another turn, leaving my disabled argosy high and dry. I had spent my most recent years in the secluded valley of Kilkenley with my mother, my horses, and my dogs. I had seen little or nothing of the whirl of the world, and was so purely, so essentially local as to be almost ignorant of what was going on in the outer circle of life. Of course I read the _Freeman’s Journal_—generally two days old when it reached us—and then I merely glanced at the hunting fixtures or the sales of thoroughbreds at Farrell’s or Sewell’s. Of course I had done some reading; and of a lighter kind the Waverley Novels and Dickens, the Titanic Thackeray and a few unwholesome French effusions; but of late I had read nothing, and, as a consequence, was local to a contemptuous degree. In what did Peter, my own servant, differ from me? Merely in the perusal of a few books. He was a better judge of a horse and—but why proceed? My reflections were all of this melancholy cast as I listened to dissertations upon Chopin, Schubert, and Wagner, upon the novelists and poets of the period, upon Gainsborough hats and Pompadour flounces, upon the relative merits of Rève d’Amour and Ess’ bouquet. Harry and our fair young guest kept the shuttlecock going between them, and I was forced to bear the burden of my own ignorance in a stolid, stupid silence. One chance was offered me which I took as I would a six-foot wall—flying. The question of horses came upon the _tapis_, and I vaulted into the saddle. I rode down Harry and scarcely spared Miss Hawthorne; nor did I draw rein until I had described _the_ run of last season, from meet to death, winding a “View-halloo!” that actually caused the teacups to ring upon their saucers. This blew off my compressed excitement, and, although very much ashamed, I felt all the better for it. My foot was on my native heath, and I showed _her_ that my name was McGregor.

“What are you going to do with Mr. Hawthorne to-day?” asked my mother.

“What are _you_ going to do with Miss Hawthorne, mother?” I retorted.

“Oh! Harry Welstone and I have arranged all that. _You_ are not in the baby-house.”

This was gratifying intelligence with a vengeance. I was told off as bear-leader to the prosy Parliament man, while Harry was to revel in the radiance of Miss Hawthorne’s presence. This was grilling. And yet what could I do or say? My hands were tied behind my back. I was host, and should pay deference to the respected rites of bread and salt, the sacred laws of hospitality. A sacrifice was demanded, and in me was found the victim.

“Could we not manage to unite our forces?” I suggested, in the faint, flickering hope that a compromise might be effected.

“Impossible!” said Harry.

I could have flung my teacup at his head.

“And why not, pray?” I asked in a short, testy way.

“Because you are to take Mr. Hawthorne over to Clonacooney, and to talk tenant-right and landlord-wrong with old Mr. Cassidy; then, when exhausted there, you are bound for the model farm at Rouserstown, and any amount of steam-ploughing and top-dressing; then you can pay a flying visit to Phil Dempsey’s hundred-acre field, and show the Saxon the richness of the land he has invaded; then you are to call for Father O’Dowd, where you can coal and do Home Rule; and then you may come home to dinner, where _we_ shall be very happy to receive you.” And Harry laughed loudly and long at my utter discomfiture—a discomfiture written in my rueful countenance in lines as heavy as those laid on the grim visage of Don Quixote by Gustave Doré.

“You are very kind, Welstone—a most considerate fellow. Why not have arranged for Knobber, or the other side of the Shannon—say Ballybawn, or Curlagh Island?”

The iron had entered my soul.

“Is not this arrangement a very heavy tax upon Mr. Ormonde’s good-nature?” exclaimed our fair guest, graciously coming to the rescue, addressing my mother, who, _par parenthèse_, expressed herself perfectly charmed with Miss Hawthorne.

“Tax! my dear child? On the contrary, it is just the sort of day my son will thoroughly enjoy: going about the country, talking second crops, turnips, and the price of hay and oats. He is devoted to all that sort of thing, and I doubt if even his duties of gallantry to you, Mabel, would get the better of his devotion to Mme. Ceres.”

I was about to blurt out something that might possibly have compromised me on all sides, when, as luck would have it, the M.P. entered.

He stalked into the room as if the division-bell were ringing, and took his seat as though below the gangway, bowing gravely to the assembled House. He lifted his cup as he would a blue-book, and handled his knife as an act of Parliament.

“You will—ahem!—I’m sure excuse my being a little late”—with a preparatory cough—“but the late sittings of last session have totally unfitted me for bed until the wee sma’ hours.”

“Surely, papa, you are not going to carry the House of Commons hours into the romantic glens of Kilkenly?”

“I admit that I ought not to do so, my dear, but, as a great statesman once observed—I, ahem! quite forget his name at this particular moment—habit is second nature; and were I to retire early, it would—ha! ha!—be only for the purpose of quarrelling with one of my best friends, my _best_ friend—Morpheus.”

“You must find the fatigues of Parliament very great,” said my mother.

“Herculean, madam. My correspondence, before I go down to the House at all, is a herculean task, and one in which I am very considerably aided by my daughter.”

“Oh! yes,” she laughed; “I can write such diplomatic letters as ‘I beg to acknowledge receipt of your communication of the blank instant, which shall have my very best attention.’ Papa’s constituents invariably hear from me in that exact phraseology by return of post. I have a whole lot of such letters, as the Americans say, ‘on hand.’”

“If it were not for the off-nights, madam,” continued the member for Doodleshire, “Wednesdays and Saturdays, I should seriously think of accepting the Chiltern Hundreds, which is a gentlemanlike way of resigning a seat in the House.”

“And on the off-nights poor papa devotes himself to _me_,” exclaimed Mabel; “and I always accept invitations for those nights, so the only chance he has for sleep is during the recess.”

I wondered who her friends might be, what they were like, where they resided, and if the men were all in love with her. She had upon three distinct occasions referred to a Mr. Melton, and somehow the mention of this man filled me with a grim foreboding.

“We take too much sleep. We should do with as little as possible, and divide that by three. Sleep is waste of time. Sleep is a sad nuisance, a bore. It is born in a yawn and dies in imbecility,” cried Harry, suddenly bursting into vitality.

“Is it thus you would designate Nature’s soft nurse, sir?” demanded Mr. Hawthorne in a severe tone.

“This comes very badly from Mr. Welstone,” said my mother, “who requires to be called about ten times before he will deign to leave off sleeping.”

“You should see the panels of his door—actually worn away with knuckle-knocking,” I added.

“In the country I sleep because there’s nothing else to do. I get up early! What for? To see the same mist on the same mountains, and the same cows in the same field, and the same birds in the same trees; though, _mot d’honneur_, I was up and out this morning at eight o’clock, and played Romeo to Miss Hawthorne’s Juliet—at least, so far as a garden and a balcony could do it.”

“Who ever heard of a Romeo by daylight?” I exclaimed sarcastically.

“Let’s see what that love-stricken wretch does ‘neath the sun’s rays. We all know what he says and does in the pale moonlight.”

“He kills Tybalt,” I interposed, not utterly displeased in being able to show Mabel that I was on intimate terms with the Bard of Avon.

“And buys a penn’orth of strychnine,” added Harry with a grin.

“We know a gentleman who plays Romeo to perfection,” observed Mabel. “Such a handsome fellow! And the dress suits him charmingly.”

How I hated this Romeo!

“A Mr. Wynwood Melton.”

I knew it before she had uttered the words.

“An actor?” I drawled in a careless sort of way.

“Oh! dear, no; he’s in the Foreign Office, and a swell. He is nephew or cousin—I don’t know which—to Mr. Gladstone or some other great chief.” This with an animation that sent a thrill of despairing jealousy to my very soul.

“He is—ahem!—a very promising young man, a great favorite of ours, and will make his mark. He is destined for the House. You’ll meet him, Mr. Ormonde, when you come over. He is—ha! ha! ha!—rather a constant visitor,” with a significant glance in the direction of his daughter.

She flushed crimson. The deep scarlet glowed all over her like a rosy veil. That blush tolled the death-knell of my hopes. Our eyes met; she withdrew her glance, as I haughtily outstared her.

“He is a great favorite of papa’s,” she murmured, almost apologetically.

“And how about papa’s only daughter?” laughed my mother.

“Papa’s only daughter admires him very much—thinks him very handsome, very nice, very cultivated, very clever, _et voilà tout_.”

“What more would papa’s only daughter have?”

A quaint little shrug, and a dainty laugh.

“A thousand things,” she said. From that moment I marked down Melton as my foe—as the man who had dared to cross my path. Not that I hoped for success, or could ever hope for it; yet to him she had evidently surrendered her heart, and _he_ must reckon with _me_. Meet him! Rather! I would now accept the invitation to London for the sole purpose of falling foul of Melton. It would be such exquisite torture to see them together; such racking bliss to behold them pressing hands and looking into each other’s eyes. What pleasurable agony to look calmly on while those nameless frivolities and gentle dalliances by which lovers bridge the conventionalities were being performed beneath my very nose! Ha! ha! I would close with Mr. Hawthorne’s offer and make arrangements for proceeding to ‘town,’ as he would persist in calling the English metropolis, at the earliest possible opportunity consistent with his, and Melton’s, convenience.

“Miss Hawthorne,” suddenly exclaimed Harry, “_do_ tell us something more about this Romeo. You have only given us enough to make us wish for more. What is he like?”

“Will you have his portrait in oil or a twopenny photo?” she laughed.

“Let us strike ‘ile’ by all means.”

“_Imprimis_—that’s a good word to begin with—he is tall.”

“Good!”

“Graceful.”

“Good again!”

“Dignified-looking.”

“_Bravissimo!_”

“Parts his hair in the centre.”

“I don’t care for that,” said Harry.

“It becomes _him_.”

“Possibly. Pray proceed. His eyes?”

“Gray.”

“Nose?”

“Aquiline.”

“Beard?—men parting their hair in the centre wear beards.”

“Henri Quatre.”

“Hands?”

“Small and white.”

I threw a hasty glance at mine; they were of the same hue as the leg of the mahogany breakfast-table at which we were seated. Sun and saddle had done their work effectually.

“Does he smile?”

“Why, _of course_ he does.”

“Now,” said Harry, “upon your description of his smile a good deal may depend.”

“I object to this line of cross-examination,” said my mother.

“I consider the subject has been sufficiently thrashed already,” I added. Truly, I was sick of it.

“I shall throw up my brief, if I do not get an answer to my question.”

“I shall tell you by and by, Mr. Welstone.”

“By and by will not do.”

“Well, then, Mr. Melton’s smile is like a sunbeam. Are you satisfied _now_?”

“Mr. Hawthorne,” said Harry, turning to the M.P., “this is a very bad case.”

“I’m afraid—ha! ha! ha!—that it looks somewhat suspicious,” was the significant reply.

“If you mean—” Mabel began.

“I don’t mean what _you_ mean,” laughed Harry.

“What _do_ you mean?” she asked.

“What do _you_ mean?” he playfully retorted.

At this juncture Peter O’Brien’s shock head appeared at the open window, through which he unceremoniously thrust it, announcing, in no very delicate accents:

“The yokes is _con_vaynient.”

“That’s a fine morning, Peter,” exclaimed Miss Hawthorne, rising and approaching the window.

“Troth, it’s that same, miss, glory be to God! It’s iligant weather intirely for the craps.”

“We’ve cut all our corn in England, Peter.”

“See that, now,” gloomily; but, brightening up, he added: “Sorra a haporth to hindher _us_ from cuttin’ it long ago, av it was only ripe enough.”

“An Irish peasant will never admit Saxon superiority in anything,” said my mother, placing her arm about Mabel’s waist. “What ‘yokes’ have you out to-day, Peter?”

“The shay for you, ma’am, and the young leddy there; though I’m afeared it’s not as nate as it ought for to be, be raisin av a rogue av a hin—a red wan, full av consait an’ impidence—makin’ her nest right—”

“Here, Peter,” I cried, to put a stop to these hideous revelations, “get my car round at once.” I could have strangled him.

As all English visitors to Ireland are possessed of a frantic desire to experience the jolting of an Irish jaunting-car, I ordered my own special conveyance round, also from the workshop of Bates—a low, rakish-looking craft, with a very deep well for the dogs when going out shooting, and bright yellow corduroy cushions; an idea of my own, and upon which I rather piqued myself. Harry Welstone and the ladies came to the doorsteps to see us off, and while he explained the beauties of the chariot to Miss Hawthorne I endeavored to initiate her father into the mysteries of clinging on, advising him not to clutch the front and back rail so convulsively, but rather to allow his body to swing with every motion of the vehicle, and above all things to trust to luck.

“Lave yourself as if ye wor a sack o’ male, sir,” suggested Peter, who was charioteer, “or as if ye had a sup in. Sorra a man that was full ever dhropped off av a car, barrin’ Murty Flinn; an’ shure that was not his fault aither, for it was intirely be raisin av a bargain he med wud a lump av a mare he was dhrivin’ at that time.”

“Who was Murty Flinn, Peter?” asked Miss Hawthorne.

“A dacent boy, miss, that lives beyant at the crass-roads—a rale hayro for sperits,” was the prompt response, accompanied by a semi-military salute.

“And how did he fall off the car?”

“Troth, thin, _mavourneen_, it wasn’t Murty that fell aff av the car, so much as that the car fell aff av Murty; an’ this is how it happened: Murty was comin’ from the fair av Bohernacopple, where he wint for to sell a little slip av a calf, an’ afore he left the fair he tuk several gollioges av sperits, an’ had a cupple uv haits wud Phil Clancy, the red-hedded wan—not Phil av Tubbermory—an’ he was bet up intirely betune the whiskey an’ the rounds wud red Clancy, so that whin he cum for to make for home he was hard set for to yoke the mare, an’ harder set agin for to mount to his sate on the car. But Murty is the persevarionist man ye ever laid yer two purty eyes on, miss, an’ he ruz himself into the sate afther a tremendjus battle; and th’ ould mare, whin she seen that he was comfortable, tuk the road like a Christian mare. Well, Murty rowled backwards an’ forwards, an’ every joult av the car ye’d think wud sind him on the crown av his _caubeen_; but, be me song, he was as secure as a prisner in Botany Bay, an’ it’s a sailor he thought he was, up in a hammock no less. Well, miss, the night was a little dark an’ the road was shaded wud threes, an’ whin they cum to th’ ould graveyard at Killencanick never a fut the mare ‘ud go farther.

“‘What’s the matther wud ye?’ axed Murty; but sorra an answer she med him.

“‘Are ye bet,’ sez he, ‘an’ you so far from home?’ She riz a cupple av kicks, as much as to say, ‘Ye hit it off that time, anyhow, Misther Flinn!’

“‘Did ye get a dhrink at the fair beyant, Moria?’—the little mare’s name, miss. She shuk her hed in a way that tould him that she was as dhry as a cuckoo.

“‘Musha, musha, but that was cruel thratemint,’ sez he. ‘What’s to be done at all, at all?’

“Well, miss, he thought for a minit, an’ he sez: ‘Moria, we’re only two mile from the Cock an’ Blackberry, an’ I’ll tell ye what I’ll do wud ye: you carry me wan mile, sez he, ‘an’ I’ll carry you th’ other.’”

This proposition on the part of Murty Flinn was received with a peal of ringing laughter from Miss Hawthorne, who, with flashing eyes and an eager expression of delighted curiosity, begged of Peter to proceed.

“Av coorse, miss,” replied the gratified Jehu. “Well, ye see the words was hardly acrass his mouth whin, cockin’ her ears an’ her tail, th’ ould mare darted aff as if she was runnin’ for the Cunningham Coop at Punchestown, an’ Murty swingin’ like a log round a dog’s neck all the voyage; an’ the minnit she come to the milestone undher Headford demesne she stopped like a dead rabbit.

“‘Where are we now?’ axed Murty.

“She sed nothin’, but rouled the car up to the milestone an’ grazed it wud the step.

“‘Well, yer the cutest little crayture,’ sez Murty, ‘that ever wore shoes,’ sez he; ‘an’, be the powers, as ye kept yer word wud me, I’ll keep me word wud you.’ And he rouled aff av the car into the middle o’ the road, while th’ ould mare unyoked herself as aisy as if it was aitin’ hay she was insted av undoin’ buckles that riz many a blisther on Murty’s fingers; for the harness was _con_trairy, and more betoken as rusty as a Hessian’s baggonet. When Murty seen the mare stannin’ naked in the road, he med an offer for to get up, but he was bet intirely be raisin av the sup he tuk, an’ he cudn’t stir more nor his arms; but the ould mare wasn’t goin’ for to be done out av her jaunt in that way, so she cum over, an’ sazin’ him—savin’ yer presence, miss—be the sate av his small-clothes, riz him to his feet, an’, wud a cupple av twists, dhruv him betune the shafts av the car, an’ in a brace av shakes had him harnessed like a racer.

“‘I’m reddy now, ma’am,’ sez Murty, mighty polite, for he seen the whip in one av her forepaws—‘I’m reddy now, ma’am; so up wud ye, an’ I’ll go bail we’ll not be long coverin’ the road betune this an’ the Cock an’ Blackberry.’

“Well, miss, th’ ould mare mounted the car, an’ Murty started aff as well as he cud; but he was bet up afther runnin’ a few yards, an’ he dhropped into a walk, but no sooner he done it than he got a welt av the whip that med him hop.

“‘What are ye doin?’ sez he, an’ down cums the lash agin be way av an answer.

“‘How dare ye raise yer hand to a Christian?’ sez he. A cupple av welts follied this.

“‘I’ll not stan’ it!’ he bawled; but the more he roared an’ bawled the heavier th’ ould mare welted, an’ he might as well be spakin’ to the Rock o’ Cashel.

“‘Hould yer hand!’ he roared, thryin to soothe her—‘hould yer hand, an’ ye’ll have a bellyful av the finest oats in the barony—ould Tim Collins’ best crap. Dhrop the whip, an’ sorra a taste av work ye’ll do till next Michaelmas. I can’t thravel faster, Moria, be raisin av a corn,’ and the like; but the mare had him, an’ she ped off ould scores, an’ be the time they kem to the Cock an’ Blackberry poor Murty was bet like an ould carpet, an’ he wasn’t fit for to frighten the crows out av an oat-field. An’ that’s how it all happened, miss.”

“And did he give Moria the drink?” asked Miss Hawthorne.

“He sez he did,” replied Peter, with a peculiar grin; “but the people that owns the public-house sez that he niver darkened their doore, an’ that he was found lying undher the yoke near the crass-roads, wud th’ ould mare grazin’ about a half a mile down the road. But it’s a thrue story,” he added with somewhat of solemn emphasis.

“_Si non e vero e ben trovato_,” laughed our guest, as she waved us a graceful adieu.

It was one of those lovely mornings nowhere to be found but in Ireland: the dim, half-gray light, the heavily-perfumed air, the stillness that imparted a sort of sad solemnity to the scene, the glorious tints of green on hill and hollow that mellowed themselves with the sombre sky, a something that inspires a silence that is at once a resource and a regret. I became wrapped up in my own thoughts—so much so that, although I held the “ribbons” I was scarcely aware of the fact, and it was only the exclamation from Peter: “Blur an’ ages! Masther Fred, luk out for the brudge”—a narrow structure, across which it was possible to pass without grazing the parapet walls, and nothing more—that brought me to my senses. My guest, in spite of the earnest instructions of Peter, was clinging frantically to the rails at either end of the seat, and, instead of allowing his body to swing with the motion of the vehicle, was endeavoring to sit bolt upright, as though he were in the House of Commons and in anxious expectation of catching the Speaker’s eye. Upon arriving at the foot of Ballymacrow hill Peter sprang to the ground—an example followed by myself; but Mr. Hawthorne retained his seat, as there was plenty of walking in store for him, and my horse could well endure the weight of one, when the weight of three would make a very essential difference in so steep a climb.

Peter, reins in hand, walked beside the “mimber,” and in a few minutes was engaged in “discoorsin’” him.

“Home Rule? Sorra a wan o’ me cares a thraneen for it, thin.”

“What is a thraneen?” asked Mr. Hawthorne, eager for information all along the line.

“A thraneen is what the boys reddies their dhudeens wud,” was the response to the query.

“I am still in ignorance.”

“Wisha, wisha! an’ this is a mimber av Parliamint,” muttered Peter, “an’ he doesn’t know what a thraneen manes, an’ the littlest gossoon out av Father Finnerty’s school beyant cud tell him”; adding aloud: “A thraneen is a blade av grass that sheeps nor cows won’t ait, an’ it sticks up in a field; there’s wan,” suiting the action to the word, plucking it from a bank on the side of the road, and presenting it to the member for Doodleshire.

“And so you are not a Home-Ruler, my man?”

“Sorra a bit, sir.”

“Then what are you?”

“I am a repayler. I’m for teetotal separation; that’s what Dan O’Connell sed to Drizzlyeye.”

“What did Mr. O’Connell say to Mr. Disraeli?” asked my guest in very Parliamentary phraseology.

“I’ll tell ye. ‘What is it yez want at all, at all, over beyant in Hibernium?’ sez Drizzlyeye. ‘Yez are always wantin’ somethin,’ sez he, ‘an’ what the dickens do yez want now?’

“‘I’ll tell ye what we want,’ says Dan, as bould as a ram.

“‘What is it, Dan?’ sez Drizzlyeye.

“‘We want teetotal separation,’ sez Dan.

“‘Arrah, ge lang ou’ a that,’ sez Drizzlyeye. ‘Yez cudn’t get along wudout us,’ sez he.

“‘Cudn’t we?’ sez Dan. ‘Thry us, Drizzlyeye,’ sez he. ‘How did we get on afore?’

“‘Bad enuff,’ sez Drizzlyeye—‘bad enuff, Dan. Yez were always batin’ aich other and divartin’ yerselves, and, barrin’ the weltin’ Brian Boru gev the Danes at Clontarf, bad cess to the haporth yez ever done, Dan. England is yer best frind. We always play fair,’ sez he.

“‘How dar ye say that to me?’ sez Dan, takin’ the Traity av Limerick out av his pocketbuke. ‘Luk at that documint,’ sez he, firin’ up; ‘there’s some av yer dirty work; an’ I ax ye square an’ fair,’ sez Dan, in a hait, for he was riz, ‘if the brakin’ av that wasn’t as bad as anything yer notorious ancesthor ever done?’ alludin’ to Drizzlyeye’s ancesthor, the impenitint thief.

“‘That’s none of my doin’, Dan,’ sez Drizzlyeye, turnin’ white as a banshee.

“‘I know it’s not,’ sez Dan; ‘but ye’d do it to-morrow mornin’,’ sez he, ‘an’ that’s why I demand the repale an’ a teetotal separation.’

“‘Begorra, but I think yer right, Dan,’ sez Drizzlyeye.”

“Such an interview could not possibly have occurred,” observed the practical Englishman.

“Cudn’t it?” with an indignant toss of the head. “I had it from Lanty Finnegan, who heerd it from the bishop’s own body-man.” And Peter, giving the horse a lash of the whip, dashed into the laurestine-bordered avenue leading up to the cosey cottage wherein resided the “darlintest priest outside av Room,” Father Myles O’Dowd.

Father O’Dowd’s residence was a long, single-storied house, whitewashed to a dazzling whiteness, and thatched with straw the color of the amber wept by the sorrowing seabird. A border of blood-red geraniums ran along the entire _façade_, and the gable ends were embowered in honeysuckle and clematis. A rustic porch entwined with Virginia creeper jealously guarded the entrance, boldly backed up by the “iligantest ratter in the barony” in the shape of a bandy-legged terrier, who winked a sort of facetious welcome at Peter and bestowed a cough-like bark of recognition upon me. The parlor was a genuine snuggery, “papered with books,” all of which, from St. Thomas of Aquinas to Father Perrone, were of the rarest and choicest theological reading. Nor were the secular authors left out in the cold, to which the well-thumbed volumes of the Waverley Novels and the immortal _facetiæ_ of Dickens bore ample testimony. A charming copy of Raphael’s masterpiece stood opposite the door, the glorious eyes of the Virgin Mother lighting the apartment with a soft and holy radiance, while the fresh and rosy flesh-tints of the divine Infant bespoke the workmanship as being that of a _maestro_. A portrait of Henry Grattan hung over the chimney-piece, and facing it, between the windows, a print of the review of the volunteers in College Green, while some dozen valuable engravings, all of a sacred character, adorned the walls in graceful profusion. A statuette of the Holy Father occupied a niche specially prepared for it, and an old brass-bound rosewood bureau, black as ebony from age, sternly asserted itself in defiance of a hustling crowd of horse-hair-seated chairs; a shining sofa a little the worse for the wear, and presenting a series of comfortless ridges to the unwary sitter, and a genuine Domingo mahogany table bearing an honest corned beef and cabbage and “boiled leg with” completed a picture that was at once refreshing and invigorating to behold.

“Shure he’s only acrass the bog, Masther Fred,” exclaimed Biddy Finnegan, the housekeeper, with a joyous smile illuminating the very frills of her old-world white cap, “an’ I’ll send wan av the boys for him. He’d be sore an’ sorry for to miss ye, sir. An’ how’s the misthress—God be good to her!—an’ the major, whin ye heerd av him? It’s himself that’s kindly and dhroll.” And Biddy, dusting the sofa, requested the member for Doodleshire to take a “sate.”

“Won’t ye have a sup o’ somethin’ afther yer jaunt, Masther Fred, or this gintleman? Och! but here’s himself now.”

Father O’Dowd had been attached to Imogeela since his ordination—a period of thirty years, during twenty-five of which he was its devoted parish priest. Respectfully declining the promotion in the church which his piety, erudition, and talents claimed for him as their natural heritage, he clung with paternal fondness to his little parish, ministering to the spiritual wants of his flock with an earnest and holy watchfulness that was repaid to the uttermost by a childlike and truthful obedience. To his parishioners he was all, everything—guide, philosopher, friend. He shared their joys and their sorrows, their hopes and their fears. He whispered hope when the sky was overcast, urging moderation when the sun was at its brightest. He had christened every child and married every adult in the parish; and those, alas! so many, lying beneath the green grass in the churchyard of Imogeela had been soothed to their long, long rest by the words of heavenly consolation from his pious lips. Ever at his post, the cold, bleak nights of winter would find him wending his way through rugged mountain-passes, fording swollen streams, or wading treacherous bogs to attend to the wants of the sick and dying, while a granite boulder or the stump of a felled tree, the blue canopy of heaven overhead, has upon many memorable occasions constituted his confessional. A profound scholar, a finished gentleman, and, despite his surroundings, a good deal a man of the world, I was proud, exceedingly proud, to be enabled to present to Mr. Hawthorne so true a specimen of that order which Lord John Russell had been pleased to describe as “surpliced ruffians.”

The priest entered, a smile illuminating his expressive face like a ray of sunlight. Stretching forth both hands, he bade me welcome, exclaiming: “Ah! you have made your pilgrimage at last; you come, as old Horace hath it, _inter silvas Academi quærere verum_. How is your excellent mother? I received your joint epistle, and I hope you got my promissory note, due almost at sight.”

Father O’Dowd was about fifty-five or fifty-six; hale, handsome, and muscular; his silken, snow-white hair and ruddy complexion, with his lustrous, dark blue eyes and glittering teeth, giving him an air of genial cordiality pronounceable at a single glance. Tall, sunburnt, and powerfully built, he carried that solidity of gesture and firmness of tread sometimes so marked in muscular Christianity. I saw with feelings of intense pleasure that my guest was both pleased and impressed—an impression strengthened by the cordial greeting which the worthy priest extended to him.

“Welcome to Ireland, Mr. Hawthorne. It’s about the best thing Strongbow ever did for me—the pleasure of seeing a friend of my dear young friend’s here. Collectively you Saxons hate us; individually you find us not quite the lawless savages the _Pall Mall Gazette_ and _Spectator_ would make us.”

“We want to know you better,” said the M.P.

“Ah! that’s the rub. You don’t know us, and never will know us; but _we_ know _you_. Englishmen come over to Ireland, believing that a real knowledge of the country is not to be acquired from newspapers, but that a man must see Ireland for himself. They come; they go; and all they pick up is a little of our brogue. We never can hope for much more than what Lucan calls _concordia discors_.”

“I believe if Ireland were to take the same stand as Scotland—”

“Scotland me no Scotland,” laughed Father O’Dowd.

“Scotland is contented and thrifty.”

“And Ireland is poor and proud. I tell you, Mr. Hawthorne, that we have a big bill of indictment against you that I fear may never be settled in _my_ day. Why should not Scotland be contented? Is she not fed on sugar-plums? Is there not a sandy-haired Scotchman in every position worth having, from the cabinet to the custom-house? Do you not develop all her industries, and pat her on the back like a spoiled child? Are not your royal family _ipsis Hibernicis Hiberniores_, or, if I freely translate myself, more Scotch than the Scotch themselves? Why should she not be contented and prosperous when she gets everything she asks for?”

“But you ask too much, reverend sir.”

“It is scarcely asking too much to ask for one’s own.”

“Surely yours are at best but—ahem!—sentimental grievances, and the House makes every—ahem!—effort at conciliation.”

“We can stand hard knocks and square fighting, and possibly feel all the better for it; but when you speak of conciliation and all that sort of thing we get on our edge at once, as we know that we are going to be bamboozled.”

“But surely you will admit that we have done a good deal for the country. See the Church Disestablishment Act and the Land Act.”

“Only two patches on our ragged coats, my dear sir. We want independence, and that you won’t give us; nor will you offer us a _quid pro quo_, as you did with Scotland, because you know we would not accept it. No, Mr. Hawthorne, we’ll have to fight you for this, and our Irish members must do the Mrs. Caudle for John Bull, and give him sleepless and wretched nights in the big house at St. Stephen’s.”

“Have you any fault to find with the administration of the laws?”

“Fault! When we find ourselves gagged and fettered by a miserably weak administration, and hedged in by a set of uncertain and floating laws, we begin to think about righting ourselves. You send us a lord-lieutenant who knows as much about Ireland as he does of Bungaroo—who comes over with a hazy idea that there’s some one to be conciliated and some one to be hanged; a chief-secretary who knows less; an attorney-general who, if active, means a necessity for strengthening the garrison; and a commander of the forces who pants for a chance of manœuvring his flying columns over our prostrate bodies. But here comes Biddy Finnegan with a cutlet of mountain mutton, and I can give you a drop of the real mountain dew that never paid the Saxon gauger a farthing duty—or, at least, if we had our rights, ought not, according to Peter O’Brien.” And he laughed. “These subjects are much better worth discussing than English misrule. _Quantum est in rebus inane._” And ushering Mr. Hawthorne to a seat upon his right hand, he proceeded to do the honors with a courtly grace blended with a fascinating hospitality.

“That _poteen_ has its story. As I have already told you, it never paid duty. A friend of mine was anxious that I should keep it on tap, as he constantly comes this way. It is somewhat difficult to obtain it now, as the excise officers are, like you members of Parliament, particularly wide awake.” The M.P. bowed solemnly in recognition of the compliment. “At last, however, he managed to drop on a man, who knew another man, who knew another man, in whose cabin this particular crayture was to be found. My friend ferreted him out, and, upon asking the price per gallon, was informed by the manufacturer that he would only charge _him_ eighteen shillings.

“‘Eighteen shillings!’ exclaimed my friend. ‘Why, that’s an enormous price.’

“‘Och! shure,’ replied the other, with a droll look perfectly indescribable, ‘I cudn’t part it for less, _as the duty’s riz_.’”

It took a considerable time to drive the point of Father O’Dowd’s fictitious narrative and the illicit distiller’s rejoinder into the head of the member for Doodleshire; and when he did manage to grapple it, wishing to lay it by in order to retail it in the House, it was found impossible to get him completely round it, as the word “riz” invariably balked him, and it is scarcely necessary to observe that his Anglican substitution failed in every way to improve the story. The cutlets were deliciously tender, and the potatoes in their jackets so mealy and inviting that the Saxon fell to with a vigor that fairly astonished me. As dish after dish of the diminutive shies disappeared, and potato after potato left its jacket in shreds behind it, I congratulated myself upon the signal success of this visit.

“My drive gave me an appetite, father,” he said. “I haven’t eaten luncheon for many months. In the House I generally pair off with some friend to a biscuit and a glass of sherry; but here I have—ahem!—eaten like a navvy.”

“I’m delighted to hear you mention the drive as the cause of the appetite; for I must endeavor to induce you to repeat it and help me to eat a saddle of mutton that will be fit for Lucullus on Thursday.”

“I am in Mr. Ormonde’s hands.”

I was in an agony—another day from Mabel!

“Oh! Ormonde will do as I direct him; and I’ll tell you what we must conspire about to-night—to induce the ladies to drive over. I should be very pleased to show Miss Hawthorne a little this side of the county.”

I breathed again.

“You shall have my vote,” said the M.P.; “and, if I might dare suggest an amendment to the saddle, it would be in ‘chops.’”

“We might do the swell thing,” laughed the _padre_, “and have two dishes—an _entrée_; how magnificently that sounds! In any case I can say with Horace:

“Hinc tibi copia Manabit ad plenum, benigno Ruris bonorum opulenta cornu.”

“I have—ahem!—almost forgotten my Horace,” sighed our guest.

“One might say to you, as was said to the non-whist-player, What an unhappy old age you are laying up for yourself, Mr. Hawthorne!”

“Well, reverend sir, so long as a man has the _Times_ he can defy _ennui_; every leader is an essay.”

“You cannot commit the _Times_ to memory.”

“I read it every day, sir,” was the pompous reply.

“Apropos of the _Times_, they tell a story of Chief-Baron Pigott which is eminently characteristic. He is one of the most scrupulous, painstaking men the world ever saw, who, sooner than do a criminal injustice, would go over evidence _ad nauseam_ and weigh the _pros_ and _cons_, driving the bar nearly to distraction. One day a friend found him upon the steps of his house superintending the removal of a huge pile of newspapers.

“‘What papers are those, Chief-Baron?’ he asked.

“‘The London _Times_.’

“‘Do you read the _Times_ regularly?’

“‘Oh! dear, yes.’

“‘Did you read that slashing leader on Bright’s speech?’

“‘No; when did it appear?’

“‘Last Thursday.’

“‘Oh! my dear friend, I shall come to it by and by; but at present I am _a year in arrear_.’”

“Am I to understand that he intended to read up to that speech?”

“Certainly. This will illustrate the man. At his house in Leeson Street, Dublin, the hall-door was divided into two, and a knocker attached to each door. The chief-baron has been known to stand for hours, pausing to consider which knocker he would rap with, fearing to act unjustly by the unutilized one.”

“I can scarcely credit this,” exclaimed the member.

“Oh! you’ll hear of stranger things than that before you leave Ireland.” And the merry twinkle in the priest’s eye dissipated any doubts still lingering in the ponderous mind of the learned member for Doodleshire.

“That story is worthy of our—ahem!—charioteer.”

“Who? Peter O’Brien? What good company the rascal is! Of him one can safely say with Publius, _Comes jucundus in via pro vehiculo est_. Peter would lighten any journey. What was the subject of the debate to-day?”

“Well—ahem!—he gave us a new and original version of _A Strange Adventure with a Phaeton_.” And the little man chuckled at his wit.

“I know the story,” said Father O’Dowd. “It is one of Peter’s favorites, and it takes Peter to tell it.”

“From the phaeton he plunged into Home Rule.”

“Freddy,” addressing me, “you must get Peter to tell our English friend here the story of how ‘ould Casey done Dochther Huttle out av a guinea’; it’s racy of the soil.”

“There are—ahem!—some words of his that I cannot exactly follow. They are Irish, but they have quite a Saxon ring about them, which evidently shows the affinity in the languages.”

“And a further reason for uniting us. You English will never rest content until a causeway is built between Kingstown and Holyhead, garrisoned for the whole sixty miles by a Yorkshire or Shropshire regiment—one that can be depended upon.”

“That idea has been mooted in the House before now; I mean the—ahem!—connection of the two countries by a tunnel.”

“So you would bind us in the dark, Mr. Hawthorne?”

“Ha! ha! ha! Father O’Dowd, that is so good that I must book it here,” tapping his forehead in a ghastly way. “Don’t be surprised if it is heard in the House. We are very witty there.”

“If there is any wit in the House of Commons we send it to you. But I doubt if there is a sparkle of repartee among all the Irish members even. I’ve seen a French _mot_ rehashed, with the epigram left out in the cold, and an Irish story with the point striking somewhere in Tipperary.”

“Tipperary is very Irish, is it not? They speak the Irish language there, and run their vowels into each other.”

“You are right, sir; that is the place where you’d get your two _i_’s knocked into one.”

Mr. Hawthorne saw this, and, although the laugh was against him, enjoyed it amazingly. Father O’Dowd could hit from the shoulder, but could also pick up his prostrate foe with the delicacy of a woman. When creed or country came up, one found a stalwart champion in the worthy priest, who could meet his adversary with shillelah or polished steel, as the requirements of the case demanded.

“Finish that glass of wine, and let me show you a set of the finest boneens in the county.”

“Boneens? What are boneens?”

“This is more of your Saxon ignorance,” laughed Father O’Dowd, as, followed by Mr. Hawthorne and myself, he led the way in the direction of the stable-yard.

TO BE CONTINUED.

OUTSIDE ST. PETER’S.

How grand the approach! The dome’s Olympian disc Albeit has sunk behind the huge façade. Lo! with its cross the sentinel obelisk Salutes as on parade.

“Hewn from the red heart of primeval granite,” It says, “among the monuments which man Reared to outmass the mountains of his planet, I was, ere Rome began.

“By no dark hieroglyphs my sides are storied; My titular god, in Heliopolis, In the world’s morning burned into my forehead The signet of his kiss.

“Converted like an ancient scroll rewritten, What heeds the Sun of Righteousness my date? I lift his symbol on my brow, dawn-smitten, And at his portal wait!”

And the twin fountains leap in joy, and twist Their silvery shafts in foaming strength amain, Whose loosening coil is whirled into a mist Of sun-illumined rain.

Therein the bow of promise tenderly, A Heart in glory, palpitates and glows; And musically, in words of melody, The crystal cadence flows:

“Ho! fallen ones, Eve’s sorrowing sons and daughters! In our lustration nothing is accurst; Ho! come ye, come ye to the living waters, Whoever is athirst.”

The colonnaded, stately double-porch For world-wide wanderers stretches arms of grace; The bosom of the universal church Draws us to her embrace.

In their white silence the apostles look Benignantly upon us. Waving hands Of welcome—if our tears such vision brook— In midst the Master stands.

“Humanity,” he pleadeth, “heavy laden, Come unto me, and I will give you rest! Through this, my portal, to the nobler Eden Enter, and be possessed!”

’Tis Easter; and they sing the risen Christ— How jubilant St. Peter’s wondrous choir! But now no vision of the Evangelist, Preceding throne and tiar,

Is borne amid the mystic candlesticks; No waving feathers flash with starry eyes; In the gold chalice and the gold-rayed pyx, For paschal sacrifice,

No pontiff consecrates the elements; And dost remember, in the olden time, How heaven was stormed with silver violence— That trumpet-burst sublime,

Like cherubim in battle? Or, all sound Tranced for the elevation of the Host, How tingling silence thrilled through worlds profound, Where moved the Holy Ghost,

And then Rome rocked with bells? If such things were, They are not now. But we are strangely wrought And vibrant, answering like a harp in air The impalpable wind of thought.

O’er the Campagna’s wastes of feverous blight I’ve watched St. Peter’s mighty dome expand In soaring cycloids to the infinite, When heaven was blue and bland.

When storm was on the mountains and the sea, Have seen its whole empyreal glory tost Like shipwreck on a wild immensity, That heaved without a coast.

But it was grand through all. From far or near, It seemed too vast for heresies or schisms; No colored glass, within its hemisphere, Breaks white light as with prisms.

I have dreamed dreams therein: of charity Wide as the world, impartial as the sun; That on such Sion, in fraternity, Might all men meet as one.

Dreams! Yet one cross, one hope—we scarce can err— May, must all wanderers to one fold recall: The Apostles’ Creed, the bunch of precious myrrh, Can purify us all.

“I have builded on a rock!” His word symbolic He will make plain—the Eternal cannot fail: “Earth shall not shake my One Church Apostolic, Nor gates of hell prevail!”

FRENCH HOME LIFE.[178]

Philosophers, theologians, and political economists alike are agreed that the family is the basis of society and the type of government. Home life and teaching, therefore, is the most important thing in youth, and of whatsoever kind it is, so will be the behavior in riper years of the generation brought up in its precepts. If parents did their duty, the state would need fewer prisons; or, as a Chinese proverb more tersely puts it, “If parents would buy rods, the hangman would sell his implements.” Individual effort, however heroically it may make head against the stream, has but a hard and uncertain task in an atmosphere the very reverse of Christian and Scriptural, and in the teeth of laws becoming every day more and more antagonistic to the Ten Commandments. Still, since the spirit of the age has almost put on one side, as obsolete, the ideal of reverence for age and experience, and the respect due to parents, husbands, masters, and superiors, the preservation of the worthy traditions of Christian home-life falls necessarily to the hands of families themselves. We have to live not up to or within the laws, but beyond them, and to train our children not only as good and obedient citizens but as earnest and practical Christians. Not only in one country is this the case, nor even among the countries of one race, but everywhere, from modernized Japan to Spain, from Russia to the reservations of friendly Indians.

There is one country, however, whose modern literature and practice for a century and a half has been a synonym for looseness of teaching, for disregard of family ties, honor, authority, and restraint, for every element brilliantly and fatally disintegrating, for every moral and philosophical novelty. France is perhaps the nation most misrepresented and maligned by her public literature—at least the France whose delinquencies have been so shamelessly and with seeming enjoyment dissected before our eyes by her novelists and satirists. The sound body on whose surface these sores break out is ignored; the old tradition, rigid and artificial in many points, but made so by the very license of court and city which for ever assaulted its simplicity, is overlooked, and the decent, quiet, and strong substratum of manliness, truth, and purity underlying the froth of vice in the capital and the large towns is forgotten.

The first French Revolution was prepared by atheistical epicures, the airy and refined unbelievers of the court of Louis XIV. and XV.; and though turbulent masses here and there caught the infection, and with cruel precision put in practice against the court nobility the theories about which the latter so complacently wrote essays and epigrams, yet the rural populations still believed in God and virtue—the evil had not struck root among the body of the nation. The infidelity of the present century has completed the task left unfinished by Voltaire and Rousseau; newspapers have carried doubt and arrogance among the simple people of the country; the laws of partition have destroyed many homesteads once centres of families, and driven people into crowded and unhealthy cities; the example of a noisily prominent class of self-styled leaders has carried away the senses of otherwise sober and decent men; the increase of drunkenness has further loosened family and home ties; politics have become a mere profession, instead of the portion allotted by duty to the collective body of fathers of families, and so the old ideal is vanishing fast. Frenchmen of the right sort look despairingly into the far past of their own country, and into the history of foreign nations—English, American, Dutch, Hanoverian—for models of pure living, respect for authority, law-abidingness, and attachment to home. Some have set themselves to study Hindoo, Chinese, and Egyptian models, and to put together from the Proverbs and Ecclesiastes of Solomon, and the exhortations of Plato and Cicero, an ideal code of home-life; some have gathered together and published with loving regret the memorials of French life at its purest, of the patriarchal ideal which survived even till the seventeenth century—the age, pre-eminently, of great Frenchmen and women, and of which some shadows lingered into our own century. From the _naïf_ advice of Louis IX., the saintly king of France, to his son and daughter, Philip and Isabel, to the family registers of small yeomen of Provençal valleys and the grave admonitions of a judge to his newly-married daughter just before the French Revolution, the same spirit breathes through the dying addresses of Christian fathers of families in what we only know as infidel and immoral France. “The seven thousand who bowed not the knee to Baal” were always represented, though the licentious courts of the Valois and the Bourbons threw a veil over the virtues of the country; not one class alone, but all, from the titled proprietor to the small tradesman and struggling _ménager_, or yeoman, contributed its quota of redeeming virtue. But it is noticeable that the majority of these upright men were poor. They could not afford to be idle; they had large families to support; they had their patrimony to keep in the family, and, if possible, to increase. All the customs that we are going to see unrolled before us, the sentiments expressed, the simple, dull, serious life led, are utterly alien from anything we call technically French. We shall be surprised at every page, but less so if we remember that this patriarchal life was generally spent in the country, and often in mountainous regions and severe climates. While reading of these scenes some may be reminded of a story placed in a singular region in the south of France,—the Camargue, not far from Aigues-Mortes—in which Miss Bowles has embodied the characteristic traits of a magnificent, healthy, hardy, and upright race. One of these Provençal farms had much in common with some described in that book.

The reason which makes the author of _La Vie Domestique_ choose the Courtois family register as the first subject of his two volumes is that it is the latest that has come to his knowledge; and reproducing, almost in our own generation, the traits of a vanished society, it is of more interest and of greater weight as a possible model. The author of it, descended from a family of lawyers and judges at least two hundred years old, died in 1828, and his descendants still live in the valley of Sault—one of those natural republics not uncommon in mountainous districts—retired from the outer world, faithful to ancestral tradition, and governing themselves patriarchally according to their old and never-interrupted communal liberties. There is a vast field for research, and more for meditation, in the liberties of the old mediæval states north and south of the Pyrenees; it is startling to see what bold claims the parliaments of Aragon and Navarre could enforce, and their Spartan disregard of the kingly office unless joined to almost perfect virtue. But centralization, the genius of our time, has ruthlessly declared that sort of liberty antiquated, and, after the decay of the despotism which the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries began, the liberty of the individual was insisted on rather than that of the commonwealth.

The valley of Sault was originally independent of any feudal duties, and though later on its lords, the D’Agoults, paid homage and fealty to the counts of Provence and then to the counts D’Anjou, they still retained the sovereign rights of coinage and independent legislation. The country is rocky and woody; for, though reckless wood-cutting decreased the forests round this commune, Sault itself remained a forest oasis, which the provident inhabitants have tried to perpetuate by planting young oaks on the barren slopes of their hills. The Courtois were assiduous planters of trees, and a grove of fairly-grown oaks formed a background to their farm buildings. Quantities of aromatic herbs grow in this neighborhood, and their distillation into essences forms an industry of the country. But the beauty that Sault chiefly lacks is that of water; for, though not far from the famous fountain of Vaucluse, there is no local stream of any importance. This is Alpine scenery without Alpine torrents. But, on the other hand, Sault has a sulphur spring, as yet only locally famous, and the meadows are green and moist. The principal natural curiosity of the valley is the _Avens_, a kind of rifts in the earth, like craters, which, at the rainy season, gape open and absorb floods of rain, leaving only a small portion to feed the Nesque, a tiny tributary of the Rhone. Beech, birch, and maple abound, and pasturage forms a surer road to fortune than agriculture. Yet the small freeholds are pretty equally divided, and the more advanced among the inhabitants have very clear and approved notions of practical farming. The custom of selling or exchanging the paternal acres was, till the last quarter of a century, unknown, or at least abhorred; and a local tradition dating hundreds of years back had established a modified right of primogeniture—one of the sons, generally but not necessarily the eldest, devoting himself to the care of his aged parents, the settlement of his sisters, the management of the farm, and the accumulation of a reserve fund from his income for the unforeseen necessities of the younger branches of the family. His portion in money was sometimes double, according to the Mosaic precedent, but it was understood that the Support of the House (such was the phrase) should use his advantages only for the general benefit of the family, and also that his wife’s dowry should nearly cover the deficit caused by the marriage and dowries of his sisters.

Those simple people knew nothing of laws, such as shameful excesses have made necessary in Anglo-Saxon countries, for the protection, against the husband and father, of the wife’s fortune and children’s inheritance. Antoine de Courtois, one of these model yeomen of southern France, looked upon any alienation of ancestral property, or even any use of capital, as sheer robbery of his descendants, and says in his family register: “To sell our forefathers’ land is to renounce our name and disinherit our children. Never believe that it can be replaced by other property, and remember that all those who have been ready to exchange their ancestors’ for other land have ruined themselves.... If our farm is well managed, it will always bring in more than six per cent. Any other land you could buy would not bring in three per cent., and would ruin you to improve it. You would have a decreased capital and no income, and it would break your heart.”

The description of the homestead is interesting. The buildings included the master’s house, with ten rooms on the ground-floor, eight others on the first floor, three granaries above, with a dovecote, and three cellars below; a farmer’s house, a shepherd’s, hay-barns and stables, a courtyard and fountain, a garden and orchard with over a hundred fruit-trees, a fish-pond, fifty bee-hives, and two hundred sheep. He had rebuilt much of this himself, and spent ten thousand francs on the work; and in laying some new foundations he had put his wife’s and children’s names below the corner-stone. As to farm management, he emphatically preferred and advised self-work with hired help, instead of renting the place on shares or otherwise to a farmer with a useless family. He gave very judicious rules for sowing, hoeing, harvesting, etc., and impressed upon his son the profit to be derived from bees, and the increased value of land of a certain kind, if planted with young oaks. Work he considered the only condition of happiness, as well as the road to comfort, and he said he would sooner see his sons shoemakers than idlers. The family profession was the law, though he himself in his youth studied medicine, successfully enough in theory, but not in practice, since, after losing his first patient, his scruples and disgust ended by forcing him to leave his calling. The business of a notary public was the one he recommended to his son in the choice of a profession; his family tradition led him in this groove, where, indeed, he had been preceded by some of the greatest men in France.

This choice of a state is so much a matter of custom or of personal inclination that we must carefully discern between things in the Courtois family which were models and things of indifference. Their moral qualities alone are universal types; their local customs, worthy in their own circumstances, would probably be utterly unfit for a country and race so different as ours. But Courtois’ native town, of which he was mayor for nearly twenty years, gives an example less rare in foreign countries than in either England or the United States—that of supporting an institution containing an archæological museum, a botanical collection, and a collection of local zoölogy and mineralogy, besides a library which occupies a separate building, the whole under the care of a member of the French Archæological Society, M. Henri Chrestian—an example which it would be well if our own towns of three thousand inhabitants (Sault has no more) would be public-spirited enough to follow. It is not the lack of money that debars small rural towns of such advantages; they generally contrive to keep three or four barrooms going, a dancing-hall, a Masonic hall, an annual ball and supper, half a dozen discreditable places for summer picnics, and other things either useless and showy or downright disreputable. Instead of paying money year by year for the gratification of folly and temptation to vice, and putting money in the pockets of men who deliberately trade on their fellow-men’s weakness or wickedness, why not pay a subscription the full benefits of which they reap themselves not for one day or night only in a year, but every day? Where there _is_ a library in a small town, what books are most numerous? Trashy novels vilely illustrated, and Saturday newspapers with their ignoble, misleading, immoral tales and cuts. What a contrast to many a French, Italian, German village of three to five thousand inhabitants, or even to some of the island-villages of North Holland, remote and unvisited as they are!

Antoine de Courtois was the natural outcome of the secluded domestic atmosphere in which his family had grown up. The doctrines that led to the excesses of the Reign of Terror—for we must not confound the legal and rightful reforms of 1789 with the bloody fury of 1793—and the abuses that hurried on the great dislocation of society, had not reached his valley. In all lands where the local land-owners had remained at home and identified themselves with their neighbors, keeping only as a badge of their superiority a higher standard of honor and bravery, there was no revolt against the gentlemen. If any village followed the example of the large cities, it was sure to be owing to some scapegrace who had left home and learnt a more successful rascality among the tavern politicians of some seething city, and then come back to play Robespierre on his own small stage. Courtois married in the midst of the Revolution, in 1798, and quietly took up the task of his brother Philip, who had died suddenly without leaving any children, and whose wife, though only a bride of a few months, devoted herself all her life to the family interests. Antoine, always humane and charitable, had given shelter to two of the revolutionary commissioners, pursued by enemies of an opposite faction then uppermost, for which he was speedily denounced by an informer and imprisoned. His widowed sister-in-law travelled to Nice and besought the interference of the man he had formerly saved—the young Robespierre. A respite, then a pardon, was granted, and Antoine retired for a short time to Nice, sheltering himself behind his nominal profession of medicine, until one night the informer who had betrayed him came trembling to his door, begging him to save his life. He fed and clothed him, and gave him money to set him on his way, as well as a promise to turn his pursuers from his track should he be examined.

Such a man acted as he believed, and might say the Lord’s Prayer with a clear conscience. His equable temperament, and his firm reliance on reason as the corner-stone of morality, are very unlike what we attribute to the typical Frenchman—emotional, unreliable, fantastic, or affected; the Parisian has blotted out all worthier types from our sight. His advice to his children on their duty of consulting reason and moderation in all things, and sternly repressing mere inclination or passion, goes so far as to seem exaggerated and to banish from life even its most legitimate pleasures. But he knew the corruption pressing upon his retreat, besieging it and luring it, and to extreme evils he opposed extreme remedies. Besides, ancient custom sanctioned, or at least colored, his advice as to marriage, in which matter not only his daughters but also his son were not to choose for themselves, but let their mother choose and decide for them. He required his children to be wise beyond their years, and would fain have put “old heads on young shoulders”; but the frightful license he saw around him made the recoil only natural. Men had need to be Solomons in early youth, when hoary heads degraded themselves to play at Satyrs. Among other precepts—and there is not one that could not be matched out of Proverbs and Ecclesiastes—he insisted on the duty of neither borrowing nor lending; his teaching was inflexible on this point. “Better go shirtless than borrow money” was his maxim. In these days of lax and indiscriminate pity for all misfortune such advice sounds selfish and harsh; it belongs to the conscience of each man to interpret it and make exceptions. As to the borrowing we might be inclined to say, “Never under any circumstances”; but as to the lending there may be exceptions. In the first you fetter yourself, than which nothing is less wise; in the second you incur no obligation, and, if you can afford to lose the sum lent, there is an additional excuse. Courtois’ objection was founded on the principle he set forth elsewhere, that your property is not your own but your posterity’s, and that you have no right to diminish it. If he had had any other and absolutely personal property, the objection would have been no doubt qualified. In many cases he showed by his own example that he had no objection to _give_, and to be helpful to his neighbor according to his ability. He was rigidly opposed to the reading of novels, to games of chance, to balls and theatre-going; one could almost fancy one’s self listening to an old Puritan on this subject. But in this respect who is more of a Puritan than St. Jerome in his instructions to Paula for the education of her daughter? Reading consisted, with Antoine de Courtois, chiefly of the Scriptures and of the _Following of Christ_, that universal book of devotion, with Châteaubriand’s then recently-published _Génie du Christianisme_. The later development of Christian literature, less florid than Châteaubriand, might have added other books in his own language to his restricted library, but they hardly existed in his day. For instance, he would have sympathized with Joubert, who wrote: “Whenever the words altars, graves, inheritance, native country, old customs, nurse, masters, piety, are heard or said with indifference, all is lost.”

The practical and physical advantages of virtue were always before his eyes, and he never ceased showing his children how sensible and rational are the laws of God. They preserved health and gave success; they ensured happiness and kept peace. Honesty is not only the first duty of man to his fellow, but is the safest road for one’s self, and brings with it the confidence, the respect, and the love of one’s neighbors. On the subject of drunkenness it is worth while to note what a Frenchman, one of a nation of wine-drinkers—who, it is said, are so sober as opposed to a nation of ale and spirit drinkers—and of a generation long preceding any agitation on the temperance question, says in his solemn advice to his children:

“Nothing is more contemptible than drunkenness, and, in order that it may be impossible for you to fall into this sin, I advise you never to drink wine. Water-drinkers live longer and are stronger and healthier. Be sure of this: it is easy to accustom yourself to drink no wine, but, once the habit of drinking wine is formed, it costs a good deal to satisfy it, and often painful efforts to restrain it within the bounds of moderation. I never drank wine till I was five-and-thirty, and I should have done better never to drink any. Wine strengthens nothing but our passions; it wears out the body and disturbs the mind.”

He recommended work, not only as a duty but as the essential condition of happiness, and no one knows how true this is but those who have tried to do without regular employment. One often hears people wonder why so-and-so, being so rich, continues in business, and slaves at the desk instead of enjoying the fruits of his wealth. Nothing is more natural, unless a man has a taste strong enough to form an occupation, such as Schliemann had from his boyhood, and was able to indulge after he earned money enough by business to prosecute researches in the East. The leisure that some people recommend is only idleness under a veil of refinement, and no man or woman can be rationally happy unless through some special occupation which towers above all others. Doing a score of things, and giving an hour or so to each, never brings any result worth mentioning; devoting all your spare time to one pursuit strengthens the mind even where it is not needed to support the body. “If you have no profession,” says Antoine de Courtois, “you will never be anything but useless men, a burden to yourselves and a weariness to others.”

Domestic economy is another cardinal virtue of this thrifty French farmer, and the rule he prescribes—that of laying by one-sixth of one’s income to form a reserve fund, so as not to encroach on one’s capital for repairs or other unexpected expenses—is worthy of notice. Going to law, especially among relations, he utterly abhors, and advises his son, in cases of dispute, to have recourse to the arbitration of some mutual friend. On one occasion, when he was compelled to go to law against a neighbor, he mentions the suit as that of “our mill against ——’s meadow,” and takes the first opportunity to do his adversary a personal favor, carefully distinguishing between the individual and the cause. In a word, all the elements of discord and dissolution most familiar to ourselves, and too unhappily common to cause any surprise, or even to elicit more than languid blame, are, in this family register, studiously held up to execration.

Family affection, again, was not restricted to the brothers and sisters; it included all relations, and was supposed, whenever necessary, to show itself in practical help. Uncles and aunts were second fathers and mothers; god-parents were more than nominal connections; cousins were only another set of brothers and sisters. A maiden aunt, Mlle. Girard, called in the affectionate _patois_ of Provence “our good _tata_,” helped to bring up Antoine’s children, and her brothers, far from wishing her to follow her first impulse, and, on account of her feeble health, take the veil in some neighboring convent, argued with her in favor of home life and duties. She died at the age of fifty-two, a holy death, as her life had been useful, humble, and charitable. Courtois himself considered marriage the natural state of man, and said that, for his part, he thought “there was no true happiness, and perhaps no salvation, outside of the married state.” But he looked upon it as so much a means to an end that he deprecated the interference of personal inclination against such practical considerations as health, virtue, becoming circumstances of fortune and station. He wisely said that one was only the steward of one’s own property, and was bound to hand it on unimpaired to one’s posterity; yet it is possible that he had too little confidence in the probably wise choice his children would make for themselves. It is true that the choice of mates by the parents provides in each generation a balance to the inability of the parents to choose for themselves in their own case—a sort of poetic retribution; and it is true also that men and women at the age of parents with marriageable children have just come to that maturity and perfection of judgment which enables them to be good guides to their sons and daughters while the latter are still in that chrysalis state when obedience is the wisest course. But such an education as he had given them should have made them more capable of discernment than others, and in his precepts there is perhaps as much of old tradition as of reaction against the subversive theories which were rending French society in pieces. How else interpret such a sweeping assertion as this: “A father is the only man a young girl need not fear”?—a withering comment, indeed, on the general state of society. On the important subject of marriage and its duties Mme. de Lamartine, the mother of the poet, has a beautiful passage in her journal, written at Milly, near Mâcon, at a small country house, whose orchards, meadows, and vineyards brought in the small income of six hundred dollars a year. On this she had a large family of sons to bring up and workmen to pay, yet the family life was as dignified and as calm as Abraham’s with his vast possessions. Her husband she calls a peerless man, “a man after God’s own heart,” and, as is often the case with the fathers of brilliant men, his character stands contrasted with that of the poet, as the oak by the side of the willow. The father of Macaulay was infinitely superior in his moral character to his amiable, genial, and gifted son—a man of iron, austerely upright, and a rock on which to depend, “through thick and thin,” but not what the world calls charming. Here is Mme. de Lamartine’s judgment, worthy to be graven in the heart of every bride as she leaves the altar:

“I was present to-day, 5th Feb., 1805, at a taking of the veil of a Sister of Mercy in the hospital at Mâcon. There was a sermon, in which the candidate was told that she had chosen a state of penance and mortification, and, as an emblem of this, a crown of thorns was put upon her head. I admired her self-sacrifice, but could not help remembering also that the state of the mother of a family, if she fulfils her duties, can match the cloistered state. Women do not think enough of it when they marry, but they really make a vow of poverty, since they entrust their fortune to their husbands, and can no longer use any of it except what he allows them to spend. We also take a vow of chastity and obedience to our husbands, since we are hereafter forbidden to seek to please or lure any other man. Over and above this we take a vow of charity towards our husbands, our children, our servants, including the duty of nursing them in sickness, of teaching them as far as we are able, and of giving them sound and Christian advice. I need not, therefore, envy the Sisters of Mercy; I have only faithfully to fulfil my duties, which are fully as arduous as theirs, and perhaps more so, since we are not surrounded by good examples, as they are, but rather by everything which would tend to distract us. These thoughts did my soul much good; I renewed my vows before God, and I trust to him to keep me always faithful to them.”[179]

Her life was serious and busy:

“I go to Mass every morning with my children at seven. Then we breakfast, and I attend to some housekeeping cares; then study, first the Bible, then grammar and French history—I sewing all the while.... My chief object is to make my children very pious and keep them constantly in full occupation.”

They had family prayer, too, and she says in her journal:

“It is a beautiful custom and most useful, if one would have one’s house, as Scripture recommends, a house of brethren. Nothing is so good for the mind of servants as this daily partaking with their masters in prayer and humiliation before God, who recognizes neither superiors nor inferiors. It is good for the masters to be thus reminded of Christian equality with those who are their inferiors in the world’s eyes, and the children are thus early taught to think of their true and invisible Father, whom they see their elders beseech with awe and confidence.”

The Courtois family were cousins of the Girards, one of whom, Philip de Girard, invented a flax-spinning machine in 1810, and many other mechanical improvements. In 1823 his father’s property was in danger of being sold at auction, and, having no capital but his genius, he made a contract with the Russian government, binding himself to become chief-engineer of the Polish mines for ten years. He thus saved his patrimony. A new town grew up around one of the factories established in Poland on his system, and took his name, Girardow; the present emperor has given the town a block of porphyry as a pedestal for the founder’s statue. He, too, was of the old French stock, a dutiful son and sincere Christian, schooled in tribulation in his own country, but, notwithstanding his many disappointments as an inventor, happy enough to have been buried in his own old home.

A better-known name is that of the D’Aguesseau family, a remarkable house, both for inherited piety and genius. The great chancellor of this name was a model son to a model father, and all his own children were worthy of him. Perhaps the La Ferronnays are equally fortunate; as far as their family life is revealed in _A Sister’s Story_, it seems cast in the same mould. Few, however, so prominent, and therefore so open to temptation, as the D’Aguesseaus have given such a sustained example of high virtue. The chancellor, whose family, always connected with the law, dated authentically from the end of the fifteenth century, was dangerously fortunate in his public career. At twenty-two he was advocate-general to the Parliament of Paris, and procurator-general at thirty-two, an orator famous all over France, a historian, a judge, a philosopher, and a writer. His name was synonymous with several important laws. He held the seals of the chancellorship for thirty-two years, and died in 1751, over eighty. His linguistic studies embraced Hebrew and Arabic—rare acquirements at that time—and he was also a good mathematician. His own saying, which he applied to his father, is no less true of himself: “The way of the righteous is at first but an imperceptible spot of light, which grows steadily by degrees till it becomes a perfect day.” Another of his maxims was that “public reform begins in home and self-reform.” His children’s education was his greatest solicitude, even among his public duties, and one gets an interesting glimpse of him in Mme. d’Aguesseau’s letters describing the business journeys of inspection on which he had to go, and which he made with his family in a big coach. The mother would open the day by prayer, and the sons then studied the classics and philosophy with their father, while even the hours of leisure were mostly filled up by reading; for the chancellor wisely taught his boys to choose subjects of interest out of school-hours, that they might not identify reading with compulsory tasks. School teaching he considered only as a basis for continued education by one’s self, and his ideal of his daughter’s education was the union of domestic deftness with scientific study. This daughter, in her turn, left to her sons advice such as truly proved her to be a mother in Israel. His wife he enthroned as a queen in his heart and his home, and would smile when others rallied him on his domestic obedience. He trusted to her for all home matters and expenses; and such women as she and those she represented were fit to be trusted.

The seventeenth century was essentially the age of great women in France, and the early part of the eighteenth still kept the tradition. Mme. de Chantal had a manly soul in a woman’s body, and yet proved herself as good a housekeeper as an administrator of her son’s estate while a minor. Prayer, work, and study went hand in hand in these women, and the D’Aguesseaus were only shining representatives of whole families and classes of noble wives and mothers. They remind one of some Scotch mothers and homes, in districts where old customs still abide; where servants are part of the family, yet never, in all their loving and rude familiarity, approach to a thought of disrespect or disobedience; where there is intense love but no demonstration; where honor and truth are loved better than life, and simplicity becomes in reality the most delicate and grave courtesy. D’Aguesseau loved farming as his chosen recreation, and vehemently denounced the rising prejudice of the young who were ashamed of their father’s simple homestead and refused to live such rustic lives. The Hebrew ideal—than which no finer has ever been invented—was his absolute standard of home-life, and how his father’s character answered to it we shall presently see. The publication of this manuscript biography and other domestic writings of the chancellor was due only to long-continued pressure, and his sons consented only with the hope of doing good to a perverse generation. In these days, when people are rather flattered than otherwise to see their names in print, even if it be only in a local sheet, many may wonder at this reticence which denoted the delicacy of this exceptional family. Whether the publication did good we can hardly judge; it must have helped to stop some on a downward career, or at least strengthened the weak resolves of some few struggling against the current.

The elder D’Aguesseau had singular natural advantages such as the majority lack, but much of this happy temperament was probably the result of generations of clean, temperate, and orderly living, such as his forefathers had been famous for. His son traces a portrait of him which seems to unite the primitive Christian with the ancient Roman:

“Exempt from all passion, one could hardly tell if he had ever had any to fight against, so calmly and sovereignly did virtue rule over his soul. I believe the love of pleasure never made him lose a single instant of his life. It even seemed as if he needed no relaxation to balance the exhaustion of his mind, and, if he allowed himself any at rare intervals, a little historical or literary reading, a short conversation with a friend, or a chat with my mother was enough to strengthen his mind for more work; but these relaxations were so few and far between that one would have thought he grudged them to himself. Ambition never disturbed his heart; for himself, he had never had any, and in his children’s careers he looked only for opportunities for them to serve their country and avoid idleness and luxury, which he considered a perpetual temptation to evil. How could avarice come near a soul so generous?... Twenty years’ labor on public works and thirty-one in the council never suggested to him the idea of asking for anything.[180] ... He died at the age of eighty-one, never having received any extraordinary gratuity, pension, or grant. Even his salary, in spite of his share in the distribution of the public treasury, was always the last to be paid. Mr. Desmarets, finance minister, said to me one day as we were walking in his garden: ‘I must say your father is an extraordinary man. I found out by chance that his salary has not been paid for some time, though he needs it. Why did he not tell me? He sees me every day, and he knows there is no one I would oblige sooner than him.’ I answered with a laugh that the salary never would be paid, if he waited for my father to ask for it, for he well knew that the word _ask_ was the hardest in the world for my father to utter.... What defects could a man have who was so insensible to pleasure, ambition, even legitimate self-interest? Nearly all human weaknesses are the results of these three passions, ... and Despréaux was only literally in the right when he said of your grandfather: ‘Such a man makes humanity despair.’ He did not know justice only through the discernment of his mind; he felt it as the natural instinct and impulse of his heart, spite of all prejudices and predilections. Diffident of his own judgment, he feared the illusions of a first impulse and the snares of a hasty conclusion. Wisely lavish of his time in listening to causes and reading the memoranda of his clients, he was never contented till he had got to the smallest details of the truth, for to judge aright was the only anxiety or disturbance of mind he ever experienced. Mindful only of things in the abstract, he wholly lost sight of names and persons; and if in the exercise of his functions he was ever known to give way to emotion, it was only on behalf of endangered justice, never of individuals as such. In this there was no obstinacy or arrogance. Zeal for justice and love of truth would often so move him that he was unable to contain his thoughts, and would admonish others of the danger of trusting too much to what is erroneously called common sense, though it be so rare a gift; of the duty of learning accurately the principles of justice, and of forming one’s judgment on the experience of the wisest men.”

His gentleness and patience, his prudence and discretion, were no less conspicuous; his son says further: “No one knew men better, and no one spoke less of them.” His gentleness was a companion virtue of his courage. Apparently timid, he was yet impassible; neither moral nor physical danger awed him.

“From this mixture of justice, prudence, and bravery resulted a perfect equipoise as little in danger from variations of temper as from tempests of passion.... He was always the same, always himself, always lord of his thoughts and feelings. Hence that groundwork of moderation that kept him in an atmosphere so serene that pride never puffed him up, nor weakness degraded him, nor extreme joy upset him, nor immoderate sorrow depressed him. Duty, ever present to his mind, kept him within the bounds of the most solid wisdom, and one might epitomize his character thus: he was a living reason, quickening a body obedient to its lessons and early accustomed to bear willingly the yoke of virtue.”

Of lesser qualities, having these greater ones, he could not be destitute, and in his daily life, his eating and drinking, his recreations, his domestic relations, he was equally steady and perfect. He disliked dinner-parties especially, as involving a loss of time, though, if obliged to be at them, he never went beyond the frugal portion equivalent to his home meals; he drank so little wine that it scarcely colored the water with which he mixed it; and as to display, he was such an enemy to it that he would use only a pair of horses where his colleagues and subordinates ostentatiously used two pair. He was sickly of body, but retained his gentle and equable temperament throughout his life; his servants found him too easy to serve, so careless was he of his personal comfort; his friends, few but sincere, found in him another self, so forgetful was he of his interests in theirs. In conversation he repressed his natural turn for pleasantry, because he despised such frivolous talents; but his _esprit_ pierced his gravity at times, and he was always a hearty laugher. Piety was inborn in him, and his faith was as childlike as his morals were pure. Scripture was his favorite reading, the Gospels especially, and his grave devotion in church was a rebuke to younger and more thoughtless men. He laid aside a tenth of his income for the use of the poor, whom he looked upon collectively as an additional child of his own; and a famine, or local distress of any kind, always found him with a reserve fund ready to help the needy. On the other hand, he practised the strictest domestic economy, and on principle shunned all display beyond what was necessary for simple comfort and the respect due to his official position. We might go further in this eulogium, but, having pointed out the steadiness of character which was peculiar to him, we need not enlarge on qualities which he shared with many weaker but still well-meaning men. All real saints are first true men; wherever an element of weakness crosses the life of a servant of God there is a corresponding flaw in his perfection. The death of Henri d’Aguesseau was worthy of his life; the consideration for others, the solicitude for some poor clients whose interests he feared would suffer through the time lost in formalities after his death, the strong reliance on God, the frequent repetition of the Psalms, “the possessing his soul in patience,” which distinguished his dying hours, all pointed to the “preciousness” which it must have worn in God’s sight.

The Chancellor d’Aguesseau walked in his father’s footsteps. Among his teachings to his son, who at nineteen was leaving home, he insists especially on the study of Holy Scripture, supplemented by a practice of marking and bringing together in writing all such passages as relate to the duties of a Christian and a public life, to serve as a body of moral precepts for his own guidance. Others, he says, have commented upon Scripture in this direction, but he does not advise his son to follow them in their methods, for “the true usefulness and value of this sort of work is only for the person himself, who thereby profits at his leisure, and imbues himself with the truths he gathers.” In his book, _Reflections on Christ_, he says: “The characteristic of Gospel doctrine is that it is as sublime, while it is also as simple, as _one_, as God himself. There is but one thing needful: to serve God, to imitate him, to be one with him. This truth includes all man’s duties.” Simplicity and uprightness, singleness of purpose and love of truth, were for him the practical synonym of religion. His father’s death he calls “simple and great”; Job’s eulogium he emphatically points out as having been that of “a man simple and upright, fearing God and eschewing evil.” Other moralists, public and private, have harped, not unnecessarily, on the same string. The Provençal poet, Frederick Mistral, adds another element to the definition of goodness—work. Brought up on a farm, among all the interests and details of agriculture and the vintage, in a household whose head was his father and teacher, and where daily family prayer and reading in common ended a day of hard work, he was a strong and rustic boy. All old customs were in vogue: the father solemnly blessed the huge Yule-log at Christmas, and then told his children of the worthy doings of their ancestors. He never complained of the weather, rebuking those who did in these words: “My friends, God above knows what he is about, and also what is best for us.” His table was open to all comers, and he had a welcome for all but idlers. He would ask if such and such a one was a good worker, and, if answered in the affirmative, he would say: “Then he is an honest man, and I am his friend.” The men and women on the farm were busy, healthy, strong, and pious. The old man had been a soldier under Napoleon, and had harbored proscribed and hunted fugitives in the Reign of Terror. His adventures were a never-ending source of interest to his family, his hired men, and to strangers. We are perhaps wrong in saying so, but there is always a tendency, when we see or hear of such men, to say: “There are none such now.” Certainly there are fewer, but in every age the same lament has been raised. The “good old times,” if you pursue them closely, vanish into the age of fable; yet in hidden corners one may always find some of their representatives, and goodness, alas! has always been exceptional. M. Taine, in his _Sources of Contemporary France_, wisely says: “In order to become practical, to lord it over the soul, to become an acknowledged mainspring of action, a doctrine must sink into the mind as an accepted, indisputable thing, a habit, an established institution, a home tradition, and must filter through reason into the foundations of the will; then only can it become a social force and part of a national character.” Unfortunately, it takes centuries, or at least generations, to produce such results; but the continual and unchanging teaching of religion, running parallel to, and yet distinct from, all local changes of circumstance, may often supply much of this natural tradition. In the sixteenth century Olivier de Serres, in a manual of agriculture, touches on the duties of a landholder, and the old principles of the Bible are revived in his archaic French. He bids masters, “according to their gifts, exhort their servants and laborers to fly sin and follow virtue.”

“He (the master) shall show them how industry profits every business, specially farming, by means of which many poor men have built houses; and, on the other hand, how by neglect many rich families have been ruined. On this subject he shall quote the sayings of the wise man, ‘that the hand of the diligent gathers riches,’ and that the idler who will not work in winter will beg his bread in summer. Such and like discourses shall be the ordinary stock of the wise and prudent father of a family concerning his men, whence also he will learn to be the first to follow diligence and virtue, and to let no word of blasphemy, of lasciviousness, of foolishness, or of backbiting ever pass his lips, in order that he may be a mirror of all modesty.”

Gerebtzoff’s _History of Ancient Russian Civilization_ gives curious details of the patriarchal rules of life in that country, the respect lavished on parents and elders, the early-imbibed love of truth, and the familiar use of proverbs embodying these doctrines. Why do these things seem new to us, or at least why is their repetition so necessary? St. Marc Girardin, lecturing at the Sorbonne thirty years ago on the fifth chapter of Proverbs, distrusted the effect on his audience of youths “of the period.” He handled the subject manfully, but so well that his audience caught his own enthusiasm and rained down applause on those noble, ancient Hebrew maxims, so dignified in theory, so beautiful in practice. But if the world would not listen to such teaching, the same precepts would meet it unawares in the books of classic writers—in the _Republic_ of Plato, in the speeches of Cicero, the _Politics_ of Aristotle, in the laws of Solon. The ancients constantly startle us with their maxims of more than human virtue; much of their heathen teaching puts to shame the practice of their pseudo-Christian successors. Those among them who do not uphold piety, filial respect, obedience, and faith belong to a time when literature as well as morals was degenerating; but it would have required a Sardanapalus in literature to teach unblushingly what Rousseau taught to the most polished society of Europe. All law is contained in the Ten Commandments, and in China, relates one of the missionaries whose “letters,” unpretentious as they are, are the greatest help to science, a committee of learned men, on being ordered to report flaws in Christian doctrine, said they had considered well, but dared not do it, for all the essential doctrine was already contained in their own sacred books, the _King_. Again, Christian practice in old times revived the precept of Deuteronomy to bear the commandments “on the wrist, and engrave them on the threshold of the house and the lintel of the door” (Deut. _vi_. 6–9). In Luneburg, Hanover, a farm-house built in 1000, and which for six hundred years has been in the family of its present owner, a small yeoman, Peter Heinrich Rabe, has this text over the door: “The blessing of God shall be thy wealth, If, mindful of naught else, thou art Faithful and busy in the state God has given thee, And seekest to fulfil all thy duties. Amen.” English and Dutch, German and French, houses have more or less such decorations and reminders on their walls; churches abounded with them, and men and women wore illuminated texts as jewels. The immutable law of which Cicero, in his _Republic_, gives a definition worthy of the Bible, and to deny which, he says, is to fly from one’s self, deny one’s own nature, and be therefore most grievously tormented, even if one escapes human punishment; the law of conscience, of which a Chinese family register says: “Nothing in the world should turn your heart away from truth one hair’s breadth,” and “If you set yourself above your conscience, it will avenge itself by remorse; heaven and earth and all the spirits will be against you”; the law which Père Gratry resumed in three passages of Scripture: “Increase and multiply, and possess the earth,” “Man is put on earth to set order and justice in the world,” and “Seek first the kingdom of God and his justice, and all things else shall be added unto you”; the law which Garron de la Bévière, a victim of the Revolution, though himself a sincere advocate of liberty, translates thus: “He who knows not how to suffer knows not how to live”; that law which does not deal only in magnificent generalities, but carries its dignity into the smallest details of practical life, so that Père de Ravignan could apply it from the pulpit of Notre Dame to the sore point of a fashionable audience whom he startled by asking if they paid their debts—that law was the shield and the groundwork of the heroic old family life of French provinces. Simple tradesmen and untaught peasants lived under it as blamelessly as gentlemen and statesmen, and taught their sons the same traditions, the same honesty, the same truth, the same deference to their conscience, the same fear of evil for evil’s sake, and not for the punishments it involves or the misfortunes it often brings on. The custom of keeping family registers is a very old one; even before St. Louis’ famous instructions to his children it was common: Bayard’s mother left him a similar manual, and people of all conditions made a practice of it. From these documents, and the sentiments written in them from time to time by fathers for the guidance of their children, M. de Ribbe has collected many memorials of domestic life in France—chiefly in remote and happy neighborhoods, but also in more populous and disturbed ones; and the sameness of the precepts in all is less strange than the likeness they bear to those of the Chinese family books, which date back often more than 2,000 years. He has found in the recently-discovered papyri in Egyptian tombs the same eternal rules, set forth in language almost equal to the simple grandeur of the Bible, while the Hindoo hymns and books of morals teach in many instances the same truths in nearly the same words.

DR. DRAPER AND EVOLUTION.

At a meeting of Unitarian ministers held at Springfield, Massachusetts, on the 11th of October, 1877, Dr. J. W. Draper delivered a lecture on “Evolution: its Origin, Progress, and Consequences.” Prof. Youmans publishes it in the _Popular Science Monthly_, with the remark that “some passages omitted in the lecture for want of time are here introduced”; which means, so far as we can understand, that Dr. Draper, before allowing the publication of his lecture, retouched it, and introduced into it some items, views, or considerations which the lecture delivered to the Unitarian meeting did not contain, but which he considered necessary as giving the last finish to his composition. It seems, in fact, that the doctor must have felt a little embarrassed in the performance of the task which he had accepted; for he well knew that in speaking to a body of sectarian ministers he could not make the best use of the ordinary resources of free-thought without breaking through the barriers of conventional propriety; and he himself candidly informs his hearers that, when he received the request to deliver this lecture before them, he was at first disposed to excuse himself, giving the following reason for his hesitation: “Holding religious views which perhaps in many respects are not in accordance with those that have recommended themselves to you, I was reluctant to present to your consideration a topic which, though it is in truth purely scientific, is yet connected with some of the most important and imposing theological dogmas.” This was, perhaps, one of the motives (besides the want of time) why in the delivery of the lecture some passages were omitted which have subsequently found their way into the pages of the scientific monthly.

It would be interesting to know what “imposing theological dogmas” Dr. Draper considered it to be his duty to respect while lecturing before a Unitarian audience. Unitarians do not generally overload their liberal minds with dogmas. Their creed is very short. They simply admit, as even the good Mahometans do, that there is one God. This is all. What that one God is they are not required to know; their denial of the Holy Trinity leaves them free to conceive their God as an impersonal being, a universal soul, or a sum total of the forces of nature. On the other hand, their denial of ecclesiastical authority and of the inspiration of the Scriptures leaves them absolutely free to disbelieve every other dogma and mystery of Christianity. It seems to us, therefore, that Dr. Draper, who had no need, and certainly no inclination, to descant on Trinitarian views or to defend the inspiration of the Bible, ought not to have feared to scandalize the good souls to whom he was requested to break the bread of modern science. It is clear that only an unequivocal profession of scientific atheism could have been construed into an offence; and even this, we fancy, would have been pardoned, for the sake of science, by the easy and accommodating gentlemen whose “liberality of sentiment” triumphed at last over Dr. Draper’s hesitation.

Whether or not the assembled Unitarian ministers were satisfied with the lecture, and converted to the scientific views maintained by the lecturer, we do not know; this, however, we do know: that Dr. Draper’s reasoning and assertions about the origin, progress, and consequences of evolution, even apart from all consideration of religious dogmas, are not calculated to command the assent of cultivated intellects.

The lecture begins with the statement that two explanations have been introduced to account for the origin of the organic beings that surround us; the one, according to the lecturer, “is conveniently designated as the hypothesis of creation,” the other as “the hypothesis of evolution.” This statement, to begin with, is incorrect. It may, indeed, be very “convenient” for Dr. Draper to speak of creation as a mere hypothesis; but the device is too transparent. The creation or original formation of organic beings by God is not a hypothesis, but an historical fact perfectly established, and even scientifically and philosophically demonstrated. Evolution, on the contrary, as understood by the modern school, is only an empty word and a dream, unworthy of the name of scientific hypothesis, under which sciolists attempt to conceal its absurdity. In fact, even the little we ourselves have said on this subject in some of our past numbers would amply suffice to convince a moderately intelligent man that the theory of evolution has no real scientific character, is irreconcilable with the conclusions of natural history, and has no ground to stand upon except the worn-out fallacies of a perverted logic. To call it “hypothesis” is therefore to do it an honor which it does not deserve. A pile of rubbish is not a palace, and a heap of blunders is not a hypothesis.

“Creation,” says Dr. Draper, “reposes on the arbitrary act of God; evolution on the universal reign of law.” This statement, too, is entirely groundless. Creation is a _free_ act of God; but a free act needs not to be _arbitrary_. We usually call that arbitrary which is done rashly or without reason. But an act which forms part of an intellectual plan for an appointed end we call an act of wisdom; to call it “arbitrary” is to falsify its nature. If Dr. Draper admits that there is a God, he ought to speak of him with greater respect. But, omitting this, is it true that evolution “reposes on the universal reign of law”? By no means. We defy Dr. Draper and all the modern evolutionists to substantiate this bold assertion. Not only is there no universal law on which the evolution of species can repose, but there is, on the contrary, a well-known universal law which sets at naught the speculations and stultifies the pretensions of the Darwinian school. The law we refer to is the following: In the generation of organic beings there is no transition from one species to another. This is the universal law which rules the department of organic life; and it is almost inconceivable how a man who is not resolved to injure his scientific reputation could so far forget himself and his science as to pretend a blissful ignorance of this known truth, in order to propagate a silly imposture exploded by philosophy and contradicted by the constant, unequivocal testimony of nature itself.

Had we been present in the Unitarian audience when the doctor uttered the assertion in question, we doubt if it would have been possible for us to let him proceed further without interruption; for the recklessness of his doctrine called for an immediate challenge. When a man, in laying down the foundations of a theory, takes his stand upon the most evident false premises, he simply insults his hearers. Why should an intelligent man accept in silence such a glaring absurdity as that “evolution reposes on the universal reign of law”? Why should he not rise and say: “I beg permission, in the name of science, to contradict the statement just made, and to express my astonishment at the want of consideration shown to this learned assembly by the lecturer”? However contrary to the received usages, such an interruption would have been highly proper and meritorious in the eyes of a lover of truth. But, unfortunately, the assembled ministers had no right to remonstrate. They had requested the doctor to lecture, and to lecture on that very subject; they knew beforehand the doctor’s views concerning evolution; and they were not ignorant that his manner of reasoning was likely to exhibit that disregard of truth of which so many striking instances had been discovered in his history of the conflict between religion and science. The assembled ministers were simply anxious to hear a bit of genuine modern thought; hence, whatever the lecturer might think good to say, they were bound to listen to with calm resignation, if not with thankful submission.

Dr. Draper told them, also, that the hypothesis of evolution derives all the organisms which we see in the world “from one or a few original organisms” by a process of development, and “it will not admit that there has been any intervention of the divine power.” But when asked, Whence did the original organisms spring? he replies: “As to the origin of organisms, it (the hypothesis) withholds, for the present, any definite expression. There are, however, many naturalists who incline to believe in spontaneous generation.” Here we must admire, if not the consistency, at least the sincerity, of the lecturer. He candidly acknowledges that, as to the origin of organisms, the theory of evolution “withholds, for the present, any definite expression.” This phrase, stripped of its pretentious modesty, means that the advocates of evolution, though often called upon to account by their theory for the origin of organic life, and though obliged by the nature of the case to show how life could have originated in matter alone “with no intervention of the divine power,” have always failed to extricate themselves from the difficulties of their position, and have never offered an explanation deserving the sanction of science, or even the attention of thoughtful men. The axiom _Omne vivum ex ovo_ still stares them in the face. They cannot shut their eyes so as to lose sight of it. At the same time they cannot explain the origin of the _ovum_ without abandoning their principles; for if the first _ovum_, or vital organism, is not the product of evolution, then its existence cannot be accounted for except by the intervention of the divine power, which they are determined to reject; and if the first vital organism be assumed to have been the product of evolution, then they cannot escape the conclusion that it must have sprung from lifeless, inorganic matter—a conclusion which few of them dare to maintain, as they clearly see that it is absurd to expect from matter alone anything so cunningly devised as is the least seed, egg, or cell of a living organism. To confess, therefore, that the evolution theory cannot account for the origin of the primitive organisms is to confess that the efforts of the evolutionists towards banishing the intervention of the divine power and suppressing creation have been, are, and will ever be ineffectual.

But this legitimate inference was carefully kept out of view by the lecturer, who, not to spoil his argument, hastened to add that “many naturalists incline to believe in spontaneous generation.” This, however, far from making things better, will only make them worse. It is only when a cause is nearly despaired of that the most irrational fictions are resorted to in its defence. Now, spontaneous generation is an irrational fiction. Even in our own time, when the world is full of organic matter, and when the working of nature has been subjected to the most searching investigations, the spontaneous formation of a living organism without a parent of the same species is deemed to be against reason; for reason cannot give the lie to the principle of causality, by virtue of which nothing can be found in the effect which is not contained in its cause. Hence very few naturalists (though Dr. Draper calls them _many_) are so reckless as to support, or countenance by their example, a belief in spontaneous generation. Nothing would be easier to them than to imitate Dr. Draper by assuming without proof what is not susceptible of proof; but, although some scientists have adopted this convenient course, few have dared to follow them, because the inadmissibility of spontaneous generation has been confirmed by the best experimental methods of modern science itself. Now, if this is the case in the present condition of the world, and with such an abundance of organic matter, how can any one, with any show of reason, maintain that in the remote ages of the world, and before any organic compound had made its appearance on earth, cells and seeds and eggs burst forth spontaneously from inorganic matter without the intervention of the divine power?

At any rate, if it would be preposterous to assume that inert, lifeless, unintelligent matter has the power of planning and making a time-piece, a sewing-machine, a velocipede, or a wheelbarrow, how can a man in his senses assume that the same inert, lifeless, and unintelligent matter has the power to plan, form, and put together in perfect harmony, due proportion, and providential order the organic elements and rudiments of that immensely more complicated structure which we call an _ovum_ or a seed, with its potentiality of life and growth, and its indefinite power of reproduction? And who can believe that the same inert, lifeless, and unintelligent matter has been so inventive, so crafty, and so provident as to devise two sexes for each animal species, and to make them so fit for one another, with so powerful an instinct to unite with one another, as to ensure the propagation of their kind for an indefinite series of centuries?

We need not develop this argument further. Books of natural history are full of the beauties and marvels concealed in millions of minute organisms, which proclaim to the world the wisdom of their contriver, and denounce the folly of a science which bestows on dead matter the honor due to the living God. Evolution of life under the hand of God would have a meaning; but evolution of life “without the intervention of the divine power” means nothing at all, as it is, in fact, inconceivable.

Dr. Draper quotes Aristotle in favor of spontaneous generation. The Greek philosopher, in the eighth book of his history of animals, when speaking of the chain of living things remarks: “Nature passes so gradually from inanimate to animate things that from their continuity the boundary between them is indistinct. The race of plants succeeds immediately that of inanimate objects, and these differ from each other in the proportion of life in which they participate; for, compared with minerals, plants appear to possess life, though when compared with animals they appear inanimate. The change from plants to animals is gradual; a person might question to which of these classes some marine objects belong.” This doctrine is unobjectionable; but we fail to see its bearing on spontaneous generation. Aristotle does not speak here of a chain of beings genetically connected, nor does he derive the plant from the mineral, or the animal from the plant. On the other hand, even if we granted that Aristotle “referred the primitive organisms to spontaneous generation,” we might easily explain the blunder by reflecting that a pagan philosopher, having no idea of creation, could not but err when philosophizing about the origin of things.

We need not follow our lecturer into the details of the Arabic philosophy. When we are told that the Arabian philosophers “had rejected the theory of creation and adopted that of evolution,” and that they reached this conclusion “through their doctrine of emanation and absorption rather than from an investigation of visible nature,” we may well dismiss them without a hearing. Dr. Draper seems to be much pained at the thought that a religious revolt against philosophy succeeded in “exterminating” such progressive ideas so thoroughly that they “never again appeared in Islam.” But that which causes him still greater disgust is that “if the doctrine of the government of the world by law was thus held in detestation by Islam, it was still more bitterly refused by Christendom, in which the possibility of changing the divine purposes was carried to its extreme by the invocation of angels and saints, and great gains accrued to the church through its supposed influence in procuring these miraculous interventions.” These words, and others which we are about to quote, must have given great pleasure to the assembled Unitarian ministers; for we all know that to throw dirt at the church is a task singularly congenial to the natural bent of the sectarian mind. But, be this as it may, whoever knows that our lecturer is the author of the history of the conflict between religion and science, so truly described by the late Dr. Brownson as “a tissue of lies,” will agree that Dr. Draper’s denunciations deserve no answer. When a man undertakes to speak of that of which he is absolutely ignorant, the best course is to let him blunder till his credit is entirely gone. The reader need not be informed that Christendom never opposed the doctrine of “the government of the world by law,” and never imagined that there was a “possibility of changing the divine purposes” through the invocation of angels and saints; whilst, if “miraculous interventions” brought “great gains to the church,” the fact is very naturally explained by the principle that “piety is useful for all things,” and that God’s intervention cannot be barren of beneficial results. But Dr. Draper, who does not understand how God’s intervention is compatible with the universal reign of law, denies all miracles, and denounces the church as a school of deceit, superstition, and hypocrisy, his hatred of miracles being his only proof that all miracles are frauds. His assumption is that, because the natural order is ruled by law, therefore no supernatural order can be admitted; which, if true, would equally warrant the following: Because bodies gravitate towards the centre of the earth, therefore no solar attraction can be admitted.

The papal government, Dr. Draper assures us, could not tolerate “universal and irreversible law.” How did he ascertain this? Perhaps he thought that the papal government was embarrassed to reconcile irreversible law with miracles. But the popes never taught or believed that a miracle was a _reversal_ of law; they only taught that the course of nature, without any law being reversed, was susceptible of alteration, and that this alteration, when proceeding from a power above nature, was miraculous. We fancy that even Dr. Draper must concede this, unless he prefers to say with the fool that “there is no God.”

“The Inquisition had been invented and set at work.” To do what? To overthrow the “universal and irreversible law”? Certainly not. What was it, then, called to do?

“It speedily put an end, not only in the south of France but all over Europe, to everything supposed to be not in harmony with the orthodox faith, by instituting a reign of terror.” It is scarcely necessary to remark that what the lecturer calls “a reign of terror” was nothing but self-defence against the murderous attacks of the Albigenses and other cut-throats of the same dye, who were themselves the terror of Christendom—a circumstance which Dr. Draper should not have ignored. But whilst the Inquisition caused some terror to the enemies of Christian society, it actually restored the reign of law and secured the benefits of religious peace to countries which, but for its remedial action, would have sunk again into a lawless barbarism. And if the Inquisition “put an end to everything contrary to the orthodox faith,” no thoughtful man will find fault with it. False doctrines are a greater curse than even armed rebellions. Dr. Draper will surely not complain that the United States “put an end” to the rebellion of the Southern Confederates, though they were gallant fellows and fought for what they believed to be their right. But, while he finds it natural that thousands of valuable lives should have been destroyed for the sake of the American Union, he pretends to be scandalized at the punishment which the Inquisition, after regular trial, inflicted on a few worthless and contumacious felons for the sake of religious and civil peace and the preservation of the great Catholic union. Such is the delicacy of his conscience! Then he continues:

“The Reign of Terror in revolutionary France lasted but a few months, the atrocities of the Commune at the close of the Franco-German war only a few days; but the reign of terror in Christendom has continued from the thirteenth century with declining energy to our times. Its object has been the forcible subjugation of thought.”

This is how Dr. Draper manipulates history. It would be superfluous to inform our readers that there has never been a reign of terror in Christendom, except when and where Lutherans, Calvinists, Anglican Puritans, or infidel revolutionists held the reins of power, and crowned their apostasy by tyrannical persecution, by plundering, and burning, and murdering, and demolishing, and prostituting whatever they could lay their hands on, with that diabolical fiendishness and cool brutality of which we had lately a new instance in the Paris Commune here mentioned by the lecturer. This very mention of the Commune, and of the reign of terror inaugurated by it, is a blunder on the part of Dr. Draper. The heroes of the Commune belong to _his_ school; they are infidels; they are men whose thought has not been “subjugated” by the church; and to confess that their ephemeral triumph constituted a reign of terror amounts to a condemnation of unsubjugated thought and a vindication of the principle acted on by the church, that from unbridled thought nothing can be expected but discord, confusion, and violence. Yet Dr. Draper, who is a profound chemist, knows how to make poison out of innocent drugs; and whilst the church aimed only at _preserving_ the loyalty of her children from the attacks of heresy and the snares of hypocrisy, the doctor depicts her as “subjugating” thought. This is just what might be expected. The snake draws poison from the same flowers from which the bee sucks honey:

Spesso del serpe in seno Il fior si fa veleno; Ma in sen dell’ ape il fiore Dolce liquor si fa. —_Metastasio_.

We have dwelt longer than we intended on this subject, which is, after all, only a digression from the principal question; yet Dr. Draper furnishes us with the opportunity of a further remark, which we think we ought not to omit. He says: “The Reformation came. It did not much change the matter. It insisted on the Mosaic views, and would tolerate no natural science that did not accord with them.” On this fact we argue as follows. If the reason why Catholics rejected certain theories was that they were “under a reign of terror,” and that their thought had been “forcibly subjugated,” it would seem that the Protestants, whose thought could not be subjugated, who laughed at the Inquisition and were inaccessible to terror, should have embraced those long-forbidden theories, were it only for showing to the world that they had broken all their chains and recovered unbounded liberty. What could prevent them from throwing away the book of Genesis and reviving the Arabian theory of evolution? Had they not rejected other parts of the Bible? Had they not freed themselves from the confession of sins, explained away the Real Presence, set at naught authority, and inaugurated free-thought? The truth is that they could not resuscitate a theory for which they could not account either by science or by philosophy, and which would have involved them in endless difficulties. It is common sense, therefore, and not reverence for the Mosaic views, that compelled them to abide by the Biblical record of creation. The consequence is that men of common sense had no need of being “forcibly subjugated” to the Mosaic views, and that the Inquisition had nothing to do with the matter. Hence Dr. Draper’s declamation against the Inquisition was entirely out of place in a lecture on evolution. But his bias against the church led him still further. He wanted to denounce also the Congregation of the Index; and as he knew of no book on evolution condemned by it, he charged it with having condemned the works of Copernicus and Kepler. The reader may ask what these two great men have done for the theory of evolution. The lecturer answers that “the starting-point in the theory of evolution” among Christians “was the publication by Copernicus of the book _De Revolutionibus Orbium Cœlestium_.” At this we are tempted to smile; but he continues:

“His work was followed by Kepler’s great discovery of the three laws that bear his name.... It was very plain that the tendency of Kepler’s discovery was to confirm the dominating influence of law in the solar system.... It was, therefore, adverse to the Italian theological views and to the current religious practices. Kepler had published an epitome of the Copernican theory. This, as also the book itself of Copernicus, was placed in the Index and forbidden to be read.”

It is evident that these statements and remarks have nothing to do with the subject of evolution, and that they have been introduced into the lecture for the mere purpose of slandering “the Italian theological views” which were the views of the whole Christian world, and of decrying the Congregation of the Index, which opposed as dangerous the spreading of an opinion that was at that time a mere guess, and was universally contradicted by the men of science. Dr. Draper ignores altogether this last circumstance, and remarks that “after the invention of printing the _Index Expurgatorius_ of prohibited books had become essentially necessary to the religious reign of terror, and for the stifling of the intellectual development of man. The papal government, accordingly, established the Congregation of the Index.” It is a great pity that we have no room here for instituting a comparison between the intellectual development of the Catholic and of the Protestant or the infidel mind. Such a comparison would show whether the _Index Expurgatorius_ has stifled our intellectual development as much as Protestant inconsistency, and the anarchy of thought which followed, have stifled that of other people. We are still able, after all, to fight our intellectual battles and to beat our adversaries with good arguments, whereas they are sinking every day deeper into scepticism, and know of no better weapons than arbitrary assumption, flippancy, and misrepresentation.

The lecturer goes on to say that Newton’s book substituted mechanical force for the finger of Providence; and thus “the reign of law, that great essential to the theory of evolution, was solidly established.” This sentence contains three errors. The first is that the Newtonian theory of mechanical force suppresses Providence. The second is that the reign of law was not solidly established before the publication of Newton’s work. The third is that the establishment of the law of mechanical forces lends support to the theory of evolution. Is this the result of “intellectual development,” as understood by Dr. Draper? Newton, whose intellect was undoubtedly more developed than that of the lecturer, did not substitute mechanical force for the finger of Providence, but continued to acknowledge the finger of Providence as the indispensable foundation of his scientific theory. Nor did he imagine that his theory was calculated to establish the reign of law. The reign of law was already perfectly established, so much so that it was on this very ground that Newton based his deductions. Finally, neither Newton, nor any really “developed intellect,” ever confounded the mechanical with the vital forces so as to argue from the law of gravitation to the law of animal propagation. From this we can form an estimate of the intellectual development of man by free-thought. The lecturer blunders in philosophy by contrasting law against Providence; he blunders in history by attributing to Newton the discovery of the reign of law; and he blunders in logic by tracing the theory of evolution to a mere law of mechanics.

Further on Dr. Draper gives a sketch of Lamarck’s theory. Lamarck was Darwin’s precursor. He advocated the doctrine of descent. According to him, organic forms originated by spontaneous generation, the simplest coming first, and the complex being evolved from them.

“So far from meeting with acceptance,” says Dr. Draper, “the ideas of Lamarck brought upon him ridicule and obloquy. He was as much misrepresented as in former days the Arabian nature-philosophers had been. The great influence of Cuvier, who had made himself a champion of the doctrine of permanence of species, caused Lamarck’s views to be silently ignored or, if by chance they were referred to, denounced. They were condemned as morally reprehensible and theologically dangerous.”

The fact is, however, that there had been no necessity of “misrepresenting” Lamarck’s ideas, and that his infant Darwinism was condemned not only as morally reprehensible and theologically dangerous, but also as scientifically false. Cuvier had certainly the greatest influence on the views regarding this branch of knowledge; but his influence was not the result of a Masonic conspiracy, as is the case with certain modern celebrities, but the honest result of deep knowledge and strict reasoning; for men were not yet accustomed to believe without proofs, and scientists had not yet forgotten philosophy.

Dr. Draper tells his audience that Geoffroy St. Hilaire “became the opponent of Cuvier, and did very much to break down the influence of that zoölogist.” Yes; but did he succeed in his effort? Did he destroy the peremptory arguments of the great zoölogist? Did he convince the scientific world, or make even a score of converts? No. The influence of Cuvier remained unimpaired, and evolution did not advance a step. Then Mr. Darwin came. Mr. Darwin is, we have reason to believe, the mouthpiece or chief trumpeter of that infidel clique whose well-known object is to do away with all idea of a God. Owing to this circumstance, he was sure to have followers. A few professors in Germany, and a few others in England, proclaimed with boldness the new theory; they wrote articles, delivered lectures, printed pamphlets in his honor; his works were widely advertised and strongly recommended; and the curiosity of the public, which had been raised by all these means, was carefully entertained by the scientific press. People read Darwin and smiled; read Wallace, the friend of Darwin, and were not converted; read Huxley, the great Darwinian oracle, and remained obdurate. Only two classes of men took to the new theory—professors of unbelief and simpletons. Thus Darwinism in Europe, in spite of the great efforts of its friends, has been a failure. Here in America the same means have been employed with the same effect. No sooner was anything published in England or Germany in support of the new theory than some worthy associate of the European infidels republished it for the American people. New original articles were also added by some of our professors; and even Mr. Huxley did not disdain to devote his versatile eloquence to the enlightenment of our free but benighted citizens concerning the subject of evolution. What has been the result? Are the American people converted to the new doctrine? No. They laugh at it. The failure of Darwinism is as conspicuous and as complete in America as it has been in Europe.

Has Dr. Draper, after all, converted any of the Unitarian ministers who attended his lecture? We think not; and the lecturer himself seems to have felt that his words fell on sceptical ears and failed to work on the brains or touch the hearts of his hearers. Towards the end of his lecture he exclaims: “My friends, let me plead with you. Don’t reject the theory of evolution!” It is manifest from this exhortation that the audience, in the opinion of the lecturer himself, was still reluctant to accept the theory. Had the lecturer thought otherwise, he would have said: “My friends, I need not plead with you. You have heard my arguments. I leave it to you to decide whether the theory of evolution can be rejected by intelligent men.” This language would have shown the earnest conviction of the lecturer that he was right, and that his reasonings were duly appreciated and approved. But to say, “Don’t reject the theory,” is to acknowledge that the arguments had not commanded the assent of the intellect, and that no other resource remained than a warm appeal to the good-will of the hearers. Such an appeal, in a scientific lecture, may seem out of place; but it is instructive, for it leads us to the conclusion that even Dr. Draper was convinced of the futility of his attempt.

The only argument which we could find in his lecture in support of the Darwinian theory is so puerile that we believe not one of the assembled ministers can have been tempted to give it his adhesion. After pointing out that “each of the geological periods has its dominating representative type of life,” the lecturer introduces his argument in the following form:

“Perhaps it may be asked: ‘How can we be satisfied that the members of this long series are strictly the successive descendants by evolution from older forms, and in their turn the progenitors of the latter? How do we know that they have not been introduced by sudden creations and removed by sudden extinctions?’ Simply for this reason: The new groups make their appearance while yet their predecessors are in full vigor. They come under an imperfect model which very gradually improves. Evolution implies such lapses of time. Creation is a sudden affair.”

O admirable philosophy! The predecessors were still vigorous when the successors made their appearance; _therefore_ the former were the progenitors of the latter! And why so? Because “evolution implies lapse of time,” whilst “creation is a sudden affair”! Even a child, we think, would see that such reasoning is deceptive. But, since Dr. Draper is bold enough to take his stand upon it, we must be allowed to ask him two questions.

First, admitting that “creation is a sudden affair,” does he believe that God could not create the successors before the disappearance of their predecessors? If God could do this, what matters it that creation is “a sudden affair”? And if God could not do this, what insuperable obstacle impeded the free exertion of his power?

Secondly, is there no alternative between genetic evolution and creation strictly so-called? If between these two modes of origination a third can be introduced, the doctor’s argument falls to pieces. Now, “production” from pre-existing materials (earth, water, etc.) in obedience to God’s command is neither genetic evolution nor creation strictly so-called, and need not be “a sudden affair.” And this mode of origination is just the one which seems more clearly pointed out by the Sacred Scriptures;[181] and therefore it should not have been ignored by the lecturer, if he wished to argue against the Scriptural record. Why did he, then, keep out of view this excellent explanation of the origin of species? Is it because it was convenient to conceal a truth which could not be refuted?

Thus the only reason by which Dr. Draper attempts to prove the theory of evolution is a demonstrated fallacy, and the theory falls to the ground, in this sense, at least: that it remains unproved. But if every attempt at proving it involves some logical blunder, if it implies contradictories, if it is based on unscientific assumptions, as is evident from the argumentations of Darwin, Huxley, Youmans, and other advanced writers on evolution, and if history, geology, and philosophy unitedly oppose the theory with arguments which admit of no reply, as is known to be the case, then we must be allowed to conclude that the theory, besides being unproved, is fabulous and absurd.

Dr. Draper, after citing some controvertible facts, of which he gives a yet more controvertible explanation from the Darwinian assumptions, says:

“Now I have answered, and I know how imperfectly, your question, ‘How does the hypothesis of evolution force itself upon the student of modern science?’ by relating how it has forced itself upon me; for my life has been spent in such studies, and it is by meditating on facts like those I have here exposed that this hypothesis now stands before me as one of the verities of Nature.”

Yes. The student of modern science, if he is unwilling to admit creation, must appeal to evolution, and call it “one of the verities of Nature”; but, though he may call it a “verity,” he also admits that it is a mere “hypothesis,” by which the origin of organisms cannot be accounted for and against which a host of facts and reasons are daily objected by science and philosophy.

“In doing this I have opened before you a page of the book of Nature—that book which dates from eternity and embraces infinity.” Is this a “verity,” a hypothesis, or an imposture?

“No council of Laodicea, no Tridentine Council, is wanted to endorse its authenticity, nothing to assure us that it has never been tampered with by any guild of men.” This is an allusion to the declarations of councils regarding the authenticity of the Bible. Does, then, modern science transform educated men into sorry jesters? If so, why does not Mr. Draper derive the monkey from the gentleman?

“Then it is for us to study it as best we may, and to obey its guidance, no matter whither it may lead us.” Yes, it is for us to study the book of nature as best we may; but we must not forget that the author of this book is God, and that God does not contradict in the book of nature what he teaches in the book of Genesis. It is for us “to obey its guidance.” Yes; and therefore it is not for us to pervert its evidences, as Dr. Draper does, in order to exclude “the intervention of the divine power.”

As to “whither it may lead us” we have no doubts; but the lecturer seems to believe that it may lead in two opposite directions. Here are his words:

“I have spoken of the origin and the progress of the hypothesis of evolution, and would now consider the consequences of accepting it. Here it is only a word or two that time permits, and very few words must suffice. I must bear in mind that it is the consequences from your point of view to which I must allude. Should I speak of the manner in which scientific thought is affected ... I should be carried altogether beyond the limits of the present hour. The consequences! What are they, then, to you? Nobler views of this grand universe of which we form a part, nobler views of the manner in which it has been developed in past times to its present state, nobler views of the laws by which it is now maintained, nobler expectations as to its future. We stand in presence of the unshackled, as to Force; of the immeasurable, as to Space; of the unlimited, as to Time. Above all, our conceptions of the unchangeable purposes, the awful majesty of the Supreme Being become more vivid. We realize what is meant when it is said: ‘With him there is no variableness, no shadow of turning.’ Need I say anything more in commending the doctrine of evolution to you?”

These are, then, the consequences “from the point of view” of the Unitarian ministers, as the lecturer very explicitly declares As to the consequences “from the point of view” of advanced scientists, the lecturer gives only a hint, because, had he spoken of the manner in which scientific thought is affected, the lecture would have proved rather too long. It is apparent, however, that the “verity” or the “hypothesis” which leads the Unitarians to a “Supreme Being” can lead Dr. Draper and the scientific mind to something different, according to the manner in which scientific thought is affected. We may well say, although Dr. Draper preferred not to say it, that it leads to atheism or to pantheism; for the new “verity” was invented with the aim of escaping “the intervention of the divine power” and of subjecting everything in the world to the “universal reign” of an abstraction called “Law.” Dr. Draper himself tells us, as we have just seen, that the book of Nature (with a capital N) “dates from eternity and embraces infinity”; and surely, if the world is eternal and infinite, Nature is everything, and a personal God becomes an embarrassing superfluity. It seems, then, that Dr. Draper, when he mentions the divine power or the Supreme Being, does not speak the language of his “scientific” conscience, but the language which he considers to express the convictions of the Unitarian body. Perhaps it would have been more in keeping with the requirement of the subject, if he had frankly stated the “consequences” which he, as a scientist, would draw from the “verity” he had proclaimed; but, as he may have feared that a frank statement would have created a little scandal, we are inclined to acquit him of the charge of “scientific” dishonesty—the more so as the consequences which he deduces, taken in connection with the rest of the lecture, give a sufficient clue to the private views of the speaker.

It is difficult, however, to understand how the acceptance of the theory of evolution can lead to “nobler views of this grand universe,” or to “nobler views of the manner in which it has been developed,” or to “nobler views of the laws by which it is now maintained.” To us these “consequences” are incomprehensible; for is it nobler to view this grand universe as a mere mass of matter than to view it as full of the divine power of which it is the work? or is it nobler to derive man from the brute than to view him as the son of God and the image of his Creator? On the other hand, the laws by which the universe is now maintained are in direct opposition to the theory of evolution, as all men of science confess; hence a view of such laws suggested by the theory of evolution must be a false and contradictory view, and Dr. Draper, when calling it a “nobler view,” amuses himself at the expense of his audience. Fancy an assembly of grave men listening in silence to such rhetoric! and fancy a professor of materialism seriously engaged in the highly scientific business of beguiling such a grave audience!

It is no less difficult to understand how the theory of evolution makes us “stand in presence of the unshackled, of the immeasurable, and of the unlimited.” These epithets do not designate God, for it is manifest that the theory of evolution has no claim to the honor of showing God as present in his creatures; nor can they be applied to the universe, for it is not true that the universe is “unshackled as to Force, immeasurable as to Space, and unlimited as to Time”; and, even were it true, it would not be a “consequence” of evolution. What do they mean, then?

But the most unintelligible of all such “consequences” is that by the acceptance of the theory of evolution “our conceptions of the unchangeable purposes, the awful majesty of the Supreme Being become more vivid.” What “purposes” can the Supreme Being have formed with reference to a universe which is not subject to “the intervention of the divine power”? Is it wise to entertain purposes which one has no power to carry out? Or is the “Supreme Being” of Dr. Draper so unwise as to cherish purposes which must be defeated by “universal, irreversible law”? We strongly suspect that his “Supreme Being” is nothing but the universe itself, and that it is for this reason that he writes _Force_, _Space_, and _Time_ with capital letters, thus forming a mock Trinity “unshackled, immeasurable, and unlimited,” but consisting of material parts and controlled by the laws of matter, with which “there is no variableness, no shadow of turning.” If so, then Dr. Draper has no God but the universe, the sun, the moon, and the stars, light, heat and electricity, gravitation, affinity, and motion; and this is “the awful majesty” before which he bends his knee in scientific adoration.

Having drawn these devout “consequences” for the edification of the meeting, the lecturer, with a happy stroke of audacity, asks his hearers: “Need I say anything more in commending the doctrine of evolution to you?” As if he said: “Do you expect that an infidel has anything more to say in favor of _your_ Supreme Being? Have I not given you a sufficient proof of deference and self-abnegation by putting together a few equivocal phrases in honor of _your_ divinity? Need I torture my brain any longer for the sake of a view which is not mine?” But, fortunately for Dr. Draper, a sudden recollection of the fact that Unitarianism and infidelity agree in rejecting the authority of the _Index Expurgatorius_ suggested to him the following words:

“Let us bear in mind the warning of history. The heaviest blow the Holy Scriptures have ever received was inflicted by no infidel, but by ecclesiastical authority itself. When the works of Copernicus and of Kepler were put in the Index of prohibited books the system of the former was declared, by what called itself the Christian Church, to be ‘the false Pythagorean system, utterly contrary to the Holy Scriptures.’ But the truth of the Copernican system is now established. There are persons who declare of the hypothesis of evolution, as was formerly declared of the hypothesis of Copernicus, ‘It is utterly contrary to the Holy Scriptures.’ It is for you to examine whether this be so, and, if so, to find a means of reconciliation.”

We do not doubt that the lecturer honestly believes what he says about the “heaviest blow” inflicted on the Holy Scriptures. But we would inform him that the Congregation of the Index does not make definitions of faith, and that its authority, however respectable, is disciplinary, not dogmatic. If he consulted our theologians, he would learn that not even œcumenical councils are considered infallible as to the _reasons_ by which they support their decisions, but only as to the decisions themselves. Much less can the theologians of the Index bind our judgment by giving expression to their theological views. The books which they forbid are forbidden; but the _reasons_ for which they are forbidden are not all necessarily incontrovertible, and this suffices to show that it is not “the Christian Church” that declared the Copernican system contrary to the Holy Scriptures, for the church never defined such a point; such a declaration was the expression of a theological view which was then common, but which had no dogmatic consequences and could give no “blow” to the Holy Scriptures. Dr. Draper remarks that evolution, too, has been declared to be “contrary to the Holy Scriptures.” The fact is true; but he should have added that the same hypothesis has been refuted by philosophy as a logical blunder, and rejected by science as a monstrous falsehood. Hence the two cases are not similar.

“Let us not be led astray,” continues Dr. Draper, “by the clamors of those who, not seeking the truth and not caring about it, are only championing their sect or attempting the perpetuation of their profits. My friends, let me plead with you. Don’t reject the theory of evolution. There is no thought of modern times that more magnifies the unutterable glory of Almighty God!”

How edifying! how pathetic! but how ludicrous on the lips of an unbeliever! For the God of the lecturer is no creator, as creation is inconsistent with the pretended eternity of matter; he is not omnipotent, for he cannot work miracles; he is not provident, for Dr. Draper rejects all intervention of the divine power in the government of the universe, and says that “the capricious intrusion of a supernatural agency has never yet occurred”; whence we see that God, according to him, would be an intruder, and even a capricious one, if he dared to meddle with the affairs of the material, moral, or intellectual world. Such being the God of the evolutionist, who does not see that the only meaning which can be legitimately attached to Dr. Draper’s words is that the theory of evolution “magnifies the unutterable glory of almighty matter” and does its best to suppress Almighty God?

He gives another grave warning to his clerical hearers:

“Remember, I beseech you, what was said by one of old times: ‘Ye men of Israel, take heed to yourselves what ye intend to do. And now I say unto you, if this counsel be of men it will come to naught; but if it be of God, ye cannot overthrow it, lest haply ye be found to be fighting against God.’ Shall I continue the quotation?—‘And to him they all agreed.’”

This quotation from a speech of Gamaliel in the Jewish council would be appropriate, if the evolutionists, like the apostles, had wrought public miracles to prove their divine mission. In the case of the apostles all tended to prove that they were right, and that God was on their side. They spoke languages that they had never learned, they cured the sick without medicine, by a word or by their shadow, and filled the city with wonders which their enemies could not deny. When Mr. Darwin or Dr. Draper shall give us like evidences of their divine mission, we will “take heed to ourselves what we intend to do” with their doctrine; but, as things are now, everything compels us to look on them as emissaries and ministers of the kingdom of darkness. We cannot put in the same balance evolution and creation; for all the weight would be on the side of the latter. A dream, a nonentity, an unscientific fiction, a paralogism, have no weight; whilst effects without causes, conclusions without premises, phrases without meaning, weigh only on the conscience of modern thinkers, but without affecting in the least the balance of truth. Thus we are not afraid that we “be found fighting against God” while fighting for creation against evolution. The matter is too evident to need further explanation.

We are tired of following Dr. Draper through his tortuous reasonings, and the reader is probably equally tired. On the other hand, there is little need of exposing the mischievous glorification of modern science in which the lecturer indulges in the interest of his materialistic views. When we are told that “profound changes are taking place in our conceptions of the Supreme Being,” or that “the doctrine of evolution has for its foundation not the admission of incessant divine intervention, but a recognition of the original, the immutable _fiat_ of God”—of a God, however, who did not create matter, and who must respect the dominion of universal and irreversible law under pain of being stigmatized as a “capricious intruder”—or when we are told that “the establishment of the theory of evolution has been due to the conjoint movement of all the sciences,” and that “Knowledge, fresh from so many triumphs, unfalteringly continues her movement on the works of Superstition and Ignorance,” we need no great acumen to understand the meaning of this “scientific” slang. Declamation is the great resource of demagogues and charlatans. Unfortunately, there are charlatans and demagogues even among the doctors of science, and their number, though small, is apt to increase in the same proportion as their vagaries are diffused among the rising generation. Catholics, thank God! are less exposed to seduction than sectaries who have no guide but their inconsistent theories; but even Catholics should be on their guard lest they, too, be poisoned by the foul and infectious atmosphere in which they live. Indeed, all the modern errors have been refuted; but when a taste for error becomes predominant, and such fables as evolution are styled “science,” then human weakness and human pride are easily drawn into the vortex of scepticism; and then we must be watchful and pray, for the time is at hand when _even the elect_, as the Gospel warns us, shall be in danger of seduction.

AFTER CASTEL-FIDARDO.

A SOLDIER’S LETTER.

FROM THE ITALIAN.

Wounded, my friend, and dying, Waiting the end, I lie— A sword-cut in my right leg, A ball in my left thigh;

Dying, and ever hoping— And in that hope I die— One day—not here—to see you, But in our home on high.

Of this our earth all thought now For me has useless grown, All its bright days are ended, Its last dark shadow thrown.

For my dear faith so freely My blood with joy I gave, And for the Holy Father, His earthly realm to save.

Content am I, and fortunate, My duty to have done; And valorous too, as truly Became the church’s son.

Yet now our dear Lord calleth, And in his hands I leave My cause so dearly cherished: May he all loss retrieve

Who will not me abandon, Nor valiant comrades mine, Nor yet his church, nor Vicar Who guards his spouse divine!

Dear friend, to me be pitiful; Pray unto God for me; Leaving the world, this charity I beg so earnestly.

This world I leave untroubled, Save by this one regret: That none of mine are near me— Kind eyes that would be wet

With tears of long-tried loving. My friends, in mercy pray For my poor soul, that draweth So near eternal day!

A kiss my blood has tinted I beg each one receive That now I send you, waiting From life a last reprieve;

Hoping one day to give you The blessed kiss of peace In our dear, common country— Fair-shining Paradise.

E’en as I am, earth leaving, Your true and loving friend, So shall I be in heaven With love that knows no end.

MICHAEL THE SOMBRE.

AN EPISODE IN THE POLISH INSURRECTION, 1863–1864.

CONCLUSION.

On my arrival at the camp I found Father Benvenuto already installed as head chaplain and everything prepared for my reception. The poor general had died only two hours after my departure. He had been buried at Gory; but his soldiers, having heard that the Russians intended to dig up his body in order to mutilate it in their barbarous fashion, dug up the coffin and carried it to Koniec-Pol.

The Russians, furious at finding the grave empty, hanged the parish priest of the village for having given permission for the removal of the body. The mother of the priest, who was seventy-five years of age, was dragged to the foot of the gibbet, and, like the Mother of Dolors, was made to assist at the execution of her only son. When they tried to remove her she fell down dead. Her soul had flown to heaven after that of her boy.

No sooner had I entered on my new duties than I determined to start immediately with my squadron to protect Countess L——’s flight. But General C——, at the head of the Russian garrison from Kielce, never ceased pursuing and attacking us, harassing our march day and night; so that it was not for fifteen days after my departure from the castle that I was enabled to carry out my plan. My troops, who always saw me with a frown, which I had adopted to keep them at a greater distance, had nicknamed me “Michael the Sombre,” and I signed all orders in that name.

After repeated marches and counter-marches we managed at last to escape from our enemies, and arrived one evening at Syez after a forced march of ten hours, I encamped my men in a field about twenty minutes from the castle, whither I galloped, accompanied only by my orderly, whom I left at the outer gates to keep watch, while I asked an audience of Countess L—— for “Michael the Sombre.” A footman admitted me directly without recognizing me in the least, and took me into a room where a lamp with a dark-green globe prevented any object from being easily distinguished. Overcome with fatigue, I threw myself into an arm-chair. I was full, however, of thankful emotion. God had indeed heard my prayer and brought me back in safety to be the preserver of those whom I held so dear. The door opened; the countess and her sister appeared, and began by the usual formal words of welcome and courtesy, asking me to be seated—for I had, of course, risen on their entrance. As I did not answer, and continued looking at them with my eyes full of tears, they suddenly looked up too, and, with a joint cry, threw themselves into my arms. I had suffered terribly from hunger, cold, and fatigue during the past fortnight; but that moment of intense joy made me forget everything. Five minutes after I was surrounded by all the children; the youngest had scrambled up on my knees and thrown her arms tightly around my neck; Sophia had seized my helmet, and, putting it on before the glass, compared herself to Minerva. Stanislas had unhooked my sword, and Stephen was trying to take off my spurs. Half the night was spent in telling one another all that had passed in that eventful fortnight; and although I made light of my difficulties and position, yet I saw that the poor countess could hardly bear to realize what I must still go through before I was released from my command.

This, however, was not a moment for doubt or hesitation. It was necessary to move immediately before the Russian spies could give the alarm; so that by daybreak the following morning the countess’ carriage, escorted by my flying column, started on the road to the frontier. Fortunately, we were not molested on the way, and, when we arrived at about a quarter of a mile from Myszkow, I halted my soldiers, and, putting on the ordinary dress of a civilian, I accompanied the ladies to the station and busied myself with their passports, tickets, and baggage with all the feverish anxiety of one who strove to forget the terrible ordeal through which I had yet to pass before I should be able to rejoin them. When the train came up I brought the ladies out on the platform, and, having procured a special compartment for them, made them get into it with the children. Then at last I could breathe freely. No one had discovered them—they were safe! “Adieu!” I exclaimed, as I shook hands with them at the carriage-door. “You are now out of danger, for which I thank God with my whole heart. You will tell the count that I have fulfilled my promise to him, will you not? And you will not forget me?” I added with a faltering voice.

They looked at me as if stupefied. “But, Mika,” exclaimed the countess, “we cannot go without you! You must be joking. It is not possible for you to stay behind. What on earth is there to detain you?”

“You forget,” I replied as calmly as I could, “my promise to the dying general; my vow to remain with his troops until replaced, if he would only grant me this escort; Poland, which I have sworn to defend.”

“But this is dreadful!” murmured the poor countess. “How can we enjoy our liberty, purchased at such a price?”

Mme. de I—— said nothing. She was as white as a sheet; her hand tightened on mine, and she fixed her eyes on me as if she were turned into stone. More fully than the countess did she realize the full peril of the position. I was broken-hearted; but, fearing lest this scene should attract the attention of the officials or of any Russian spies, I left the carriage-door under pretence of having forgotten something. When I returned the train was already moving out of the station. The countess rushed to the window and wrung my hand convulsively for the last time. She could not speak. My eyes followed the receding train with a feeling of despair in my heart. It was carrying off all I loved best on earth, and I was alone. All of a sudden I heard my name called out with a cry of anguish from the carriage, and then, I think, for a moment I lost consciousness, as if struck by lightning, and remained motionless and stunned. Till that moment I had not realized the full bitterness of the sacrifice. I woke from this kind of stupor to hear voices in hot dispute behind me. I turned round and saw a Polish soldier, covered with dust and in a tattered uniform, struggling with two of the porters of the railroad, who were trying to stop him.

“What do you want to do?” I exclaimed. “Who are you looking for?”

“Michael the Sombre,” replied the soldier.

“I am the man,” I replied quietly, drawing him aside out of the station to a part of the road where we could talk without being heard.

“O sir! make haste,” the poor fellow cried. “Generals O——, De la Croix, and Zaremba are fighting at Koniec-Pol and are being overwhelmed by the superior forces of the enemy. If they be not reinforced by two o’clock they will all be cut to pieces.”

I instantly sent off a messenger to General Chmielinski to warn him of the danger; and then, without giving myself time to put on my uniform, I buckled my sword over my black coat, and galloped as hard as I could to the scene of action. I divided my squadron into three columns, and sent each, under the command of an officer, in three different directions. The Russian sentinels consequently gave the alarm on three sides at once, and the Russians, fancying themselves surrounded by a large force, were seized with an uncontrollable panic and fled in the direction of Shepca; Chmielinski’s column, advancing exactly in that direction, met them, and the three infantry companies of which they were composed were literally cut to pieces. During the charge a ball had passed through my boot and wounded me in the right leg. Father Benvenuto was at my side in a moment and had me removed to Chezonstow, where the good Mother Alexandra, of whom I have before spoken, was at the head of the ambulance. She gave me up her own cell and would allow no one but herself to nurse me. During my illness a division arose among my troops. They dispersed; some went home, others joined a corps under the orders of Langewiecz, while the remainder followed Norbut. When sufficiently recovered from my wound, finding I was still too lame for active service, I accepted a mission for the Central Polish Committee at P——, but was unable to obtain my release. From thence I started for N——, where I made my will and a general confession, and then started again for the front, having my passport drawn up under the name of Michael L——. This time I enlisted as a common soldier under the orders of General Sokol. After the first engagement I was appointed quartermaster and interpreter to a French officer, Ivon Amie, _dit_ De Chabrolles. On the next brush we had with the enemy I was promoted to be sub-lieutenant for having rescued the national flag from a Russian. Between Secemin and Rudnick we were attacked by six hundred Russians with two field-pieces. We were only two hundred and fifty men, with no cannon. Chabrolles, in his mad zeal, rushed forward, pistol in hand, and fired straight at the men who were loading their guns at only twenty paces off. Then he turned to give an order, and the enemy’s fire (both pieces being pointed in his direction) carried off part of his shoulder. Regardless of his wound, he cheered on his men by word and deed, and they were on the point of capturing the guns when a Cossack thrust him through and through with his lance. I was by Chabrolles’ side and fired at his adversary, who fell before he had had time to draw out his weapon. This sad office devolved upon one of our own men. Chabrolles, when falling, gave me his hand. “My brother,” he said faintly, “if you get back to France go to Paris and see my mother. She is at 37 Rue Clerc au Gros Caillou. Tell her that her son has died as a brave Christian should die.” Unable to reply, I tore my crucifix out of my breast and presented it to him. He made a last effort, kissed it with fervor, made the sign of the cross, and expired, his eyes raised to heaven.

Our detachment was then entirely defeated. In vain I tried to rally our men; they fled in the utmost disorder. With a few braver spirits than the rest I managed, at least, to protect our retreat. I was just beginning to congratulate myself on our escape when a Cossack, with his lance at rest, rode straight at me. I had fired off my last pistol. With one hand I seized my sword to parry the charge; with the other I pressed my crucifix to my breast. The lance turned aside, went through the sleeve of my uniform and out at my back without touching my flesh. If I never believed in a miracle I should at this moment, when I realized that I was really unhurt, although death had seemed so inevitable. In this terrible fight we lost, besides Chabrolles, Major Zachowski and Captains Piotraszkiewicz and Krasmicki. At the close of the day I was promoted to be lieutenant of the Uhlans.

One day I was ordered to convey some arms and ammunition to a distant outpost, and loaded the bottom of a britzska with about twenty guns and swords and fifty revolvers. I was in plain clothes, and my orderly, Badecki, acted as coachman. The road was supposed to be quite safe. Judge, then, of our fright when we discovered a large body of Russian cavalry riding directly towards us. It was too late to think of beating a retreat. A shudder passed through me; for it was the worst kind of death which threatened us—not a glorious one on the field of battle, but a slow torture, or else to be hanged on the nearest tree. I prayed with my whole heart for deliverance, and felt that the hand of God alone could save us. After this moment of recollection calm again fell upon me and my presence of mind returned. The officer who commanded the corps came up a few seconds after and asked me who I was and where I was going. I replied “that I was the German tutor of Princess Ikorff (a Russian lady), and that I was going to Kielce to buy books.” My story was confirmed by my Berlin accent; and as at this moment the Prussians were in odor of sanctity with their brethren, the Russians, the officer simply bowed and let us pass without interruption or suspicion. But the last Cossack of the band drew near to the carriage-door. “Noble Sir!” he exclaimed in that cringing voice which is natural to the race, “give me some kopecks to drink your health.” In the state of excitement I was in I did not think of what I was doing, and threw him three ducats instead of kopecks. The poor fellow was so amazed that he hastened to show his gratitude after the Cossack fashion—that is, by kissing my feet—and calling me by every imaginable title: prince, duke, etc. This was a terrible moment for me. The guns were under my feet, only hidden by a slight covering of hay, the least displacement of which would have exposed them. God, in his mercy, did not allow it, and my Cossack, after a thousand obeisances and calling down on my head every blessing from St. George and St. Nicholas, left me and rejoined his companions. I arrived at my destination without further alarms, my heart filled with thankfulness to Him who had so mercifully preserved us from the worst of deaths.

About the beginning of September Gen. Iskra was attacked by a strong corps, and I was sent off to his relief with about one hundred men. The Russians were repulsed; but we lost in this skirmish our Italian doctor, M. Vigani, and M. Loiseau, a French officer of artillery. During the night the Russians, having received reinforcements, returned to the attack. We were too few in numbers and too exhausted to attempt to fight, and retreated on Pradla. During this retreat my horse, which belonged to a private in the corps, made a false step and fell. I had fired the last barrel of my revolver, and one of my legs had got doubled up under my horse, which made me powerless. At this moment a Cossack galloped straight at me. I felt that my last hour was come, and recommended my soul to God.

“Yield thyself, rebel!” he cried out in bad Polish.

“A Frenchman dies, but never yields,” I replied.

My enemy hesitated for a moment, and then lowered his sword, which he had already raised to cut me down.

“Listen,” he said: “In the Crimea a Frenchman who had me at his mercy spared my life; for his sake I will spare thine. But give me all the money thou hast.”

I threw my purse to him, which contained about twenty roubles. The Cossack helped me to rise, and then said:

“Now fly for thy life; for my comrades are at hand, and they will not spare thee!”

During the whole war this was the only instance of humanity I ever heard of on the part of the Cossacks, and I gladly record it here.

The following day Princess Elodie C—— came to the camp, at the head of a deputation of Polish ladies, to thank me for my devotion to the cause of Poland.

One day I was sitting, sadly enough, under a pine-tree. My troops, silent and sombre, were warming themselves by a great fire. For two days we had eaten nothing. As for me, I was thinking of the absent, and felt terribly lonely. When I looked up I saw two beautiful, intelligent heads watching me, as if saying: “Are we, then, nothing to you—we who have shared all your sufferings and dangers?” They were my two only friends and companions: Al-Mansour, my Arab horse, and Cæsar, my faithful Newfoundland dog. I got up and caressed them both. “O my best friends!” I exclaimed, “you will be with me till death, and if you survive me you will mourn for me more than any one else.” And as I kissed them my eyes filled with tears. Al-Mansour laid his head on my shoulder, and Cæsar licked my hand. They were my only comfort. One minute after a courier arrived to beg for reinforcements. Gen. Iċzioranski was fighting `c at Piaskowa-Scala. I whistled to Cæsar, who was an excellent bearer of despatches, and would even fight to defend them, and fastened a note under his collar. Then, showing him the direction he was to take, I cried: “Hie quickly, Cæsar! and return as soon as you can.” And the dog started off like a shot.

We mounted and galloped to Piaskowa-Scala. The action was short, and we managed to free Iċzioranski, who was surrounded on all sides. At the very moment when the Russians were giving way Al-Mansour bounded with me up in the air, gave a terrible cry, and fell. I had hardly time to get my feet out of the stirrups. He had been shot by a ball in the chest. The poor beast had a moment of convulsion, and then turned his beautiful, soft eyes towards me, as if to implore my help; then his legs stiffened and he trembled again all over. I bent over him and passed my hand through his thick and beautiful mane, calling him for the last time; and then ... I covered my face with both hands and sobbed like a little child. Al-Mansour had been a real friend to me. I had had him when quite young and unbroken; I had trained him entirely myself, and from Breslau to Warsaw I defy any one to have found a more beautiful or intelligent animal. I alone could ride him; he never would allow any one else on his back. For four years I had ridden him every day. The countess had given him to me, and I had brought him with me to the camp. Alas! he was no longer the splendid beast which used to excite the admiration of everybody in the castle stables. Fatigue and privations of all kinds had reduced him to a skeleton, so that his old grooms would not have known him again. I only loved him the more; and it used almost to break my heart when I saw him, for want of hay, oats, or even straw, eating the bark of trees to deaden the pangs of his hunger. He loved me as much as I loved him. I used to talk to him, and he understood me perfectly and answered me after his fashion. Although people who read this may laugh at me, it was yet a fact, which I am ready to maintain, that when I was wounded Al-Mansour had tears in his eyes; and nothing on earth will ever efface his memory from my heart.

Another anecdote which I must relate here refers to a lad—a very child—whom I had in my squadron, and whose name was Charles M——. At fifteen years of age he was a perfect marvel of cleverness, and had received, besides, an excellent education. He was born in Paris, his father being a Polish exile, and his mother, after twenty years’ residence in France, still yearned for the arid plains and marshes of Poland. “_Boze è Polska_!” (God and Poland)—those were the first words she taught her boy to pronounce; and Charles could never separate his worship of one from the other. This double love, strengthened by all the surroundings of his childhood, became in him a kind of fanaticism. When the insurrection broke out in Poland Charles was a boarder in the Polish college of Batignolles. He was just fifteen. From that moment his life became a continual fever. To go to Poland to fight, and, if necessary, to die for the soil of his fathers were the thoughts which took such possession of the lad that they became irresistible. He saved from his pocket-money and from whatever he gained in prizes the sum necessary for the journey, and, when he thought he had enough, he escaped from the college, leaving a note to explain his intentions, and, after many difficulties, arrived at the camp.

I was then in command of the second squadron of Uhlans, under Gen. Sokol. Charles came straight to me to be enrolled. I flatly refused to accept him, saying he was too young and too weak to bear arms.

“What does it matter if one’s arm be weak,” he exclaimed, “if hatred for our oppressors drive my blows home? It is true that I have only the height of a child, but in my love for Poland I have the heart of a man, and I will fight like a man!”

I remained inflexible. At that moment the general came into my tent and asked what was the question in dispute. I told him. After a moment or two of reflection he turned to me and said:

“You must accept him. I am apt to judge of character by people’s heads; and this one is filled with indomitable energy and courage.”

Charles was consequently enlisted, to his intense joy. I got him a little pony, and arms proportioned to his size, and he fought by my side like a lion in every encounter.

After the fight at Piaskowa-Scala we returned to the camp, having fortunately found some provisions. The night was so dark that we were obliged to light torches, which the soldiers carried at certain distances. Passing before a pine-tree, the new horse I was riding suddenly shied and nearly threw me. I looked to see what had frightened him, and discovered a black object hanging from a branch of the tree. I called a soldier to bring his torch, that we might find out what it was. The light fell on the hanging form; it was my dear dog, Cæsar. On the trunk of the tree was fastened a paper with this inscription: “We hang the dog until we can hang his master.” I was thunderstruck. Al-Mansour, Cæsar, both my friends in one day, perhaps at the very same hour! “Nothing, then, is left to me!” I exclaimed with bitterness, feeling that my poor dog was quite cold—“nothing, not even those poor faithful beasts who loved me so much.”

“Yes,” said a voice in my ear, “a countryman is left to you, and, if you will, a friend!”

I turned round; it was little Charles, who was holding out his hand to me with looks full of sadness and sympathy. I pressed the child’s hand. “Charles!” I exclaimed, “we will try and avenge them.” And spurring my horse, I left the fatal spot far behind me in a few minutes.

A day or two later we went to join the larger corps of General Chmielinski at the camp at Tedczyjowa. When I say “camp” I make a mistake. None existed; we had only a few miserable tents and hardly any baggage. The men slept by parties of ten in the woods, on the cold ground, with such coverings or sheepskins as they could get together; many had only cloth cloaks. At break of day the _réveil_ sounded, ordinarily at the entrance of some glade where the vedettes could embrace a wide space. At the first bugle sound the soldiers emerged from the forest. The men were gentle and sad. The indomitable and calm energy of their souls was reflected on their faces, though blanched with cold and worn with hunger and sufferings of every description. They had a kind of interior brightness in their look that cast over them a sort of sacred halo, before which I believe the veriest sceptic would have bowed with reverence. These men were all possessed with one idea: to die for their faith and their country. Nothing else, indeed, was left for them. The struggle was becoming more hopeless every day, and they knew it; yet they never dreamt of giving it up. The roll-call over and the sentries relieved, Father Benvenuto came in the midst of us, and every knee was bowed before the sacred sign he bore—the sign of our redemption. There was indeed something glorious in that prayer in the open air, joined in audibly by all those men, united in one thought and in one wish, who were fighting with the certainty of eventual defeat, but who only asked of God the grace not to falter or turn back from the path which duty and the love of their country had marked out for them, albeit that path might have no issue but exile or death. Happy were those who fell in battle! They went at once to swell the glorious army of martyrs. The others, when not hanged, chained in a long and mournful procession, were sent to Siberia after that terrible word of farewell addressed to fathers and mothers, and wives and children, gathered sobbing by the roadside: “_Do nie widzenia!_”—Never to meet again. Many of these poor fellows were fastened to an iron bar, sometimes ten of them together, and carried off in the direction of Kiew. Those who survived the horrors of the march or the lash of their drivers were taken across Greater Russia. A “soteria,” or company, of Cossacks surrounded these innocent men on every side as they toiled on and on, loaded with chains and treated worse than the vilest criminals. The lance and the whip were the only answer to pleas of exhaustion or sickness. A resigned silence was the sole refuge from the brutality of their escort, whose only orders were _not to spare the blood of those Polish dogs_. Any complaint brought down a hailstorm of blows on the unfortunate victims, even when not followed by death. Truly, the sufferings endured by the Poles will never be known till the day when all things shall be revealed.

When we arrived at the camp we found that Father Benvenuto had preceded us by four or five hours. He had been commissioned to receive about one hundred volunteers who had arrived that morning from Galicia. The greater part of them were dressed in the gray _kontusz_ (or Bradenburg greatcoat), with the large leathern girdle of a _géral_ (a mountaineer). On their heads they wore the _roqatka_ (a kind of square cap, something like the _czapka_ of the Lancers). They generally had a common fowling-piece with two barrels, and a little hatchet in their waistbands. Each had a canvas bag and a hunting-pouch. These might be considered as the flower of the flock. They were mostly students from Lemberg and Cracow. Others were peasants dressed in short tunics with scythes in their hands. These were the _kopynicry_ (or mowers), half-soldiers, half-peasants, and famous in all the struggles of Poland. Besides these there were men of every age and condition of life, but all animated with the same patriotic spirit: citizens, villagers, Catholics, Protestants, Jews even, some wearing black coats, others workmen’s blouses. Their arms were as varied as their costumes: parade swords, sabres blunted in the great wars with Napoleon, old muskets of Sobieski’s days, halberds, and even old French weapons. Some had only hunting-knives and sticks. This curious assemblage of discordant elements, which anywhere else would have seemed grotesque, assumed under the circumstances an imposing, and even a touching, character.

At the extreme end of the glade Father Benvenuto was praying before a great Christ stretched on his cross. When he rose he fastened an amaranth and white flag (which was the Polish banner) to the end of a lance. This flag bore on one side the picture of Notre Dame de Czenstochowa, the patroness of Poland; on the other a Lithuanian cavalier with the white eagle. He fixed the lance in the ground before the cross, and then made a sign to the volunteers to lay down their arms and draw near. When each had taken his place the good priest remained for a moment in silent prayer and recollection. His thin cheeks with their prominent cheekbones, his long white beard, his forehead furrowed with wrinkles and glorious wounds, and his tall and commanding figure gave him an appearance of energy, strength, and majesty which impressed the beholders with deep and affectionate veneration.

“Brothers!” at last he said, “it is a holy and yet a fearful cause to which you are about to devote yourselves. It is one beyond mere vulgar or animal courage; and before you enroll yourselves in our ranks—before, in fact, you engage yourselves any further in the matter—it is right you should know and fully realize what awaits you and what is expected of you.”

The patriots listened respectfully, their heads bare, standing before the crucifix and the banner. Around them, and as if to protect them, stretched the virgin forests, those fortresses of the Polish insurgents, while the sun shed its pale rays over the whole scene.

“What you have to expect,” continued the good father, “is this: You will suffer daily from hunger, for we have no stores; you will have to sleep on the bare ground, for we have no tents; you will have to march more often with bare feet than with shoes and stockings; you will shiver with cold under clothes which will be utterly insufficient to protect you from the rigors of this climate. If you are wounded, you will fall into the hands of the Muscovites, who will torture you. If you are afraid and refuse to go forward, your own comrades have orders to shoot you.”

“We are prepared for everything,” they replied simply.

The good father continued:

“Have you a family? They may as well mourn for you beforehand; for we have no leave in our ranks, except to go to the mines of Siberia or to death. Have you reconciled yourselves to God? I can only lead you to death and prepare you to meet it. Are you ready to die for your country?” He paused, and then added: “There is still time to draw back. I can facilitate your return to your homes. Weigh the matter well before you decide.”

“No, no!” they exclaimed with one voice, “we will not turn back. We wish to fight to-day, to-morrow—when you will—but to fight and die for our country. A cheer for Poland! Another cheer for our Mother!”

“My brethren,” began the venerable priest again, “do not give way to illusions. You are lost if you imagine that you can conquer the enemy in a few months. Woe be to us all if we forget that it is a giant’s struggle in which we are engaged, and that a whole generation must perish before we can expiate the sins of our fathers! Therefore I ask you again: Are you ready to march to battle, knowing that in the end you _must_ be defeated, that you _must_ be overpowered by numbers, and that you have nothing to hope for either in victory or defeat—_nothing_, not even glory, which lays its crowns of laurel on the graves of the brave?”

Here his voice faltered; but, mastering his emotion, the venerable old man, lifting his eyes to heaven and stretching out his hands towards the crucifix, exclaimed with almost superhuman enthusiasm: “O my God! thou who knowest the hearts of all men, give to these thy servants the spirit of courage, self-sacrifice, and faith. Blot out the memory of our beloved Warsaw from their hearts, and with it the remembrance of their mothers, their sisters, their betrothed! Let them henceforth see naught but the glorious army of martyrs and their mother Poland, torn and blood-stained. Let their ears be closed to all whispers of home, and be open only to hear the laments of the widows and orphans, the groans from the depth of the dungeons, the cries which the east wind brings us across Muscovy from the Siberian mines! May they have but one thought, one wish, one will—to pursue and annihilate this Russian vampire, which for nearly a century has fastened on the breasts of our Virgin of Poland, and has become drunk with her tears and with her blood!”

“May God hear and grant thy prayer!” replied the volunteers with one voice. “What thou willest we will; what thou commandest we will do. Lead us to death or to torture; we will not shrink from either.”

A look of deep joy lit up for a moment the old man’s face and made him seem as one inspired. He blessed the banner, and then gave out the Polish national hymn, _Boze cós Polske przesz tak licznie wieki_, of which the following is an English translation:[182]

I.

O God! who gave Poland her wonderful dower Of faith through long ages, of strength and of glory, And now spreadst that faith like a shield o’er an hour The saddest and darkest of all in her story

CHORUS.

Great God! to thine altars we suppliants come; Give us back the blest freedom of faith, hearth, and home.

II.

O thou who, in pity, and touched by her fall, Still strengthenst thy children to fight in thy name. And showeth the world, ‘midst her sorrow and thrall, The deeper her suffering, the brighter her fame;

III.

O God! whose all-powerful arm can o’erthrow The proudest of kingdoms, like huts built on sand, Avert from thy children these dark clouds of woe. Raise the hopes of the Poles; give them back their dear land.

IV.

Give back to old Poland her bright days of yore, To her fields and her cities the blessings of peace. Give plenty, give freedom, give joy as before; Oh! cease to chastise us and fill us with grace.

V.

O merciful God! by thy marvellous might Keep far from us slaughter and war’s fierce despair; ‘Neath the sway of the angel of peace and of light Let all be united in love and in prayer.

Great God! to thine altars we suppliants come; Give us back the blest freedom of faith, hearth, and home.

The soldiers, kneeling, repeated this in chorus, and, rising, gave another cheer for Poland. Then Gen. Chmielinski, who was standing to the right of Father Benvenuto, turned to them and said: “Now, my children, go and rest and recruit your strength. You will need it all; for the enemy we have to fight is strong and numerous, and many among us will appear before God to-morrow.”

The soldiers did as they were bid, and prepared themselves to pass the night as comfortably as they could, feeling that it was indeed the last many would spend on earth. I was going to do the same when I was sent for by Gen. Sokol, whom I found talking over plans with Gen. Chmielinski. “Lieut. L——,” he said to me, “we are very anxious for exact information as to the amount of the Russian force. Are you tired?”

“Yes, but not enough to refuse a perilous mission. What is there to be done?”

“To go with a picked body of men on whom you can rely, and reconnoitre the Russian strength and position; but, for heaven’s sake, be very prudent. You know the full extent of the danger.”

“Yes. Thanks for having chosen me,” I replied; and, bowing to the two officers, I withdrew and told Badecki to have my horse saddled immediately. Whilst I was looking to the loading of my pistols young Charles M—— came up.

“Lieutenant,” he exclaimed, “you are going to reconnoitre the Russian army?”

“Yes,” I replied. “Why do you ask?”

“Will you let me go with you?”

“No, my boy. To-morrow’s fight may be a serious one, for which you will need all your strength.”

The poor little fellow made a wry face, but went and lay down again at the foot of a tree. I only took with me Badecki and an old soldier named Zeromski, who had distinguished himself in the campaign of 1830. He had an austere and severe countenance, which, however, brightened into the sweetest and gentlest smile possible when you spoke to him. He was as laconic as a Spartan and kept himself always aloof; but under fire his bravery was heroic, and almost amounted to rashness. His comrades had nicknamed him _Stalowy-serce_ (heart of steel).

We reconnoitred the enemy’s position without being discovered, and were returning towards the edge of the camp, when my horse stumbled against the root of a tree and fell on one knee. My orderly, Badecki, looked at me anxiously, shook his head, coughed, sighed, and turned uneasily in his saddle.

“What on earth is the matter, Badecki?” I exclaimed. “One would think you were sitting on a wasp’s nest.”

“Lieutenant,” he answered, sighing, “it is because your horse stumbled just now.”

“Well, and what is that to you?” I replied.

“Don’t you know, lieutenant, that if a horse stumbles before a battle it forebodes misfortune to his rider? I always remarked that in the campaign of 1830.”

“Oh! you believe that, do you?” I said, smiling. “And you, Zeromski—have you remarked it too?”

“No, I have not done so myself, but I have been always told so.”

Arrived at the camp, I hastened to give in my report to General Sokol. He thanked me warmly, and added:

“Now is your opportunity, lieutenant, to win your captain’s epaulets.”

“Yes, general, or a good sabre-cut. I hope it may be one or the other.”

Sokol laughed and said:

“It is certain that, if these unlicked cubs of Russians are as numerous as you say, they will give us trouble.”

Leaving the general’s quarters, I went and wrapped myself up in my bear-skin, and, throwing myself under a tree, fell asleep in a moment. I was completely worn out with fatigue.

Only two hours later, however, I was awakened by the sentries being relieved. The day had just dawned. The first thing which recurred to my memory was Badecki’s words. I had a sort of presentiment that they would turn out to be true. After a few moments of fervent prayer I took out my pocket-book and made a slight sketch of the spot where the battle would most likely be fought, and where, perhaps, that very night they would dig my grave. I wrote a few lines with the sketch, folded them up, and directed it.

Scarcely had I made my last preparations in this way than our advanced posts gave the signal that the enemy was approaching. It was part of the army of Gen. C——, and consisted of two battalions of infantry, several _soterias_ of Cossacks and dragoons, and four pieces of artillery. They numbered upwards of three thousand men. We had only twelve hundred, many of whom were but raw recruits.

Very soon every soul was on the alert and armed. Father Benvenuto was the first to appear.

“My children!” he cried, “many amongst us will fall this day. You are all, thank God! prepared for whatever may be his will. Kneel, and I will give you all a last absolution and benediction.”

Every one knelt with the venerable priest, who prayed for a few minutes in a low voice and commended us all to God. Then, rising, he added with emotion:

“My children, I absolve you and bless you all, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.”

“Amen!” we all responded, and rose filled with fresh strength and courage.

“Let every one of you do his duty,” continued he; “that is all I will say at this moment to patriots who wish to free our dear and holy Poland or die in the attempt.”

The men went silently to take each his place in the ranks. Gen. Zaremba was to assume the chief command that day.

“What will do us the most mischief and paralyze our operations,” he said, “are those field-pieces. If they had not those cannon we should win.”

Count S——, captain of artillery, came forward. “If you will give me leave, general, I will go and spike their guns. Are there two hundred men amongst you who will follow me to certain death? Let them make the sacrifice of their lives for the safety of all.”

Nearly a thousand men volunteered for this terrible service, though they knew perfectly well that, in all probability, not one would return alive.

“Well,” exclaimed the general, “we are twelve hundred men; let us draw lots.”

A few minutes later the two hundred, favored by fate and their own heroism, separated themselves from the rest and gathered round their intrepid leader, forming what might well be called the _phalanx of death_. Charles M—— burst into tears at not having been one of those selected.

“Don’t be afraid,” I said to him; “to-day we shall all be equally favored.”

The general then disposed of his small force in the best manner he could. He desired no one to fire a single shot till the enemy was within one hundred paces. Those among the sharpshooters and zouaves who had breech-loaders were to reserve their second shots till those who had only single-barrelled guns were reloading. In the event of confusion or defeat I was ordered with my Uhlans to charge the fugitives, always taking care to double back with my column behind the fusileers. These dispositions having been made, and distinct orders given to each corps, we all remained at our posts in silence, awaiting the enemy’s approach. On they came, in the well-known serried masses of the Russian troops, and not a shot was fired till they arrived at the appointed distance. Then, with a shout and a sharp cry, the signal was given, our men fired, and upwards of one hundred Russians fell. So unprepared were they for this sudden discharge that the men behind the front rank fell back, in spite of the efforts of their officers, and, scattering to the right and left, became the victims of my Uhlans or were cut to pieces by the scythes of the _kopinicry_. Then the Russians in their turn fired, and twenty of our Poles fell. This was the moment chosen by Count S—— and his two hundred heroes to dash in amidst the Russian artillery and try and silence their cannon. Passing through the Russian ranks like a flash of lightning, the count and my brave old Zeromski succeeded in spiking two of their field-pieces. Whilst ramming in his gun a ball broke the count’s arm; the next took off his head. Zeromski had his head broken by the butt-end of a musket, and fell at the very moment when he had succeeded in spiking a gun to the cry of “_Niech zeja Polske_!” (Hurrah for Poland!)

We could not look on in cold blood and see the horrible massacre of these two hundred. Comrades and all with one accord threw themselves into the enemy’s ranks. The voice of our officers fell on dead ears; we were engaged in a hand-to-hand fight with equal fury on both sides. Now and then, when our Poles gave way before superior numbers, the Russian artillery had time to load their remaining guns, and when our poor fellows came back to the charge they were simply mowed down before the heavy fire that opened upon them. But still no one thought of self-preservation, only how to deal the hardest blows. All strategy or tactics had become impossible, and officers and men alike fought inch by inch for their lives. From the first moment when the fighting had become general I was attacked by a quartermaster of dragoons. We both fought with swords; but I was so exhausted that I could hardly keep my saddle, and all I could do was to try and parry the strokes of my adversary. All of a sudden a violent cramp seized my right arm; but at that critical moment I heard the voice of little Charles behind me: “Hold on for a minute longer!” he cried; and, galloping with his pony across a heap of dead, he fired off his pistol close to the head of my enemy, who dropped without a word. But at the same instant I saw the heroic child stagger and turn deadly white; a ball had struck him in the chest.

“Adieu, lieutenant! Adieu, brother!” he murmured, as he slipped off his horse to the ground. “My poor mother! How she will cry! My Lord and my God, have mercy upon me!”

Those were his last words. I bore him on my shoulders, and carried him out of the field of battle, and laid him down under a tree. I put my hand on his heart; it had ceased to beat. The generous child had died to save me. He had a beautiful smile on his face, and two tears glistened on his cheeks. I closed his eyes, and, kissing his forehead, said: “Sleep in peace, my brave boy! If I survive this day I will carry these tears to your poor mother.”

I called two of the pioneers, and told them to dig a separate grave for poor Charles, that his body might not fall into the enemy’s hands; and then, jumping on the horse of a Cossack who had just been killed, I threw myself again into the fray. All my strength had come back. I fought like one possessed; and this over-excitement lasted till I felt the cold steel going through me. A Cossack had thrust his lance into my left breast. I lifted up my heart to God for one moment, and then fell, pressing my crucifix convulsively. My orderly, seeing me fall, carried me off rapidly to a carriage which was already full of wounded men. Thanks to Father Benvenuto, who never ceased watching over me, I came back to life again and met the loving and sisterly eyes of Mother Alexandra, who again insisted on my sharing her cell. I was in great danger for five days, and, if I did not sink under my sufferings, it was owing to the devoted care of which I was the object. One night my secret was well-nigh discovered. Mother Alexandra had been called away to some other patient and had left me to the care of a young sister. My fever ran high, and, being delirious, I tore off the bandages from my wound and threw them away. Frightened at my state, the sister luckily ran to fetch Mother Alexandra, exclaiming: “Come as quickly as you can; the lieutenant is dying!” She flew back to me, and remained alone by my bedside. Her presence calmed me at once, and I allowed her to bandage me up again and stop the blood, which had burst out in streams from the wound.

In the same house we had forty-five wounded from this battle, wherein the Poles had displayed prodigies of valor. The Russian loss was very great, and if they were not altogether crushed, it was owing to their numerical superiority. As it was, they retired in good order, for we had not sufficient men to follow them in their retreat. When I was allowed to go out of my cell I went to see my comrades. I helped the sisters in dressing their wounds, and, when my strength would allow me, I used to read aloud to them as we sat round the stove. At the end of a month, out of forty-five wounded thirty-two were convalescent.

At the end of six weeks I felt myself strong enough to bear the motion of a horse, and so accepted a mission for my old general, who, by the orders of the Central Committee, came to take the command of the forces in the place of General Iskra, who had been condemned to death for high treason. As ill-luck would have it, on this occasion my usual good-fortune deserted me and I fell into the hands of a Russian patrol, who seized me, tied my hands behind my back, and marched me off to the little town of Kielce. As I was still very weak and walked with difficulty, they accelerated my march by blows from the butt-ends of their muskets. At Kielce I was taken straight to the headquarters of Gen. C——. All Polish soldiers who had fallen into the hands of this brute since the beginning of the war had been hanged. From the window, close to which I had been placed, I could see the gibbet, with two shapeless bodies hanging from it on which birds of prey were already feasting. The sight filled me with horror, and feeling sure this time that my last hour was at hand, I recommended my soul to God, made a fervent act of contrition, and prepared myself as well as I could to die.

The general came in for the usual interrogatory, and frowned when he looked at me.

“You are from the rebel army?” he exclaimed in bad Polish.

“I do not know any rebels,” I replied proudly. “I am of the army of the Crusaders.” (We called the war a Crusade, and all of us wore a white cross sewed on our uniforms.)

At this reply General C——’s face darkened and, with a furious gesture, he made a step toward me. “Do you know,” he cried, “to what fate you have exposed yourself by falling into my hands?”

“Yes, perfectly,” I replied, turning my head in the direction of the dead bodies.

“And you are not afraid?”

“No. I belong to a nation which does not know the feeling.”

“Yet you are very pale.”

“Oh!” I replied eagerly, “do not think it is from fear. Six weeks ago I was wounded in an engagement with your troops, and to-day I have gone out for the first time.”

Here the Muscovite smiled.

“What is your age? Nineteen? Do you know that there are very few Poles as young as you are who would face death in this way without a shudder?”

“But I am not a Pole; I am French.”

“Do you speak the truth?”

“I never lie,” I replied, presenting him my man’s passport.

He examined it carefully.

“This saves you,” he said at last, beginning to be almost civil. “We have not yet the right to hang the French, even though they may have fought with the rebel troops. I shall send you with an escort across the frontier of Silesia; but if ever you again set foot on Russian soil you will be hanged without mercy and without shrift.”

I was sent out of his presence, escorted by two Cossacks, thoroughly unlicked bears, who had orders to shoot me on the least suspicious movement on my part. I had the pleasure of these gentlemen’s society in a third-class carriage during the whole journey from Myszkow to Szczakowa—that is, for four mortal hours. You can imagine, therefore, that I did not breathe freely till I had stepped out of the carriage and found myself once more on Silesian soil, released from their attentions.

I felt now that my vow had been kept and my promise fulfilled. I had shed my blood for Poland, and any further effort on my part would have been worse than useless.

I determined, therefore, to rejoin the countess and her children, who were at that moment at the waters of Altwasser. I pass over the joy of our reunion. We soon went on to Dresden for the winter, and once more that happy family were together, though in exile.

I heard soon after that Father Benvenuto had been struck by a ball in the heart at the battle of Swientz-Krszysz, at the very moment when he was lifting up the crucifix to bless his soldiers. The memory of this saint will be for ever revered in Poland, and in the hearts of all those who had the happiness of knowing him. With his heroic death I close my account of this episode in a war which, however mistaken on the part of those who first conceived so hopeless an attempt, was carried on to the last with a faith, a courage, and a patriotism that deserve to be immortalized in the history of any country, and will redound to the eternal honor of this persecuted and unhappy people.

THE LATE DR. T. W. MARSHALL.

The _renaissance_ of English Catholic literature has been a growth of the last quarter of a century. From the time when Dr. Newman became a convert to the church there has been a continual stream of the most ardent Catholic literature, didactic, controversial, and devotional. Of devotional works we need hardly speak at all, since they are much the same in all Catholic countries, and are mostly modelled on one spirit of one faith. Of works which are didactic it is superfluous to say anything, for all teachers of the Catholic faith teach the same thing. But of works which are controversial it is desirable to take notice, because they indicate the peculiar spirit of the age, the nature of the anti-Catholic opposition, and the growth or the decay of old prejudices. There is probably no literature in any country in the world which is so full of original lines of pure controversy as that of the modern English school of Catholic converts. Nor is there any difficulty in accounting for this fact. When we remember that English converts have stepped across that huge gulf which divides old-fashioned Protestantism from Catholicity; that they have brought with them from the “Establishment” the most perfect knowledge of all the arguments which can be devised against the acceptance of “the faith”; that they are often highly educated men, who have been as “intellectually” as they have been “spiritually” converted—we should be surprised if they did not sometimes write controversy with both a newness and a richness of intuition.

For example, let us take the great Dr. Newman, whose vast stores of digested learning often sparkle or are sweetened with delicious touches of the perception of the humorous—a boon to his readers which is not only due to his wit but to the drolleries of the old heresy which he has left. Or let us take Dr. Faber—that “poet of Catholic dogmas,” as a Protestant lady has described him—and note the exquisite appreciation with which he contrasts Catholic truths with their denial or their imitation in Protestantism. These two writers could not have written as they have done unless they had been brought up as Protestants. They might have been equally luminous and profound; they might have wanted nothing of Catholic science; but their appreciation of contrast, which is one of the essentials of humor, could not have been nearly so developed.

Yet, delightful as it would be to dwell on the rich gifts of these two writers—the profound Newman and the poetical Faber—it is with reference to another writer that we would say something at this time—to one who has but recently passed away. Dr. T. W. Marshall, who twice visited the United States, and who gained great repute as a lecturer, was among the most gifted of the controversialists—in some senses he was unique—who have contributed to English Catholic literature. We are not speaking of his learning, though this was considerable; nor of his reasoning power, though this, too, was very striking; for there are many English Catholic writers who, both in learning and in reasoning, may be esteemed to have surpassed Dr. Marshall; but we are speaking of him as a “pure controversialist,” as one who made controversy his sole pursuit, or who, at least, will be always remembered as a polemic, and this both as a speaker and as a writer. Now, in the capacity of a polemic—of a “popular” polemic—we have affirmed that Dr. Marshall was unique; and let us indicate briefly in what respects.

We have spoken at the beginning of the immense advantage which is possessed by those Catholics who attempt to write controversy when their first years have been passed in the camp of the Anglican “Establishment,” and so they have learned all its secrets. Dr. Marshall was “bred and born” an Anglican. He was the descendant of a long line of Protestants. He was educated at two English public schools, and subsequently spent three years at Cambridge; emerging from the university to “take orders” in the Establishment, and soon becoming incumbent of a parish. Finding his lot cast in a pleasant rural district, where he had but very few clerical duties, he devoted his spare time to the study of the Fathers; and, while reading, he made copious notes. The present writer, who had the happiness to be his pupil, remembers well with what avidity he used to devour the big tomes which he borrowed from the not distant cathedral library. Finding, as he read on, that the Fathers were “strangely Roman Catholic,” that “they most distinctly were none of them Protestants,” he may be said to have read and to have written himself into the faith, which he embraced the moment that he realized it. And no sooner was he received into the Catholic Church than he devoted all his talents to the proving to English Protestants the truths of which he himself was convinced. _Christian Missions_ was his first great work, though it had been preceded by more than one brilliant pamphlet; and _My Clerical Friends_ and _Protestant Journalism_ followed in much later years. Besides these works there was the unceasing contribution to more than one of the English Catholic papers, to several magazines or periodicals, and also to a few secular weeklies. It may be remembered with what raciness, and at the same time with what depth, he used to punish “our Protestant contemporaries” for their inventions and their puerilities about the church. His series on the “Russian Church” was especially brilliant, and produced much sensation among High-Churchmen. But his many other series, such as “Fictitious Appeals to a General Council,” “Sketches of the Reformation,” “Two Churches,” “Modern Science,” were all deserving of most careful digestion, and produced their due effect upon Anglicans. It was when probing the Ritualists, week after week, with the most terrible weapons of Catholic logic, that Dr. Marshall was seized with his last illness, and he laid aside for ever that pen which, for thirty years, had been the dread of many insincere Protestants.

If we examine critically into the merits and demerits of this accomplished theologian and controversialist, we shall find three points in particular which mark him off from other men, and which render him, as we have said, unique. First, he had the capacity of uniting extensive learning with a lightness, even a gayety, of style; weaving scores of quotations into a few pages of easy writing, without ever for a moment becoming dull. He played and he toyed with any number of quotations, as though he had them all at his fingers’ ends; and he “brought them in” in such a way that, instead of cumbering his pages, they made them more diverting and light. Let it be asked whether this one particular art is not worthy of universal imitation? Nine out of every ten of even good polemical writers “drag their quotations in by the head and shoulders,” or hurl them down upon the pages as though they had been carted with pitch-forks and had to be uncarted in similar fashion. A lightness and a tripping ease in the introduction of quotations is one of the most captivating of gifts; for it takes the weight off the learning, the drag off the style, the “bore” off the effort of controversy. It would be very easy to name half a score of good books, vastly learned and admirably fitted for the shelves, which are simply rendered unreadable by that after-dinner sleepiness which comes from too heavy a table. Now, is it not desirable that even wise men should make a study of this art of trippingly weaving quotations?—for, as a matter of fact, a quotation badly used might just as well not be used at all. Dr. Marshall made quotations a grace of his style, instead of an interruption of his text; and so neatly did he “Tunbridge-ware” them into his pages that they fitted without joint and without fissure. This is, we think, a great merit; and if Dr. Marshall had done nothing more than suggest to learned writers that it is _possible_ to quote immensely yet trippingly, he would have rendered a service to all polemics. He has been, perhaps, “an original” in this respect; or, if not an original, he has at least been unique in the excellence of the practice of the art.

The second feature in his writings which strikes us as admirable is an individuality in the neatness of expression. Short sentences, quite as pithy as short, with a calm grace of defiant imperturbability, make his writings equally caustic and gay. Scholarly those writings certainly are; they have all the honeyed temperance of art and much of the perfection of habit. No one could write as Dr. Marshall could write unless he had made writing his study. No doubt style “is born, not made”; but most styles are better for education, and we could name but few writers of whom we could say that their style was apparently _more_ natural than it was acquired. Of Dr. Newman it might be said “the style is the man,” for there is a personal repose in his writings; and we could imagine Dr. Newman, even if he had not been a great student, still writing most beautifully and serenely. “The perfection of Dr. Newman’s style is that he has no style” was a very good remark of a learned critic; but then we cannot talk of such very exceptional men as giving a rule for lesser writers. Now, Dr. Marshall had a very marked style. It was ease, with equal art and equal care. The care was as striking as the ease. This, it will be said, proves at once that Dr. Marshall was not what is called “a genius.” Well, no one ever pretended that he was. A man may be both admirable and unique without having one spark of real genius; and a man may have graces of style, with highly cultured arts of fascination, and yet be no more than just sufficiently original to attract a marked popular attention. Few men attain even to this standard; and certainly, as writers of controversy, very few men even approach to it. What we assert is that to be “controversially unique” a writer must be exceptional in certain ways, and especially in the two ways we have particularized—namely, light quoting and light writing. We return, then, to the opinion that for neatness of phraseology; for the “art,” if you will, of suave cuttingness; for the clever combination of the caustic with the calm, of the profoundly indisputable with the playful, Dr. Marshall was really remarkable. He could say a thing quietly which, if robbed of its quietness, would have been, perhaps, a veritable insult. Perhaps it was the more pungent because quiet; and here we touch the third and last of the literary characteristics which we propose to notice briefly at this time.

“Milk and gall are not a pleasing combination,” observed a gentleman—who was an Anglican at the time—after reading _Our Protestant Contemporaries_. He added that he did not care for milk—he was too old to find it sufficiently stimulating—but he objected to gall, at least when it was directed against some favorite convictions of his own mind. Most persons will agree with this old gentleman, who, however, became a convert to the church. Yet it may be said that there are two apologies which may be offered for this defect—if defect, indeed, it be—of “milk and gall.” First, let it be remembered that the keen perception of the ridiculous, which is generally a characteristic of superior minds, finds its richest exploration in what, from a certain point of view, may be regarded as those immense fields of folly which are popularly denominated English Protestantism. To the humorous mind there is nothing so humorous as the mental gymnastics of Protestants. To suppress this humorous sense becomes impossible to any writer who does not look on gloom as a duty. Dr. Newman only suppresses it in this way: that his huge mind works above the mere playground, or avoids it as too provocative of games. He descended into it once in _Loss and Gain_, and he became fairly romping towards the close; now and then, too, we can detect the laughing spirit which only veils itself, for decorum, in his grave writings; but he feels probably that _his_ weapons are too sharp to need satire, for he is not a controversialist, but a reasoner. When he does, for the moment, write satire, he shows what he could do, if he would; but we are glad that the normal attitude of his mind is rather didactic than playful.

Of lesser writers we cannot expect that their discrimination should be hampered by a grave sense of doctorship; it is not necessary that they should sit in professors’ chairs; they are writing for the million, whose perceptions of what is true must be aided by their perceptions of what is false. Moreover, the English mind, not being normally humorous—which is a great national loss in all respects—requires to be jolted and jerked into an attitude which would be most useful for the intelligence of truth. If we could only get Englishmen to see the comedy of heresy, they might soon want the gravity of truth; but they are constitutionally dull in apprehending those fallacies which southern peoples can see through in a moment. Now, a writer who can teach Englishmen to laugh at their Protestantism, to appreciate its anomalies and its shams, to see the difference between a parson and a priest, between ten thousand opinions and one faith, and generally to get rid of morbid sentiment and prejudice, and to look at things in a thoroughly healthful way, has “taken a line” which is as salutary for feeble souls as is bright mountain air for feeble bodies. Dr. Marshall used to laugh _with_ Protestants at their shams much more than he used to laugh _at_ the victims. But it is true that there was sometimes an acerbity in his remarks which gave offence to those who loved not the humor. Could this be helped? Be it remembered that acerbity, in the apparent mood of expression, is often more intellectual than it is moral; it is simply an attitude of conviction, or it is the natural vexation of a profound religious faith which cannot calm itself when protesting against folly. Nor do we think it at all probable that, if there were _no_ gall in controversy, more converts would be made to the truth. And, after all, what do we mean by the word “gall”? Is humor gall? Is satire gall? Is even acerbity, when it is obviously but vexation, a fatal undoing of good? Much will depend on the mood of the reader. Some readers like spice and cayenne even in their “religious” opponents. Most readers know that mere literary temperament cannot make a syllogism out of a fallacy. All readers distinguish between caprices of temperament and the attitude of the reason and the soul. It is only on account of the mental babes among Protestants that it is to be regretted that all Catholics are human. For the ordinary, strong reader a good dash of human nature is much better than is too much of “the angel.” Take mankind for what they are, and we like the honesty of the irritation which sometimes puts the gall into the milk. It might be desirable that our first parent had not fallen. If he had not fallen we should not have had controversy. But since he has fallen, and since we must have controversy, we must also of necessity have gall.[183]

We have only to express regret that so useful a writer as Dr. Marshall has passed away out of the ranks of controversialists. As a speaker, too, Dr. Marshall was most delightful; indeed, he spoke quite as well as he wrote. At the time when he was in the United States it was thought by some persons that Dr. Marshall was quite the model of a speaker; for he was at once gentle and commanding, refined yet highly pungent, scholarly yet most easy to be understood. These praises were allowed by every one to be his due. We have, then, to lament the loss of a really richly-gifted Catholic, who, though an Englishman, was cosmopolitan. And when we remember that such men as Dr. Marshall (with Dr. Faber, or Mr. Allies, or Canon Oakeley) were born Protestant—intensely Protestant—Englishmen, we can appreciate what was involved in their conversion to the church, both in the intellectual and in the purely social sense. Conversion means more than a change of conviction to such Englishmen as have been born of Protestant parents; it means the revolution of the whole life of the _man_, as well as of the whole life of the Christian. Such men seem to be born over again. When they have passed away we can say for them, with as much hope as charity, _Requiescant in pace_.

PAPAL ELECTIONS.

II.

In the twelfth century the cardinals of the Holy Roman Church were in full and undisputed possession of the right of electing the Sovereign Pontiff; and although the exercise of this right is commonly attributed to the Sacred College, only from the passing of the famous decree of the Third Council of Lateran, in 1179, beginning _Licet de vitanda discordia in electione Romani Pontificis_ (cap. vi. _de Elect._), it rather supposes the cardinals to be already the sole papal electors, and merely determines what majority of their votes shall constitute a valid election.[184] Factious and semi-ignorant persons have often protested against this exclusive right of the cardinals to elect the visible head of the church. Of such a kind was Wycliffe, whose diatribe, _Electio Papæ a cardinalibus per diabolum est introducta_, was condemned by the Council of Constance (artic. xl. sess. viii.); and Eybel, whose errors were exposed by Mamacchi, under his poetical name of Pisti Alethini, as a member of the Academy of the Arcadians.[185]

In early times, when the pope died at Rome the cardinals met to elect a successor in the Lateran or the Vatican basilica, or in the cathedral of any other city in which they might have determined to hold the election. Conclave is the term used exclusively for many centuries for the place in which the cardinals meet in private to elect a pope; but it was used in the early middle ages of any room securely shut,[186] just as, among the ancient Romans, _conclave_ was a covered and enclosed apartment or hall that could be fastened with a lock and key—_cum clavi_. Long before the pontificate of Gregory X. the cardinals who assembled for a papal election met in some part of a large and noble building—generally the sacristy of a cathedral—where they transacted the business of the day, and returned after each session to their private abodes. The gloss _Nullatenus_, on the decree of Alexander III., says that if two-thirds—the majority required—of the cardinals will not agree upon a candidate, they should be closely confined until they do—_includantur in aliquo loco de quo exire non valeant donec consenserint_—and mentions several popes elected after the cardinals had been subjected to a reasonable duress. This is precisely the conclave. It was not, however, until the year 1274 that the mode of procedure in a papal election was settled—after the incursions of the barbarians and the many vicissitudes to which the Holy See then became subject had deranged the earlier and apostolic manner—and the rules and regulations of the modern conclave were published. After the death of Clement IV. in Viterbo, on Nov. 22, 1268, the eighteen cardinals composing the Sacred College met there to elect his successor; but not agreeing after a year and a half, although the kings of France and Sicily, St. Bonaventure, General of the Franciscans, and many influential, learned, and holy men came in person to urge them to compose their differences and relieve the church of her long widowhood, they were all got together one day, by some artifice, in the episcopal palace, which was instantly closed upon them and surrounded with guards. Even this imprisonment did not change their temper, and after some further delay the captain of the town, Raniero Gatti, took the bold resolution of removing the entire roof and otherwise dilapidating the edifice, in hopes that the discomforts of the season, added to their confinement, might break the stubbornness of the venerable fathers.[187] This move succeeded, and a compromise was effected among the discordant cardinals on the 7th of September, 1271, in virtue of which the papal legate in Syria, Theobald Visconti, Archdeacon of Liege, was elected. This was not the first time that extraordinary and almost violent measures had been taken to bring the cardinals to make a prompt election. At Viterbo the captain of the town coerced their liberty; at Naples the commandant of the castle bridled their appetite when, after the death of Innocent IV., in 1254, he diminished day by day the quantity of food sent in to them—_cibo per singulos dies imminuto_—until they agreed upon a worthy subject.[188]

Gregory X., who was so singularly elected at Viterbo while far away in Palestine, called a general council, which met at Lyons on May 2, 1274. Five hundred bishops, over a thousand mitred abbots and other privileged ecclesiastics, the patriarchs of Constantinople and Antioch, the grand master of the famous Knights of St. John of Jerusalem, the kings of France and Aragon, besides ambassadors from Germany, England, Sicily, and other important nations, took part in it. The pope was resolved to establish the manner of electing the Roman Pontiff on a better principle, and now drew up a constitution which, in spite of considerable opposition from the cardinals, was read between the fourth and fifth sessions, and finally received the approbation of the fathers. This is substantially the code that still regulates the conclave. The original constitution, which had been suspended by some popes and not observed by the cardinals in several elections, was introduced into the body of canon law[189] by Boniface VIII., in order to impress it, if possible, with a more solemn and perpetual obligation of observance; and when some of the cardinals, incensed at the transfer of the see to Avignon, maintained that, despite all this, the Sacred College could modify or abolish it at discretion, it was confirmed by the General Council of Vienne and their factious spirit reproved. This conciliar decree has also a place in the canon law, where it is found among the Clementines (_Ne Romani, 2 de elect._)[190]

“Where the danger is known to be greatest,” says the preamble to Pope Gregory’s constitution, “there should most care be taken. How many risks and what great inconvenience a long vacancy of the Holy See entails is shown by looking back upon the disorders of other days. It is, therefore, wise that, while diligently engaged in reforming minor evils, we should not neglect to provide against calamity. Now, therefore, whatever our predecessors, and particularly Alexander III., of happy memory, have done to remove a spirit of discord in the election of the Roman Pontiff, the same we desire to remain in full force; for we do not intend to annul their decrees, but only by our present constitution to supply what experience points out to be wanting.”

The whole decree may be divided into fifteen paragraphs, which are called the Fifteen Laws of the Conclave. They are summarized as follows:

On the death of the pope the cardinals, having celebrated for nine days his obsequies in the city where he died, shall enter the conclave on the tenth day, whether absent colleagues have arrived or not, and be accompanied by a single attendant, whether lay or clerical, or at most, in case of evident necessity, by two attendants. The conclave shall be held in the palace last occupied by the pope, and there the cardinals must live in common, occupying a single spacious hall not cut off by curtains or partitions, and so carefully closed on every side that no one can secretly pass in or out. One room, however, may be cut off for private purposes—_reservato libero ad secretam cameram aditu_—but no access shall be allowed to any cardinal, nor private conversation with nor visits to him, except from those who, by consent of all the other cardinals, may be summoned to consult on matters germane to the affair in hand; nor shall any one send letters or messages to their lordships or to any of their familiars, on pain of excommunication. A window or other opening shall be left in the hall of conclave, through which the meals are introduced, but it must be of such a size and shape that no human being can penetrate thereby. If, after three days from the opening of the conclave, no election has been made, the prelates appointed to attend to this shall allow each cardinal no more than one dish at dinner and supper during the next five days, after which only bread and water until they come to a conclusion. The cardinals shall take nothing from the papal treasury during the vacancy of the see; but all its revenues are to be carefully collected and watched over by the proper officers. They shall treat of nothing but the election, unless some imminent danger to the temporalities of the Holy See may demand their attention; and, laying aside all private interests, let them devote themselves entirely to the common weal; but if any cardinal shall presume to attempt by bribes, compacts, or other arts to entice his brethren to his own side, he shall suffer excommunication, nor shall any manner of agreement, even if sworn to, be valid. If a cardinal draw off from the conclave, or should he retire from motives of health, the election must still proceed; yet, if he recover, he shall be readmitted. Cardinals arriving late or at any stage of the proceedings, as also those who may be under censures, shall be received. No one can give his vote outside of the conclave. Two-thirds of the votes of all the electors present[191] are requisite to elect; and any one not radically disqualified[192] is eligible to the Papacy. The feudal superiors of the territory and the municipal officers of the city in which the conclave is held are charged to observe these regulations, and shall swear in presence of the clergy and people to do so. If they fail to do their duty they shall be excommunicated, be declared infamous and lose their fiefs, and the city itself shall be interdicted and deprived of its episcopal dignity. Solemn funeral services are to be held in every important place throughout the Catholic world as soon as news arrives of the pope’s death; prayers are to be recited daily and fast days appointed for the speedy and concordant election of an excellent pontiff.

In this provident constitution of Gregory X. are contained in brief the rules and regulations which have ever since governed the conclave. In a few points, however, its severity has been relaxed, particularly by Clement VI. in the bull _Licet de Constitutione_, dated December 6, 1351; and in others some small modifications have been introduced, in accordance with the manners and customs of a more refined age, by Gregory XV. (Ludovisi, 1621–1623) in his comprehensive ceremonial.[193] Thus Clement VI. (De Beaufort, 1342–1352), while recommending the greatest frugality at table during the seclusion of the conclave, removed the alimentary restrictions and left it to the cardinals themselves to select the kind, quality, and amount of their food, but forbade the prandial civilities of sending tidbits from one table to another. The same pope allowed each cardinal to have his bed enclosed by curtains, and to have two attendants, or conclavists, in every case. The monastic simplicity of a common sleeping-room was done away with in the sixteenth century, when each cardinal was allowed the use of a separate cell, which Pius IV. commanded should be assigned by lot. When a cardinal’s name and number have been drawn, his domestics upholster it with purple serge or cloth, if their master was created by the late pope; but if by a former one, with green—a difference in color that was first observed in the conclave for the election of Leo X. A few articles of necessary furniture, such as a bed, table, kneeling-bench, and a couple of chairs, complete the interior arrangements. On the outside of his cell each cardinal affixes a small escutcheon emblazoned with his arms, which serves as a substitute for that vulgar modern thing called a door-plate. While great care is still taken to hinder suspicious communications between the conclave and the outer world, it is no longer prohibited to visit a cardinal or member of his suite, although the colloquy must be held at some one of the entries, and whatever is spoken be heard by the prelates doing duty there. Instead of the single small window—more like an _oubliette_ than anything else—which Gregory prescribed, openings in the shape of pivotal or revolving wooden frames, like those used in nunneries and called _tours_ in French, were adopted at the suggestion of Paride de’ Grassi, master of ceremonies to Leo X. Eight of them are always connected on different sides with the hall of conclave, wherever it may be. The ten days before the conclave can open begin from the very day of the pope’s death; but sometimes a much longer time has elapsed—as, for instance, after the death of Alexander VI., when the violence of Cæsar Borgia and the presence of a French army in Rome occasioned a delay of thirty days; and again, when Cardinal Ferreri was arrested on his way from Vercelli to the conclave by the Duke of Milan, his loyal colleagues waited for him eight days beyond the usual time. The conclave in which Julius III. was elected in 1550 was not opened until nineteen days after his predecessor’s death, to oblige the French cardinals, who had not yet all arrived at Rome. In early ages, before it became customary to give the hat to occupants of episcopal sees other than the seven suburbican ones, and when cardinals were strictly bound to reside _in curia_—_i.e._, to live near the pope of whose court they were the principal personages—there was generally no necessity for a considerable delay. Anastasius the Librarian[194] says that Boniface III., in the year 607, made a decree forbidding any one to treat of a future pope’s election during the lifetime of the living one, or until three days after his death; but, as Mabillon shows,[195] this three days’ delay was observed in the Roman Church long before the seventh century, as appears from the despatch sent to the Emperor Honorius after the death of Pope Zosimus in the year 418. It is not known when it began to be observed as a law. In many cases an election took place either on the very same day that a pope died or on the following one, particularly during the era of persecutions and in the tenth and twelfth centuries, when the seditious disposition of the populace and the factions of rival barons made any unnecessary delay extremely hazardous. During the fifteenth, sixteenth, and following centuries the conclaves have generally been short, averaging about two weeks each. But during the greater part of the middle ages, after the supremacy of the Sacred College during the vacancy of the Holy See was undisputed, and the cardinals had little to fear from princes or people, their own dissensions often occasioned an interregnum of months, and even years, to the discredit of their order and the scandal of the Christian world.

The election should take place in Rome, if possible, because Rome is, or ought to be, the ordinary residence of the Sovereign Pontiffs; but both before and after Pope Gregory’s constitution many elections have been held elsewhere, according as the Curia was in one place or another. Urban II. was elected in Terracina; Calixtus II. in Cluny; Lucius III. in Velletri; Urban III. in Verona; Gregory VIII. in Ferrara; Clement III., Alexander VI., Honorius III. in Pisa; Innocent IV. in Anagni; Alexander IV. and Boniface VIII. in Naples; Urban IV., Gregory X., and Martin IV. in Viterbo; Innocent V. in Arezzo; Honorius IV., Celestin V., and Clement V. in Perugia. During the stay of the popes in France John XXII., Benedict XII., Clement VI., Innocent VI., Urban V., and Gregory XI. were elected at Avignon. John XXIII. was elected at Bologna, and Martin V. at Constance, since whom all his successors, except Pius VII., have been elected in Rome. The law of Gregory X. commanded that the conclave should be held there where the last pope died—_Statuimus ut, si eundem pontificem in civitate, in quâ cum sua curia residebat, diem claudere contingat extremum, cardinales omnes conveniant in palatio, in quo idem pontifex habitabat_—because in one sense, as of ancient Rome,

... Vejos habitante Camillo, Illico Roma fuit;

and of modern Rome, _Ubi Papa, ibi Roma_. When, however, he was absent only on some extraordinary occasion, the election was to be held in Rome itself, no matter where he died. Gregory XI., who brought back the see from Avignon, intending to return to France on business and to better his health, but wishing to assure an Italian election and the permanent re-transfer of the Holy See to Rome, made a decree on March 19, 1378, ordering a majority of the cardinals, should his death occur during his absence, to meet in any part of Rome, or, if more convenient, in some neighboring city, and there elect a successor. Clement VIII. restricted the place of holding the conclave to Rome alone, in a bull issued October 6, 1529, on occasion of his journey to Bologna to crown the Emperor Charles V., and in another one, dated August 30, 1533, when going to France to confer with Francis I.

When Pius IV. had a mind to go to Trent and preside in person at the council, he declared on September 22, 1561, that a papal election—should one become necessary by his death while away—was to be held in Rome, unless it were under an interdict, in which case in Orvieto or Perugia. Clement VIII., when going to Ferrara to receive back the fief which had reverted to the Holy See on the death of Alphonsus d’Este, declared on March 30, 1598, that, should he die before returning, the subsequent election was to be held nowhere but in Rome. Long usage, continued up to the beginning of the present century, has consecrated the Vatican as the most proper seat of the conclave. The first pope elected there was Benedict XI. in 1303, and the next was Urban VI. in 1378. When Honorius IV., of the great house of Savelli, died where he had lived and held his court, in his family mansion on the Aventine, some remains of which are seen near the convent of _Santa Sabina_, the cardinals, in scrupulous observance of the first law of Gregory’s constitution, met there and elected his successor, Nicholas IV., on February 22, 1288. Eugene IV. in 1431, and Nicholas V. in 1447, were elected in the Dominican convent of the Minerva, the great dormitory of the friars being fitted up for the cardinals, and the election itself being held in the sacristy behind the choir, over the door of which a large fresco painting and a Latin inscription commemorate the event. There were several projects on foot in the seventeenth century to establish with every possible convenience, and in accordance with the prescriptions of the Roman ceremonial of election, a hall of conclave which should serve for all future occasions. The venerable Lateran and the more modern Quirinal each had its advocates, and Pius VI. is said by Cancellieri to have intended the vast and magnificent sacristy building which he erected alongside of St. Peter’s for such a purpose; but his immediate successor was elected in Venice on account of the French troubles, and all of _his_ successors have been elected in the Quirinal palace.

On the pope’s death the Sacred College, or apostolic senate of Rome, succeeded to the government of the States of the Church. All the officers of the government were instantly suspended until provision was made to carry on the public business. Only the chamberlain of the Holy Roman Church, the grand penitentiary, and the vicar-general, who are always cardinals, continued to exercise their powers by a privilege granted to them by Pius IV. The chamberlain (camerlengo) was the executive or head of the government, acting as a quasi-sovereign, and was consequently honored with a special guard and allowed to coin money stamped with his family arms and the distinctive heraldic sign of the vacancy of the see, which is a pavilion over the cross-keys. With him were associated three other cardinals, each for three days at a time, one from each of the three orders, beginning with the dean, the first priest, and first deacon, and so on in turn of seniority. The secretary of the Sacred College, who is always a prelate of very high rank, was prime minister and transacted all the correspondence and other relations of the cardinals with foreign ambassadors and the representatives of the Holy See at foreign courts. Clement XII. provided that if the chamberlain and grand penitentiary should die during the conclave, the cardinals are to elect a successor to him within three days; but if the cardinal-vicar die, the vicegerent, who is always a bishop _in partibus_, succeeds _ex-officio_ to his faculties. The Sacred Congregation of Rome are privileged to transact business of small importance through their secretaries, and even to finish affairs of whatever importance, if at the pope’s death they were so far advanced as to need only the secretary’s signature.

If a cardinal fall ill and choose to remain in conclave, provision is made to take his vote; but he may retire, if he wish, losing his vote, however, which cannot be given outside of the conclave or by proxy. If he recover he is obliged in conscience to return, because it is a duty of his office, and not a mere personal privilege, to take part in papal elections. All cardinals, unless specially deprived by the pope before his death of the right of electing and of being elected, can vote and are eligible, even if under censures. Thus, cardinals De Noailles and Alberoni were invited to the conclave at which Innocent XIII. was elected; but cardinals Baudinelli-Saoli and Coscia had been deprived, the one by Leo X. and the other by Clement XII., of what is called in canon law the active and passive voice. The cardinals may elect whom they please; nor is it necessary to be either a member of the Sacred College or an Italian to become pope. In former ages the choice of subjects was more confined than it is at present; for we learn from the acts of a council composed chiefly of French and Italian bishops, convened at Rome in 769 by Stephen III., _alias_ IV., to condemn the anti-pope Constantine, who was not even a cleric, that no one who was not either a cardinal-priest or deacon could aspire to the Papacy—_Nullus unquam præsumat ... nisi per distinctos gradus ascendens, diaconus aut presbyter cardinalis factus fuerit, ad sacrum pontificatus honorem promoveri_.[196]

Nevertheless, in view, presumably, of the greater good of the church, many persons have since been elected who did not answer to this description. This was the case with Gregory V. in 996; Sylvester II. in 999; Clement II. in 1046; Damasus II. in 1048; Leo IX. in 1049; Victor II. in 1055; Nicholas II. in 1058; Alexander II. in 1061; Calixtus II. in 1119; Eugene III. in 1145; Urban IV. in 1261; Gregory X. in 1271; Celestine V. in 1294; Clement V. in 1305; Urban V. in 1362, and Urban VI. in 1378, since whom no one not a cardinal has been elected, although several have come near being chosen. At the conclaves at which Adrian VI. and Clement VII. were elected Nicholas Schomberg, a celebrated Dominican and archbishop of Capua, received a number of votes; and as late as the middle of the last century, at the conclave from which proceeded Benedict XIV., Father Barberini, ex-general of the Capuchins and apostolic preacher, was repeatedly voted for. No matter what may have been a man’s previous condition, he can be elected; and there are not a few instances of persons of ignoble birth or mean antecedents having been exalted to the Papacy, which they have illustrated by their virtues or their learning: “Choose the best, and him who shall please you most of your mother’s sons (_children of the Catholic Church_), and set him on his father’s throne”[197] (_as vicegerent of God in his kingdom on earth_).

However, since Sixtus V. (1585–1595), who is said to have been a hogherd in his youth, all the popes have belonged to noble families; for, says Cardinal Pallavicini, the celebrated Jesuit and historian of the Council of Trent, nobility of birth, although no necessary condition, adds dignity and splendor to the pontificate—_reca grandecoro ed ornamento al pontificato_.[198] But then he belonged to a princely family himself and wrote two centuries ago.

Almost every European nationality has had a representative on the papal throne; but for several centuries the Italians have jealously guarded its steps from any one but themselves, and perhaps with reason so long as the pope was temporal sovereign of a large part of the Peninsula. Adrian V., of Utrecht (1522–1523), was the last _foreigner_ ever allowed to wear the tiara, and he for his relations with the powerful emperor Charles V., rather than for his undoubted virtues and learning; and yet so great was the indignation of the Romans when his name was announced that the cardinals were insulted and some of them maltreated as they left the conclave. But if a Hollander might be tolerated for some grave political reasons—not a Frenchman under any condition. In the conclave of 1458 the worthiest subject to very many of his brethren seemed the Cardinal d’Estouteville, Archbishop of Rouen—the same who built the magnificent church of San Agostino at Rome. But _Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes_; so when there was a fine chance of his getting the requisite number of votes, Orsini and Colonna, as heads of the Roman party, deliberately turned the tide in favor of Piccolomini, although his record was bad and his health not good. When Clement V. (Bertrand de Got, archbishop of Bordeaux, 1505–1514) was elected, he summoned the Sacred College to Lyons to assist at his coronation. When the order reached the cardinals old Rosso Orsini, their dean, rose and said: “My venerable brethren, soon we shall see the Rhone—but, if I know the Gascons, the Tiber will not soon see a pope again.” And so D’Estouteville, with all his wealth and learning and high connections, was made to feel that

Necdum etiam causæ irarum sævique dolores Exciderant animo.

Gregory X. prescribed that a strict watch should be kept over the conclave wherever it might be held. When held in Rome the representatives of the noblest families have a principal part in maintaining order in the city and protecting the cardinals from any kind of interference. The marshal of the Holy Roman Church and guardian of the conclave watches over the external peace and quiet of the Sacred College. This is one of the highest offices held by a layman at the Roman court. It is hereditary, and belonged for over four hundred years to the great baronial family of Savelli until its extinction. It passed in 1712 to the princely family of Chigi. The very ancient and now ducal family of Mattei was charged with preserving the peace of the _Ghetto_ and _Trastevere_. For this purpose it used to raise and equip a small body of troops which was kept up as long as the conclave lasted. The majordomo of the late pope is _ex-officio_ governor of the conclave since the time of Clement XII. (Corsini, 1730–1740). Although he also exercises some external jurisdiction, he is more particularly required to attend to the domestic wants of the cardinals and preserve order within the palace where the conclave may be held. Delegations from the various colleges of the Roman prelacy—apostolic prothonotaries, auditors of the pope, clerks of the chamber, etc.—taking their orders daily from the governor, are to be stationed at one or other of the _Ruote_, or turnstile windows, during the whole of the conclave. _Prælati_, says Pius IV.,[199] _ad custodiam conclavis deputati, sub pœna perjurii et suspensionis a divinis, maxima et exquisita diligentia utantur in inspiciendis ac perscrutandis epulis, aliisve rebus, ac personis conclavi intrantibus, ac de eo exeuntibus, ne sub earum rerum velamine literæ, aut notæ, vel signa aliqua transmittantur_.

In the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, when every species of gambling and games of chance was practised with frenzied passion in Italy, it was very common in Rome, although prohibited under severe penalties by Pius IV. and Gregory XIV. as a sort of sacrilege, to bet on the cardinals whose “backers” thought they had a chance of being elected.

The collect _Pro eligendo Pontifice_—that God may grant a worthy pastor to his church—is said at all Masses throughout the world from the beginning of the conclave until news arrives of the pope’s election. In Rome there is a daily procession of the clergy from the Church of St. Lawrence _in Damaso_ to St. Peter’s basilica (if the conclave be held in the Vatican), chanting the litany of the saints and other prayers. When the procession arrives there a Mass _de Spiritu Sancto_ is said by a papal chaplain in a temporary chapel fitted up near the main entrance to the conclave. The singing is by the papal choir.

The literature, if we may call it so, of papal elections is varied and extensive. Besides the letters, bulls, and conciliar decrees of twenty-eight popes from Boniface I. in 419 to Pius IX., there is a host of writers on the subject, some of whom are distinguished for piety and learning, while others are noted for their hatred of the Holy See. Almost every conclave from Clement V.’s down has had its chronicler or historian. The oldest special treatise extant on a papal election is one written by Cardinal Albericus, a monk of Monte Cassino, in 1050—_De Electione Romani Pontificis, liber_.

THE HOLY CAVE OF MANRESA.

_DIGITUS DEI EST HIC!_

It is difficult to bring it home to one’s mind that Manresa is a place of petty industries and striving for worldly gain; that it ever had a hand in war or bloodshed, or, indeed, ever took any active part in the turmoil of ordinary life; for its very name has for more than three hundred years been almost synonymous with solitude and ascetic piety, on account of the _Santa Cueva_, or Holy Cave, so celebrated throughout the Christian world, where, amid the ecstasies of divine contemplation and the severities of the most rigorous penance, St. Ignatius de Loyola laid the foundation of the Society of Jesus, and by the infusion of supernatural light, to use the expression of the Congregation of the Rota, composed his famous _Spiritual Exercises_—a work which, said St. Francis de Sales two hundred years ago, “has given as many saints to the church of God as it contains letters.”

But Manresa is, in fact, a busy, thriving place of about fifteen thousand inhabitants, on the direct railway line from Barcelona to Zaragoza. It is a centre of industry, and contains a number of cotton and woollen mills by no means in harmony with its mediæval walls and towers that rise up out of the plain, gray and time-worn, and with many a mark of ancient conflict. For it is a walled town, and was in existence before the Roman conquest. We should say _city_, for so it has been styled ever since the ninth century, at least; and Don Jaime of Aragon, by a diploma of April 22, 1315, conferred on it, for its loyal services, the perpetual title of _buena y leal ciudad_. Nay, more, after Marshal Macdonald came here in 1811, and burned five hundred houses and factories, and slaughtered many of the inhabitants with a ferocity almost unequalled, the Spanish Cortes gave it the qualification of _muy noble y muy leal_ city (for these Spanish towns have their gradations of titled rank, of which they are as jealous as an ancient hidalgo of his family quarterings), on account of the bravery of the people, who rallied in their desperation and madness, and, pursuing the enemy, amply avenged their dead in true national fashion.

We arrived at Manresa after dark, and, as there was not a single vehicle at the station, we gave our travelling-bags to a porter, and followed after him on foot through narrow, ascending, tortuous, dimly-lighted streets to the Fonda de San Domingo, very Spanish in character, with a court full of diligences and stables on the ground floor, and an enormous dining-room above, out of which opened the bedrooms—at least, ours did. This was by no means favorable to repose, for the hilarity of its _habitués_ was kept up to a late hour, to say nothing of the singing and music in the neighboring streets. This would not have surprised us in Andalucia, but in an industrious place like Manresa we expected to find that labor had laid its repressing hand on the people, as is so often the case with us in the north. But the elastic temperament of the race causes a rebound as soon as the hour of toil is over. Then the dance and the song have their time, and castanets and the tambour take the place of the shuttle and the spindle. Manresa is noted for the publication of romanceros, ballads, and complaintes, illustrated with coarse engravings, which are sold under the general name of _pliegos_. This kind of literature is a key to the character of the people, and therefore not without its interest; but the sound of these jolly songs in such a place, and at so late an hour, was, it must be confessed—unreasonable as we may appear—very much to our disgust; for not only were we fatigued with our journey, but our thoughts were continually wandering off to the lonely cave and its mystic tome.

We were up betimes in the morning, notwithstanding, and, seeing the tower of a church from our window, we hurried out; for all through Spain, as in Italy, if there is anything worth seeing in a town, it is certainly the churches. However, it was not a question of art with us, though by no means insensible to the grand in architecture or to the beautiful in painting and sculpture. The church we soon came to had given its name to the Fonda. It was the church of St. Dominic, an edifice of the fourteenth century, formerly connected with a Dominican convent. It is a grim, mouldy church, with a tomb-like atmosphere about it—and, indeed, it is partly paved with memorial stones of those who sleep in the damp vaults below. But it was quiet and solemn, and there was a certain grave simplicity about it peculiar to the Dominican churches in Spain. A priest was saying Mass in subdued tones at the very altar where St. Ignatius once saw the glorious Humanity of our Saviour at the elevation of the Host, and a few people were kneeling here and there on the flag-stones, praying devoutly. St. Dominic and the dog with a flaming brand still seemed to be keeping watch and ward over the place, though his children are banished from his native land. The adjoining convent often gave St. Ignatius hospitality, and it was at one of its windows, after being tempted to despair in view of his sins, that he exclaimed: “Lord, I will not do aught that will offend thee!” He often made the _Via Crucis_ in the cloisters, bearing a large wooden cross on his shoulders from station to station, shedding floods of tears over the divine Sufferer. This cross is still religiously preserved, and bears the inscription:

Enecvs A Lohola porta bat hanc crv cem, 1522

—Ignatius de Loyola bore this cross, 1522.

We found Manresa exceedingly picturesque by daylight, rising abruptly, as it does, out of the valley of the Llobregat on one side and that of the Cardoner on the other. The railway station is at the foot of the eminence, with the river between, and the effect of the steep cliffs, crowned by the noble and loyal city, is very striking. Directly opposite, as if it sprang out of the mount, rises the Seo, a venerable cathedral of the fourteenth century, beautifully mellowed and embrowned by time. Further to the left are the spires of the Carmen and the tower of San Miguel; while at the right, but lower down, built into the very side of the cliff, so that it seems like a continuation of it, is the church of the Jesuits, with the Santa Cueva which gives celebrity to the city. One would like to see the Holy Cave in its primitive simplicity; but such was the devotion of pilgrims who came here in thousands after the canonization of St. Ignatius that, to save it from being carried off piecemeal, it was found necessary to place some safeguard around it, and it is now enclosed within the walls of the church.

Crossing the bridge that leads from the station, and walking along the opposite bank beneath the long arms of the umbrageous plane-trees for five minutes, we turned to the left, and, going up a short street, found ourselves directly beneath the overhanging cliff, which is tapestried with vines and the delicate fronds of the maiden-hair, kept green and fresh by little cascades of clear water that come trickling down the rocks with a pleasant murmur, glittering like the facets of a thousand jewels in the bright morning sun. Here is the Holy Cave, though no longer open on the side of the valley, towards which turn with interest so many hearts from the ends of the earth. We passed beneath the church walls, with its long line of sculptured saints, of rather coarse workmanship in the Renaissance style, but producing a striking effect from the valley below. One more turn to the left up a steep path, and we were on the terrace leading to the entrance. A statue of St. Ignatius is over the door. One always recognizes his striking physiognomy, with the noble dome of solemn thought that crowns it, and we saluted it with reverence and love, as we had done in many a strange land, as a symbol of the paternal kindness we had met with from the order to which he has bequeathed his spirit.

The church consists of a single aisle, with four small chapels on each side, and a latticed gallery above for the inmates of the residence. There is nothing remarkable about it, and, in fact, it was never completed according to the original plan, owing to the suppression of the order in Spain. Seeing an open door on the gospel side of the sanctuary, we went directly towards it and found ourselves in a long, narrow passage lined with portraits of the Jesuit saints, and, at the further end, a doorway secured by a strong iron grating, above which is graven:

SANTA CUEVA.

Finding the grating ajar, we pushed it back, and, descending three stone steps, found ourselves in the Holy Cave. It is long and narrow, being about thirty feet in length, seven in width, and about the same in height. A small octagon window is cut through the wall that closes the original entrance, and there is a feeble lamp hanging before the altar, but neither gives light enough to disperse the gloom, and, as there was no one in the cave, it was as silent and impressive as a tomb. You could only hear the pleasant rippling of the water over the rocks without. The pavement is the solid rock, and the upper part of the cave is in its rough state, but the lower part of the walls is faced with marble, and jasper, and a series of bas-reliefs that tell the history of the saint. An inscription on the wall says:

“In this place, in the year 1522, St. Ignatius composed the book of _Exercises_, the first written in the Society of Jesus, which has been approved by a bull from his Holiness Paul III.”

At the right, as you enter, is a projection, or shelf, in the wall, on which the _Spiritual Exercises_ were written, and there is a cross hollowed in the rock where the saint used to trace the holy sign before beginning to write. One’s first impulse is to kiss the ground where his holy feet once stood, and pray where he so often prayed. St. Ignatius said he learned more in one short hour of prayer in the cave of Manresa than all the doctors in the world could have taught him. Here, like St. Jerome, trembling before the judgments of God, he used to smite his breast with a hard stone. Here he wept over the sufferings of Christ, with whose bodily Presence he was often favored, as well as the presence of the angels and their Queen. “Flow fast, my tears,” wrote he in this very place, “break forth, my heart, in bitter sighs, that I may weep worthily over the sorrows of my Saviour! O Jesus! may I die before I cease to have a horror of sin. God liveth, in whose sight I stand; for while there is breath in me, and the spirit of life in my nostrils, my lips shall not give utterance nor my heart consent to iniquity.”[200]

A phalanx from his right hand is preserved here in a crystal reliquary, set in gold and jewels, on which is graven the Scriptural exclamation of Pope Paul III. after reading the Constitutions of St. Ignatius:

Digitus Dei est hic. Paulus III.

—The finger of God is here!...

Over the altar is a large bas-relief of the saint, kneeling before a cross in the Holy Cave and gazing up at the Virgin, who, enthroned on a cloud, is dictating to him the _Spiritual Exercises_, according to the constant local tradition. This relief is framed in black marble with white mouldings, and on each side are angels of white marble playing on musical instruments. These, as well as the other sculptures, were done by Francisco Grau, a Manresan artist of local celebrity. Among the others is one in which St. Ignatius, arrayed like the Spanish _caballero_ he was, with sword in hand, is keeping his vigil before the altar of Our Lady of Montserrat. In the next he is giving his rich garments to a beggar, coming down from the mount. Beyond is the miracle of the Pozo, of which we shall speak further on, and many such.

There were, at the time of our visit, four Jesuit Fathers in the adjoining _Casa_, and a daily service was held in the Santa Cueva. Many indulgences are attached to the place, on the usual conditions, granted by Pope Gregory XV. and other pontiffs. The cave, of course, was regarded from the time of St. Ignatius as a place singularly favored by Heaven. In his day it belonged to Don Fernando Roviralta, a great friend of the saint. He lived to be over a hundred years of age, and at his death he bequeathed it to his nephew, Don Mauricio Cardona, who sold it January 27, 1602, to the Marquesa de Ailona, who in the following year gave it to the Jesuits. As soon as it fell into their possession means were used to ornament it, and in the course of time a _Casa de retiro_ was built adjoining, with a church intended to be one of the finest in Catalonia. The Countess of Fuentes, a native of Manresa, gave one thousand escudos to ornament the Holy Cave. Don Pedro Osorio, commissary-general of Lombardy, came here on foot from Barcelona when seventy years of age, and presented eight thousand escudos for the same purpose. And finally the crown took it under its protection, and Philip V. gave it a valuable chalice on which were graven the royal arms. Not only Don John of Austria, but several of the kings of Spain, came here to visit a place of historic as well as religious interest, for the mysterious influences that have gone out of this Holy Cave have been a power in the world. The public documents of Manresa show the devotion of the Christian world to have been such that some days in the year 1606 there were more than a thousand visitors, many of whom came from a distance. They used to carry away with them pieces of the Holy Cave, which they preserved as relics. A fragment was sent to Queen Margaret of Austria, who had it set in gold surrounded by rubies and diamonds, and wore it on festivals of great solemnity.

When St. Ignatius came to Manresa there were only about a thousand families in the place, it having been reduced by wars and pestilence to one-fourth its former size. It is said that he stopped at the bridge leading to the city to pray at the chapel of Nuestra Señora de la Guia—Our Lady of Guidance—and was there supernaturally directed to the cave. It was then surrounded by shrubs and brambles, and was almost inaccessible. Though so near the city, it seemed retired, for it lay towards the broad valley, and was shaded by thorn-bushes and the cistus, which gave it an aspect of solitude. The pavement was uneven, and it was much smaller than at the present day. The birds of the air made it their home, and water trickled down the walls. The first thing the saint did was to prostrate himself on the ground and kiss it, then, with a sharp stone, trace a cross on the wall, still to be seen.

From the windows of the passage now leading to the Santa Cueva is the same landscape St. Ignatius had before him from the mouth of the cave; only in his day the country was wilder, and therefore more beautiful, if possible, and there were no factories, no railway, in the valley to disturb the peaceful solitude. It is certainly a landscape of surpassing beauty, and we could imagine his exaltation of soul in gazing at it; for St. Ignatius had the soul of a poet and was a great admirer of nature. He loved to walk in the meadows and gardens, to observe the form, color, and odor of flowers; and from time to time, when at Rome, used to go forth on his balcony to look at the starry heavens, as if to refresh his soul.

Directly beneath the cliff is the swift-gliding stream, and, beyond it, a hill crowned with the tower of Santa Catalina, then dark with sombre pines and gigantic oaks, but now descending in gentle terraces covered with the silvery olive. At the left opens the smiling valley of the Llobregat, covered with perpetual verdure, once called the Valle del Paraiso—the Vale of Paradise—and in the distance, against the bluest of heavens, rise the marvellous pinnacles of Montserrat, the sacred mountain of Spain.

Over the present entrance to the Holy Cave is an ancient stone crucifix, once part of the famous Cruz del Tort, at which St. Ignatius so often went to pray. On the eve of his festival, 1627, the Christ was seen, to the astonishment of every one present at Vespers, to exude blood, first from the side, then from the hands and feet, and finally from the thorn-crowned head. We went to visit the cross from which it was removed for preservation. On leaving the Santa Cueva we kept on, up the side of the hill, by a circuitous road the saint must often have trod, then towards the east by an old narrow street. We passed a crucifix in a niche, with red curtains before it, and a hanging lamp. Just beyond came several peasants with scarlet Catalan caps, broad purple sashes, blue trowsers, black velvet jackets, and alpargatas laced with wide blue tape across their white stockings. They were driving mules that looked as gay as their owners, with their heads streaming with bright tassels and alive with tinkling bells. We soon came to a house on which was a fresco representing the Virgin appearing to St. Ignatius. Just opposite this was a terrace on the edge of the hill, where stood the Cruz del Tort, a lofty stone cross with several stone steps around the base. It was on these steps that St. Ignatius, while praying here one day, as he was accustomed to do, and shedding floods of tears, had the mystery of the Holy Trinity made clear to him by some vision which he compares to three keys of a musical instrument. His eyes were opened to a new sense of divine things. His doubts fell off like a garment. His whole nature seemed changed, and he felt ready, if need were, to die for what was here made manifest to him. On the cross is this inscription:

Hic habvit St. Ignativs Trinitatis visionem, 1522.

While we were saying a prayer at the foot of the cross a peasant woman, who was passing by, stopped to tell us how San Ignacio came here to do penance and had a vision of God. The terrace occupies an opening between the houses which frame an incomparable view over the valley of the Llobregat, with the solemn turrets of Montserrat in full sight. The tall gray cross against that golden sky, with the Vale of Paradise spread out at the foot, is certainly one of the most ravishing views it is possible to conceive. Steps descend from the cross, winding a little way down the side of the cliff, which is covered with ivy, to a pretty fountain fed by clear water bubbling from the rocks.

Turning back from the Cruz del Tort, and passing through the suburbs, we soon came into the city among streets that looked centuries old. We passed San Antonio in a niche, and soon came to a small Plaza with a painting of St. Dominic at the corner, and in the centre a stone obelisk with a long inscription, of which we give a literal translation:

“To Ignatius de Loyola, son of Beltran, a native of Cantabria, the founder of the Society of Jesus, who, in his thirtieth year, while valiantly fighting in defence of his country, was dangerously wounded, but being cured by the special mercy of God, and inspired with an ardent desire to visit the holy places at Jerusalem, after making a vow of chastity, set forth on the way, and, laying aside his military ensigns in the temple of Mary, the Mother of God, at Montserrat, clothed himself in sackcloth, and in this state of destitution came to this place, where with fastings and prayers he wept over his past offences, and avenged them like a fresh soldier of Christ. In order to perpetuate the memory of his heroic acts, for the glory of Christ and the honor of the Society, Juan Bautista Cardona, a native of Valencia, bishop of Vich, and appointed to the see of Tortosa, out of great devotion to the said father and his order, dedicates this stone to him as a most holy man to whom the whole Christian world is greatly indebted, Sixtus V. being pope, and Philip II. the great and Catholic king of Spain.”

On another side is the following:

“This monument, having been overthrown during a time of calamity, has been restored and commended to posterity by the most noble ayuntamiento of the city of Manresa, out of ineffaceable love, Pius V. being Sovereign Pontiff, Carlos IV. king, and Ignacio de la Justicia governor of the city. 1799.”

Bishop Cardona, the first to set up this monument, was an able writer of the golden age of Spanish literature, and a man of such vast knowledge that he was employed by Philip II. in the formation of the royal library at the Escorial. He was a great admirer of St. Ignatius, and left an inedited manuscript, now in the National Library, entitled _Laus St. Ignatii_.

While we were standing before this obelisk we were agreeably convinced that, notwithstanding all the ravages of pestilence and the massacres of the French, the good and loyal city was in no danger of being depopulated; for the doors of a large edifice on one side of the square opened, and forth came a swarm of boys that could not have been equalled, it seemed to us, since the famous crusade of children in the thirteenth century. They came from a school in what was once the Jesuits’ college, built out of the ancient hospital of Santa Lucia, where St. Ignatius used to minister to the sick, and sometimes seek shelter himself. This was what we were in search of. Connected with the college is the modern church of St. Ignatius, and from one side of the nave you enter the old church of the hospital, which has been carefully preserved. Here we found the Capilla del Rapto, a small square chapel, opening into the aisle and covered with frescos. It is so called because it was here St. Ignatius lay rapt in ecstasy from the hour of complines on the eve of Passion Sunday till the same hour on the following Saturday. It was during this wonderful withdrawal into the spiritual world that the foundation of the Society of Jesus was revealed to him, as is stated in an inscription on the wall. For more than two centuries a solemn octave has been annually celebrated here in commemoration of this divine ecstasy. Beneath the simple altar lies the saint in effigy, wearing the coarse robe which made the _gamins_ of that day call him _El Saco_, or Old Sackcloth, till they found out he was a saint. Over the altar is a painting of the Rapto, in which, unable to endure the vision of Christ Glorified with mortal eyes, St. Ignatius is mercifully rapt in ecstasy. Angels bend around him, holding the banner of the Holy Name that has become the watchword of the Society. _In hoc vocabitur tibi nomen._ On one side of the chapel he is represented catechising the children, and on the other he stands in his penitential garments, exhorting the patients of the hospital, while some lord, doubtless Don Andrés de Amigant, is kneeling to him in reverence.

The original pavement of stone is covered with a wooden floor to preserve it, but a brass plate, on which is inscribed the name of Jesus, is raised to show the spot where the saint’s head lay in his ecstasy. The stone is worn with kisses, and has been partly cut away by pilgrims. Behind the chapel is the room where he used to teach children the catechism, and there is the same old stone stoup for holy-water that was used in his day. Here, too, is an inscription:

Serviendo en este Hospital Ignacio a gloria Divina, Enseñaba la Doctrina En las piedras de este umbral.

A few months after his arrival at Manresa St. Ignatius fell ill and was taken to this hospital among the poor with whom he now identified himself. But Don Andrés de Amigant, a nobleman of the place, soon had him removed to his own house, where he and his wife nursed him till he recovered. It was a pious custom of theirs to take two patients from the hospital every year, and tend them as if our Saviour in person. For this Don Andrés was styled “Simon the Leper” by the wits of Manresa, and Doña Iñés, his wife, was called Martha. This admirable charity had been practised in the family nearly two hundred years. It appears by a MS. in possession of the Marquis de Palmerola, its present representative, that a remote ancestor of his, Gaspar de Amigant, introduced the practice into his family in 1364, out of devotion. He added two rooms to his house, where he kept two poor patients, providing every remedy and means of subsistence, and, as soon as they recovered, diligently sought out others to supply their places, that, as he said, so religious an exercise might never be wanting in his family. How faithful his descendants were to so holy a practice appears from the statement that Juan de Amigant in 1478, having, “according to his custom,” received a woman named Ignès Buxona into his house, she bequeathed to him when she died, having no relations, the patronage of the benefice of San Francisco in the Seo of Manresa.

Many traditions concerning St. Ignatius have been preserved in this pious family. A cross has been recently discovered on the wall of the chapel of _S. Ignacio enfermo_ during some repairs, similar to that in the Santa Cueva. And there is a curious old family painting commemorating his illness in the house. The convalescent saint is represented sitting up in bed, supported by the left hand of Don Andrés, who with his right offers him a cup of broth. Behind are Doña Angela, his mother, Doña Iñés, his wife, and all the other members of the household, each one with some restoring dish in hand. In front of the bed is the inscription:

Stvs Ignativs de Loyola lang vens

—that is, St. Ignatius ill.

At the foot of the bed is another:

Hæc omnia evenervnt 22 Ivlii anno 1522.

—All these things took place July 22, 1522. His illness, by this, appears to have occurred about four months after his arrival at Manresa.

The honor of having St. Ignatius was disputed by many noble families of the place. In the _patio_ of one of the houses he sometimes visited, in the street called Sobreroca, is a picture of him, now indulgenced by the diocesan authority.

The college of St. Ignatius was founded in 1603. The ayuntamiento of Manresa, touched by a discourse during the Lent of 1601 at the Seo, purchased the ancient hospital of Santa Lucia, and established the Jesuits here soon after. The college became a flourishing institution, and they were before long able to build a new church and adorn the precious chapel of the Rapto.

When Carlos III. issued the decree for the expulsion of the Jesuits, April 3, 1767, the residence at Manresa was at first overlooked, and the fathers, as usual, celebrated the octave of the _Maravilloso Rapto_. On the very day it ended, April 11, the eve of Palm Sunday, at the same hour when St. Ignatius awoke from his mysterious trance, crying: “Ay Jesus! Ay Jesus!” the venerable fathers were seized and carried away amid the tears of the citizens to Tarragona, where they were put on a vessel of war, and, with nine hundred from Aragon, were transported to Ajaccio. The island of Corsica had on it at one time three thousand Jesuits who, for no crime, had been barbarously torn from their native land. Among them were the venerable Pignatelli and several who were eminent for letters. But on the 15th of August, 1769, Napoleon Bonaparte was born at Ajaccio, who proved the scourge of Spain.

The churches of the Jesuits were dismantled and the temporalities sold. The vestments and sacred vessels were given to poor churches of the diocese, but even these were mostly sold afterwards to help to defray the expenses of the war of independence. The chalice of Philip V., given to the Santa Cueva, was, however, saved.

Manresa has the glory of having been the first city in Catalonia to sound the war-cry against Bonaparte, and by the battle of Bruch, in which a handful of men routed the French army, to convince Spain that the Great Captain’s troops were not invincible. After the French had captured Tortosa they came to Manresa, and the house of the Santa Cueva was turned into a barrack and the church into a stable. With the restoration of the Bourbons returned the Jesuits. At Manresa the people rang the bells, and went out to meet them with cries of _Viva la Compañia_! The mules were taken from their carriages, and men drew them to the Seo, where the clergy and people with tears of emotion chanted the _Te Deum_. On July 25, 1816, they were reinstated in their former places, the keys of the Santa Cueva were presented to them in a silver basket, and on the 31st of July the festival of St. Ignatius was celebrated with solemn pomp in the Seo, with a congratulatory discourse on the restoration of the society.

Manresa has always been a religious city, as is to be seen by the number of solidly-built churches and the remains of its monastic institutions. When St. Ignatius quitted the place it is said there was hardly a person left unconverted. And when he was canonized there was a general explosion of joy, exhibited in Spanish fashion by dances, comedies, Moorish fights, illuminations, fireworks, salvos of artillery, triumphal arches and bowers—all of which contrast strangely with the penitential life of the saint in his cave.

There is something very friendly and cordial about the people. Inquiring our way to the Seo of an old woman, she said as she pointed it out: “Go with God; may he preserve you from all ill.”

We went on through the steep, narrow streets, which are often hewn out of the rock. The houses show traces of war and violence, and would be gloomy but for the galleries and hanging gardens with flowers and orange-trees. The women were gossiping from balcony to balcony. The _plazas_ were lively with trade. Everywhere was an interesting picture of Spanish life. In one place we passed a group of women around a well, washing at a huge tank, beating their clothes with wooden paddles, all laughing, all talking, all looking up with a flash of wonderful expression in their brown faces.

The Seo is an immense Gothic edifice, the first stone of which was laid October 9, 1328, but the crypt is several centuries older. The nave is of enormous width, which gives it an air of grandeur, and there are some fine stained windows, though greatly injured by the French. It is gloomy, but, when lighted up for a solemn service, presents an imposing appearance. There are queer Saracens’ heads on the walls of the choir, and steps lead to one of those subterranean churches full of solemn gloom so favorable to meditation and solitary prayer.

Among the notable things to be seen at Manresa is the Pozo di Gallina, where took place what is called the _primer milagro_ of St. Ignatius. Tradition says, as he was crossing the principal street of the city, called Sobreroca, on his way from the Carmen to the hospital of Santa Lucia, he met a child crying for fear of her mother, because the hen she was carrying home had escaped and fallen into an old well close by. Touched by her grief, the saint paused a moment, as if in prayer, and, while he stood, the water in the well rose to the brim, bringing with it the hen, which with a smile he restored to the child and went on his way. An oratory was afterwards built here, and the healing virtues of the water—such is the power of charity—have often been experienced by the people of Manresa, as is testified by the inscription from the pen of the learned Padre Ramon Solá:

Disce, viator, amor quid sit quo Ignatius ardet Testis aqua est, supplex hanc bibe, doctus abi.

S. Ignacio de Loyola en el año del Señor de 1522 hizo aqui el primer milagro sacando viva á flote hasta el borde una gallina ya ahogada.

This favored hen naturally became an object of special care, and it seems to have become the ancestress of an illustrious breed which kings did not disdain to have set before them at table.

We can fancy this _gallina resucitada_ laying now and then an egg, as Hawthorne says of the Pyncheon hens, “not for any pleasure of her own, but that the world might not absolutely lose so admirable a breed.” Brillat-Savarin pretended that the redeeming merit of the Jesuits was the discovery and introduction of the turkey into Europe.[201] Had he only known of this race of hens, rendered meet for the palates of princes by their great founder, they might have had an additional title to his approbation. Father Prout, speaking of the Jesuits being accused of having a hand in every political disturbance for the last three hundred years, compares them to Mother Carey’s chickens, which always make their appearance in a storm, and, for this reason, give rise to a belief among sailors that it is the _fowl_ that has raised the tempest! How ominous, then, was this Spanish hen of Manresa! We could not find out whether there are any scions of this time-honored race still living in their ancestral coops, or whether they were all suppressed with the order as dangerous to the state; but we do know that six of the breed—three _pollos_ and three _pollas_—in a line direct from the famous hen, were, in the beginning of the year 1603 (the miracle of the Pozo, it must be remembered, took place in 1522), sent to her Catholic majesty, Queen Margaret of Austria, who received them with as many demonstrations of pleasure as would have been consistent with royal etiquette in Spain.

We trust no supposititious egg was ever smuggled into the nest of this illustrious _gallina_ to deteriorate the breed. Père Vanière, a learned French Jesuit of note in the last century, has described in an able Latin poem, part of which has been translated by Delille, the sorrows of a poor old hen when she found, for instance, that she had hatched a brood of ducks, which became the torment of her life by their inclination for water. As Hood has it:

“The thing was strange—a contradiction It seemed of nature and her works, For little chicks beyond conviction To float without the aid of corks.”

Imagine, then, the woes of this maternal hen, in her new-fledged pride of race, should any Moorish or Guinea fowl taint her ennobled Spanish blood!

There is a hotel at Manresa, called the Chicken, of about the same stamp as the San Domingo, though Mr. Bayard Taylor, whose experience in such matters transcends ours, satisfied himself that, “although the Saint has altogether a better sound than the Chicken, the Chicken is really better than the Saint!”

It was one of St. Ignatius’ favorite devotions, while at Manresa, to visit the sanctuary of Our Lady of Viladordis, on the banks of the Llobregat, about three miles from the city. The last time he went there he gave his hempen girdle of three strands to the tenant of a neighboring farm-house who had often offered him hospitality, and assured him that as long as he and his posterity should continue to aid the poor they would never lack the means of a decent livelihood, and, though they might not attain great wealth, they would never be reduced to absolute poverty; which prophecy has been fulfilled to the present day, for the family still continues to exist. In this rural church a solemn jubilee is celebrated every year on Whitmonday in memory of St. Ignatius. Over the altar is a picture of the saint inscribed: “St. Ignatius, founder of the Jesuits, in the year 1522, the first of his conversion, frequented this church of Our Lady of Viladordis, and here received singular favors from Heaven, in memory of which this devout and grateful parish dedicates this portrait, Feb. 19, 1632.”

In 1860 Queen Isabella II., the great-granddaughter of Carlos III., came to Manresa, and, after visiting the Santa Cueva, expressed a wish to the city authorities that a monument so important in the religious history of Spain, and associated with the chief glory of Manresa, should be carefully preserved. This excited fresh interest. Spontaneous contributions from the _devotos de S. Ignacio_ flowed in for the restoration of the church and the ornamentation of the cave. To the former was transferred the miraculous image of Nuestra Señora de la Guia, before which St. Ignatius often used to pray. Pope Pius IX. conferred new indulgences on the Holy Cave, and its ancient glory had already revived when the revolution of September, 1868, broke out, overthrowing the royal government and compelling the Jesuits once more to take the road of exile. But the bishop of the diocese has watched over the cave, and it continues to be visited by pilgrims from all parts of the world.

A visit to the Santa Cueva marks an era in one’s life; for it is one of those places that produce an ineffaceable impression on the soul. Thank God! there are such places where the claims of a higher life assert themselves with irresistible force. Who that ever made a retreat with the _Spiritual Exercises_ in hand has not turned longingly to the Holy Cave in which they were written? Followed there, they seem to acquire new significance and authority. Wonderful book, that for three hundred years has on the one hand been regarded with admiration and love, and on the other been the object of distortion and abuse! Some have gone so far as to declare it a book of servilism and degradation; others, more happy, look upon it as an inexhaustible mine of wise directions in the practice of virtue. The sons of St. Ignatius have never ceased to meditate on the little volume which embodies the religious experience of their founder. They cherish it the more for giving them so large a draught in the chalice of ignominy, and they carry it with them through the wilderness of this world, as the children of Israel did the ark, to ensure their happy progress in the spiritual life. Pope Paul III., in his bull _Pastoralis Officii_, says: “Out of our apostolic authority and certain knowledge, we approve, we praise, we confirm by this document these teachings and these spiritual exercises, exhorting in the Lord, with all our might, the faithful of both sexes, one and all, to make use of these _Exercises_, so full of piety, and to follow their salutary directions.”

Manresa may well be proud of her Holy Cave, for it was here the great soul of St. Ignatius was tempered for his vast undertakings. But he did not indulge in any spiritual dalliance. His work once planned, he went boldly forth to achieve it.

“Forth to his task the giant sped; Earth shook abroad beneath his tread, And idols were laid low.

“India repaired half Europe’s loss; O’er a new hemisphere the cross Shone in the azure sky, And, from the isles of far Japan To the broad Andes, won o’er man A bloodless victory!”

THE MIRACLE OF SEPTEMBER 16, 1877.

ABRIDGED FROM THE FRENCH OF M. HENRI LASSERRE.

In the month of August, 1874, Canon Martignon, previously _curé-archiprêtre_ of Algiers, arrived at Lourdes. He was a man of about forty years of age, and while in Africa had been attacked by an affection of the chest which entirely deprived him of the use of his voice; he had therefore crossed the Mediterranean to seek healing in the city of Mary.

At the rocks of Massabielle he prayed, drank of the miraculous font, and bathed in the piscina, but without obtaining the cure he sought.

Not disheartened, he resolved to make a novena. This, too, was unaccompanied by any change for the better.

“Well, then,” he said, “I will make a novena of weeks.” And he took up his abode at Lourdes for sixty-three days.

On the sixty-fourth day, finding himself in absolutely the same state, he left for Pau, to seek a temporary alleviation in the mildness of its climate. But soon reproaching himself for having quitted Lourdes, and regarding his having done so as an act of weakness and a want of faith, and, moreover, possessing in the depth of his heart a conviction that sooner or later the Blessed Virgin would grant his prayer, he returned to the sacred grotto and took up his abode in the town.

An invalid, he constituted himself the guide and guardian of the sick and suffering. Pilgrims who of late years may have spent any time at Lourdes will recollect having seen there a priest, still young, with a long, light beard, a distinguished countenance, with a bright earnestness and sweetness in the expression of the eyes; a tall, slight figure, the chest somewhat narrowed and the shoulders bent by suffering—a priest who led the blind, assisted the lame and infirm, to the piscina, and spent the whisper of his failing voice in cheering and consoling the afflicted. This was the Abbé Martignon.

“If Our Blessed Lady does not cure me this time,” he would say, smiling, “I have made up my mind for a novena of years, then a novena of centuries; and after that I will stop.”

He had the joy of seeing several of the sick of whom he had been the guide and stay miraculously cured; but he himself, though experiencing at times some slight alleviation, did not obtain the complete recovery he sought.

Did he at last feel that there was some secret resistance on the part of the Blessed Virgin to grant the favor he solicited? We do not know; but it seemed to us that, while his faith continued the same and his charity ever on the increase, the virtue of hope was with him gradually turning into that of resignation—or, to speak more accurately, that he was _postponing_ his hope. Happy to remain in this corner of the earth, on which the feet of the Queen of Heaven had rested, and to pray daily at the sacred grotto, he did not begin the novena of years and of centuries of which he had smilingly spoken.

“I stay here,” he would say, “at the disposal of Our Lady of Lourdes, like a person sitting in an ante-chamber waiting for an audience. She will hear me when she pleases. My turn will come; I shall have my hour or minute, and will take care not to let it escape me.”

For this hour and this minute he waited three years. Then, a few months ago, he felt an impulse within him urging him to knock again at the heavenly gate. He resolved to make a novena which should end on the Feast of Our Lady of the Seven Dolors. He had not observed that, this being a movable feast, the first day of the novena would this year (1877) coincide with the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin,[202] and that his prayer would thus go, as it were, from the birth of Mary to the last sigh of Jesus—from the cradle of the Mother to the sepulchre of her Son.

Had the Abbé Martignon been cured he would have returned to Algeria; and we imagine that if at first the Blessed Virgin refused his request, it was because she had no intention of so soon granting leave of departure to such a servant. Neither God nor his priest were losing anything by this refusal. When such and such a temporal blessing—that is to say, the copper coin—is denied to our prayers, it is because the gold and the rich increase are being laid up in store for us, either in this world or the world to come. Besides, a new mission had been imposed on the ardent zeal and charity of the Abbé Martignon: one which flowed naturally from the function to which he devoted himself of consoling the afflicted.

From the commencement of his sojourn at Lourdes he had found a man more suffering than the sick and more tried than the ordinarily afflicted, and to him also he had ministered aid and support. He to whom we allude—the Abbé Peyramale—had had the signal honor of receiving a message from heaven, and of accomplishing, in spite of every obstacle, the divine command. But the Blessed Virgin, doubtless reserving for him a higher place, had said: “I will show him how much he must suffer for love of me”; and the most unlooked-for troubles had been sent to torture his heroic heart.

By a strange contrast he was at the same time on Calvary and on Thabor. While his name was celebrated throughout Christendom, while he was blessed by the people whose beloved father and patriarch he was, he had also, especially during these latter times, the bitter pain of being misjudged, forsaken, and obstinately persecuted in that matter which he had most at heart—in his zeal for the Lord’s house. Like the Cyrenian, he was the man bearing the cross, and his robust shoulders were bruised and bleeding beneath the sacred burden, while around his sufferings, as around those of his Master, many shook their heads, saying: “He has been the instrument of Mary; let her now help and deliver him!”

When, at the time of the apparitions, now nearly twenty years ago, he had asked Our Lady to make roses bloom in the time of snow, she, who was in that same place to work so many miracles, refused this one, and to the priest whom she had chosen replied by the austere word, “_Penance_.” The illustrious Abbé Peyramale, the priest of the Immaculate Conception, had thus been condemned to suffer. It was he of whom, for some years, the Abbé Martignon was the filial comforter and the friend of every hour.

It is not our purpose here to dwell on the sorrows beneath the weight of which sank the venerable curé of Lourdes; we would only call to mind that, when the basilica of the grotto was completed and enriched with the gifts of all the world—the basilica which was to be the point of arrival for the processions commanded by Our Lady—he undertook to rebuild the parish church, which ought to be their point of departure.

He died at his work, without having been able to complete it, and having more than once announced his death as a sort of necessity—a last sacrifice on his part in the interest of the house of God.

The unfinished church had stopped at the height of the arches. Aid on which he had been led to rely had failed him, and his efforts had been impeded by inconceivable hostilities.

“I shall not enter the promised land,” he would say; “I shall only see it afar off. _I must die to repair the ruin._ When I am here no more, all difficulties will be smoothed. My death will pay all”—sorrowful words, which brought tears to his eyes and to the eyes of those who loved him! We ourselves had the sad consolation of being present at his departure. God chose the Feast of the Nativity of Our Blessed Lady to open the gates of eternity to her faithful servant.

Around the death-bed of Mgr. Peyramale were his brother and other relations, his _vicaires_, friends, and those of his flock who had been able to penetrate into his room. Among this tearful family was the Abbé Martignon, broken down with grief, and scarcely thinking of himself, his malady, or his cure, or yet of his novena to Our Lady of the Seven Dolors, which, by a curious coincidence, was to begin that same day.

Mgr. Peyramale, after a long agony, had just rendered his last sigh to earth and his immortal soul to God. In that hour of grief and desolation his friend, while raising his heart to her who is the _Consolatrix Afflictorum_, recollected his promised novena.

What was passing in his mind? Kneeling by that bed and holding in his the lifeless hands of the curé of Lourdes, he remained for some time bowed down in silence. Then, rising, he said to some of those present: “I have just said the first prayer of my novena to Our Lady of Sorrows, and made my request for a cure, in presence of these holy remains; and I conjure Our Lady of Lourdes to permit that in her own name, and _on the ninth day_, our friend may himself transmit to me the answer”; adding: “The choice God has made of the 8th of September to call to himself the Priest of the Apparitions sufficiently authorizes me to associate his first remembrance (_souvenir_) with my humble supplication.”

Side by side with a great sorrow a great hope from this moment entered in and possessed the heart of the sick priest. The thought of recovery did not, assuredly, lessen his grief for the loss of his friend; but seeing himself henceforth alone in France, it was a happiness to him to know that his protector was in heaven, and that it would be doubtless owing to the intervention of that friend, next to that of God and Our Blessed Lady, that he should receive the favor so long solicited.

He spoke of this with conviction. It seemed to him that, with such an intercessor, the Blessed Virgin would, _on the ninth day_, put herself in some sort at the disposal of his prayer. He even wrote to Paris, to the Rev. Père Picard of the Assumption, to tell him of his hope. Already he spoke of what he would do when he was cured, and how he would employ himself in furthering the unfinished work of the curé of Lourdes. He prayed with fervor; friends joined him in his novena; and thus the time went on until Saturday, the 15th of September—the eve of _the ninth day_.

On this Saturday, in the morning, he received a telegram to tell him that M. and Mme. Guerrier were on their way to Lourdes, and to ask if he would kindly meet them at the station with a carriage.

M. and Mme. Guerrier were utterly unknown to him. A letter only, which he had received from the curé of St. Gobain twenty-four hours before the telegram, informed him that Mme. Guerrier had for several years been suffering from a very serious illness, and was starting for Lourdes to seek a cure, full of faith that it would be granted. This lady and her husband were earnestly recommended to the Abbé Martignon, as this was their first visit to the city of the Blessed Virgin.

The canon gladly undertook this act of charity, and went to the station in good time to meet the three o’clock train. Leaving him for a time occupied with his Breviary in the waiting-room, we will relate by what series of circumstances M. and Mme. Guerrier were brought to Lourdes on that day.

M. Edouard Guerrier, judge of the peace at Beaune, married, about fifteen years ago, Mlle. Justine Biver, a religious and excellent lady. Her father was a distinguished physician, and her two brothers occupied high commercial positions, one being general director of the Company of St. Gobain, and the other director of the celebrated glass manufactories of St. Gobain and Chauny.

God had blessed this union with three children, healthy and intelligent, to whose training and education their mother devoted herself, bringing them up especially in the love of God and of the poor.

Thus passed eleven years of unbroken happiness. In 1874, however, a dark cloud suddenly over-shadowed this clear sky. The health of Mme. Guerrier broke down rapidly, and violent headaches, frequent faintings, and increasing weakness were succeeded by a general state of paralysis, which seized successively several important organs of the frame. The spine and lower limbs became powerless, and the sight dim and enfeebled. The sufferer was unable to sit up in bed, and obliged to remain always lying down. Finally the lower limbs became not only incapable of movement but insensible to pain, so that, if pinched or pricked, they remained without feeling. During the long fits of fainting it often seemed as if life must become extinct. Death was knocking at the door, and mourning had already entered the home lately so bright with happiness.

Unable to continue the education of her children, the poor mother could only assist them in their religious duties. Night and morning they knelt at her bedside, adding to their prayers an earnest petition for her recovery.

In this state Mme. Guerrier had continued about two years, when Alice, her eldest girl, was about to make her First Communion, on April 2, 1876. This great day constantly occupied the thoughts of this Christian mother. She thought of it for her child, and also a little for herself. It seemed to her as if, in coming to take possession of this young heart, the compassionate Saviour would surely bring some relief to her own great needs, and leave in the house some royal token of his visit and sojourn there. Had he not, on entering the house of Simon Peter, healed the sick mother-in-law, enabling her to rise and serve him?

“I am certain of it,” she said. “On that day I shall get up and walk.”

Alice made her First Communion on the appointed day; and in the evening the priest who had prepared her, and a few members of the family, were assembled at dinner. No change, however, had taken place in the state of the sick lady, and her place was remaining empty, as for so many months past, when, at the moment the party were about to sit down to table, suddenly recovering her lost powers, she rose, dressed, and came to take her place amid her family circle. Her sight was clear, the spine had recovered its strength, and she walked and moved with the same ease as before her illness.

The priest intoned a hymn of thanksgiving, all present answering. Every one felt that He who that morning had given himself in the divine Banquet was invisibly present at the family feast. During the night Mme. Guerrier’s sleep was calm and profound; but in the morning, when she attempted to rise, her limbs refused their service, having fallen back into their helpless state. Was it, then, a dream or an illusion? Was it an effect of the nerves, the imagination, or the will?

The day of her daughter’s First Communion He would not disappoint the mother’s hope and faith.... But afterwards he willed her to understand that, for purposes known to him alone, she was still to bear the weight of her trial. The intolerable headaches returned no more, the faintings ceased, and the sight remained clear and distinct. From this day the resignation of Mme. Guerrier, already very great, became greater still. Her soul as well as her body had received grace from on high. The dimness of vision which had hidden from her the faces of her husband and children had disappeared before the breath of Heaven, and, although she remained infirm and always stretched upon her bed, she was filled with thankfulness and joy. From the beginning of her illness she had never seen her aged parents. She lived at Beaune, in the Côte d’Or, and they at St. Gobain, in the department of Aisne, one hundred and forty leagues away, and, Dr. Biver being then in his eighty-second year, any journey was a difficulty to him. His daughter longed to see him once more, and from April to September this longing continued to increase. In vain the exceeding risk as well as difficulty of travelling in her state was represented to her; she at last persuaded her husband to consent to the imprudent undertaking upon which she had set her heart.

As the physicians had foreseen, the journey very seriously aggravated Mme. Guerrier’s sufferings, which increased to such a degree that, even after some weeks of repose, it was impossible for her to attempt to return to Beaune. The slightest movement often brought on an alarming crisis.

The consequence of such a state, under existing circumstances, was nothing less than the breaking up of the family. The husband, on account of his duties as judge of the peace, was compelled to reside at Beaune, while the condition of his wife rendered it impossible for her to quit St. Gobain. She had asked to have her children with her, and thus, between every two audiences, when possible, M. Guerrier took a journey of one hundred and forty leagues and back, in order to spend a few days with those who made all the happiness of his life.

Nearly a year passed in this way. A moment of improvement was constantly watched for which might permit Mme. Guerrier to travel; but this moment was waited for in vain. On the contrary, the paralysis was beginning to affect the left arm, and the thought of her journey thither made that of the homeward one very alarming.

Last August, M. Guerrier being at St. Gobain in the same painful state of hope deferred, his wife astonished him by saying: “My dear, I wish to make a pilgrimage to Lourdes. I shall be cured there. You must take me.”

M. Guerrier, seriously alarmed at this proposal, energetically withstood an idea which he believed could not be acted upon without a fatal result.

“My dear wife, you are asking impossibilities,” he said. “Think what it has cost us for having, eleven months ago, yielded to your wishes by attempting the journey from Beaune to St. Gobain! Remember that from that time you have not even been able to bear being carried into the garden or drawn a few paces in a sofa-chair. And yet you would venture to travel across France, to a part of the country where we are utter strangers, with the pleasant prospect of being unable to get away again! Do not think of it, dearest! It would be tempting God and running a risk that would be simply madness.”

“I am certain that I shall be cured at Lourdes,” was the answer, “and I wish to go thither.”

It was a struggle of reason against faith and hope, and, both parties being resolute, the struggle lasted for some days. Mme. Guerrier’s faith, however, communicated itself to her two brothers; they advised her husband to grant her wish, and he, weary of contention, at last gave a reluctant consent. Provided with a medical certificate as to the state of his wife’s health, he requested of the minister a few weeks’ leave of absence, in order to take her to the Pyrenees.

It was on Saturday, the 8th of September, Feast of the Nativity, that the journey was resolved upon.

M. Guerrier felt, however, no small anxiety at the prospect (in case his worst fears should be realized) of finding himself in a place where, knowing no one, he could expect no aid or support beyond the services to be had at hotels.

“If only,” he said, “I knew of any one there who could guide us a little! I shrink from this plunge into the unknown.”

On the 10th or 11th of September the Abbé Poindron, curé of St. Gobain, saw, announced in a newspaper, the death of Mgr. Peyramale, and in the account given of his last moments observed the name of the Abbé Martignon. He went immediately to M. Guerrier, and said: “You will have some one at Lourdes to receive and direct you. I know Canon Martignon, and am writing to recommend you particularly to his kind care. On the way telegraph to him the hour of your arrival. He will be prepared for it.”

The exact time of the dreaded departure was then fixed for Wednesday, the 12th of September. It was arranged that the travellers should stop at Paris for a day’s repose, and that the rest of the journey should, if possible, be made without another halt until they reached Lourdes. An invalid carriage was engaged of the railway company to be in readiness.

Great was the anxiety of the family.... The children, however, rejoiced beforehand, implicitly believing that their mother would be cured: Marie, the youngest, who never remembered seeing her otherwise than in bed and infirm, exclaimed: “Mamma will come back to us like another mamma, and we shall have a mamma who can walk.”

“And,” joined in little Paul, who in this respect had sometimes envied other children of his acquaintance, “mamma will be able to take us on her lap.”

“Yes,” said Alice, “she will come back quite well.”

In order to spare Mme. Guerrier’s aged father the uncertainties and anxieties which preceded the decision, he had not been told what was in contemplation until everything was arranged, and the only thing that remained was to obtain his consent.

The venerable physician was deeply moved on hearing from his daughter her intention of visiting that distant sanctuary to seek from the Mother of God a cure which human science had proved powerless to effect. He consented without hesitation, and, when the moment of departure arrived, raised his hands over his afflicted child in a parting benediction.

The journey was painful. At Paris it was not without great difficulty that Mme. Guerrier was transported to the house of her brother, M. Hector Biver.

Their brother-in-law, M. Louis Bonnel, professor at the _lycée_ at Versailles, met them there. “I have just ascertained,” he said, “that Henri Lasserre is at Lourdes. I knew him formerly; he is a friend of mine. Here is a letter for him.” And thus it was that the writer of the present account was enabled later to learn all its details.

Notwithstanding the courage of the sick lady, her prostration was so complete when the train entered the station at Bordeaux that her husband dared not allow her then to go further, and insisted on her again taking a day’s repose.

* * * * *

On Saturday, the 15th of September, the travellers arrived at Lourdes. The Abbé Martignon was at the station, having prepared everything necessary. Two porters bore Mme. Guerrier to a commodious carriage, and the three repaired to the furnished apartments of Mme. Detroyat, where the abbé had engaged a room. This room was on the first or second story, and the helpless state of Mme. Guerrier rendered it absolutely necessary that she should have one on the ground floor. The canon had not been made aware of this, and was consequently in much perplexity.

“Do not be uneasy,” said Mme. Detroyat. “You are very likely to find a room that will suit you, close by, at the house of M. Lavigne.”

M. Lavigne is the owner of a very pleasant house, surrounded by shrubs and flowers. The garden gate opens on the highroad which passes through Lourdes and forms its principal street. The house is in the lower part of the town, between the _cité_ and the station.

M. Lavigne, with the greatest kindness, put his house at the disposal of the pilgrims, and thus they were soon installed in a large room on the ground floor, temporarily transformed into a bedroom and opening into the garden.

After resting for a time they repaired to the grotto; M. Guerrier having engaged two men-servants to assist him in lifting his wife from the carriage to the foot of the statue of Mary Immaculate. It was then about five o’clock. There it was that we first saw Mme. Guerrier. Her husband gave us the letter of M. Louis Bonnel, and thus we became acquainted with the trials of this family.

The prayer of Mme. Guerrier was ardent and absorbed. Motionless and fixed, as if in ecstasy, her gaze never quitted the material representation of the Holy Virgin, who had appeared where now her image stands, and whom she had come so far to invoke. Everything in her countenance and aspect expressed faith and hope.

Before setting out Mme. Guerrier had received absolution, and as much as possible disposed her soul for the reception of the great grace she implored. She was ready. Her husband, though a practical Christian, was still a little behindhand. Burdened as he had been with all the weight of temporal anxieties, he had not been quite so active in arranging for his spiritual needs. With an exceeding watchfulness he had attended to everything relating to the comfort of his charge, but the preparation of himself he had delayed, awaiting for this, the decisive moment and the latest hour.

At Lourdes this hour came.

Late in the evening he requested the Abbé Martignon to hear his confession. As he had all along intended, he desired on the morrow to receive Holy Communion with his wife.

And thus in the sacrament of penance, after the avowal of his faults, he had the consolation of pouring out his troubles and deep anxieties into the sympathizing heart of his confessor. The details of these confidences are the secret of God, but this we know well: that the confessor, who is God’s lieutenant for the time, and who, in the name of the Father of all, pronounces the words of pity and pardon, often experiences, more fully than other men, the sentiment of deepest compassion. And great was the compassion of the Abbé Martignon for the misfortune of this distressed husband, for the sufferings of the wife, and the mourning of their family. He put aside all consideration of himself to think only for them. Not that he forgot his own sufferings, or the bright hope with which he was looking forward to the morrow; on the contrary, he remembered this; but a thought of a higher order, which had already presented itself to his mind, recurred to him now, and he at once acted upon it.

“Let your wife have confidence,” he said to his penitent, “and do you have confidence as well. I saw her when she was praying this evening at the grotto. She is one of those who triumph over the heart of God and compel a miracle.” Then, telling him about his own novena, he added: “To-morrow, then, at eight o’clock I shall celebrate the Mass which is my last hope!... Well, say to Mme. Guerrier that not only will I say this Mass _for her_, but that, _if I am to have a share in the sensible answer which I solicit, I give up this share to her_. I make over to her intention all the previous prayers of this novena, and _I substitute her intentions for mine_, so that, if the answer is to be a cure, _it shall not be mine but hers_. Let her, before she goes to sleep to-night, and to-morrow on awaking, associate with her prayers the name of Mgr. Peyramale, and at eight o’clock come, both of you, to my Mass at the basilica. I have good hope that something will happen.”

In accepting with simplicity such an offer as this M. and Mme. Guerrier could not measure the heroism and the extent of the sacrifice which the Abbé Martignon was making in their favor. For this the knowledge of a long past was necessary—a past of which they knew nothing.

The sick lady did not fail to mingle in her prayers the name of Mgr. Peyramale, and towards eight o’clock in the morning she was taken to the basilica to be present at the last Mass of this novena, her feeling of assured confidence in her recovery being singularly strengthened by the noble act of self-denial made in her favor.

Since the previous day the crypt and upper church had been filled by the pilgrims from Marseilles. It would have been difficult to carry a sick person through the dense multitude, especially one to whom the least shock or movement caused suffering and fatigue. One of the first chapels on entering was therefore chosen in which to say the Mass. It happened to be the first on the left, dedicated to Ste. Germaine Cousin.

Mme. Guerrier heard the Mass seated on a chair, her feet, absolutely inert, being placed on a _priedieu_ in front of her.

While reading the epistle the remembrance of Mgr. Peyramale suddenly presented itself with extraordinary clearness before the mind of the celebrant, when he came to the last lines, and saw these words, whose striking fitness impressed itself irresistibly upon him:

“The Lord ... hath so magnified thy name this day that thy praise shall not depart out of the mouth of men, who shall be mindful of the power of the Lord for ever; for that thou hast not spared thy life by reason of the distress and tribulation of thy people, but in the presence of the Lord our God _thou hast repaired our ruin_.”[203]

“I must die to repair the ruin,” had often been the words of Mgr. Peyramale.

At the moment of the Elevation all were kneeling except the paralyzed lady. In her powerlessness she was compelled to remain reclining, the sacred Host being brought to her where she lay.

Scarcely had she received the Blessed Sacrament when she felt in herself a strange power which seemed as if impelling her to rise and kneel, while an inner voice seemed to command her to do so.

Near to her knelt her husband, absorbed in prayer and thanksgiving after Communion. He heard the soft rustling of a dress, looked up, and saw his wife kneeling by his side.

Respect for the holy place alone prevented the exclamation of wonder that rose to his lips. Instinctively he looked towards the altar—it was at the moment of the _Dominus vobiscum_—and his eyes met those of the priest, which were radiant with joy and emotion. At the Last Gospel Mme. Guerrier rose without effort and continued standing. As for her husband, he could scarcely remain upright, his knees trembled so. He gazed at his wife, afraid to speak to her or to believe the testimony of his senses, while she remained praying and giving thanks in the greatest calmness and recollectedness of spirit.

The priest laid aside his sacred vestments and knelt at a corner of the altar to make his thanksgiving, with what fervor may be imagined.

The sign he had asked had been given, luminous and unmistakable, _on the ninth day_, when, at the Mass said by himself, the requested answer came which by an heroic act of charity he had transferred to another. Whatever may have been the joy of the recovered lady, that of the priest was greater still. His friend, the Curé Peyramale, now in heaven, had already begun to manifest his presence there, while the circumstances attending the miracle seemed to show that Mary herself took in hand the glorification of the faithful servant who had been here below the minister of her work.

* * * * *

Neither the Abbé Martignon nor those who had accompanied him had then paid any attention to the details of the little side-chapel into which a hand more delicate and strong than that of man had led them; and yet the stones, the sculptures, and inscriptions there were so many voices which repeated the same name. It was the first chapel on entering, and the commencement of the basilica. Under the window, on three large slabs of marble, is inscribed an abridged account of the eighteen apparitions, including the message with which Bernadette was charged by Our Blessed Lady: “Go and tell the priests that I wish a chapel to be built to me here”—a message which indicated the mission and the person of him who had dug the foundation and laid the first stone.

Above the great arch which forms the entrance to this chapel is inscribed the word “_Pénitence_”—the answer to the request for roses to bloom in February, and which spoke of suffering; while on the right of the altar, over the smaller arch leading to the next chapel, the sculptor has represented Simon the Cyrenian bearing the cross of Jesus.

On the altar is carved the young shepherdess saint (also of the south of France) who seemed best to typify the favored child of Lourdes—namely, the pure and innocent Ste. Germaine Cousin. Bernadette was wont to say: “Of all my lambs I love the smallest best.” Ste. Germaine is represented with a lamb at her feet, while behind her is the dog, symbol of _Vigilance_, _Fidelity_, and _Strength_, these virtues recalling the energetic pastor who had never suffered persecution to touch the child of Mary.

If, in granting this cure, Our Lady of Lourdes had not intended specially to associate with it the remembrance of her servant, would she not have chosen another _moment_ than this ninth day, asked for beforehand, another _place_ than this significative chapel, and another _circumstance_ than the last Mass of the novena made by that servant’s intimate friend? In all these delicate harmonies of detail we seem to perceive the divine hand.

* * * * *

We resume the narrative.

After her act of thanksgiving Mme. Guerrier rose from her knees, calm and serene, without the least excitement, physical or moral, but still radiant from the heavenly contact, and, turning to her husband, she said: “Give me your arm, dear; let us go down.”

Still fearing that what he saw was too good to last, M. Guerrier wished to summon the porters.

“No,” said the Abbé Martignon; “let her walk.”

Taking her husband’s arm, she pressed it for a moment to her heart, full of happiness and gratitude; then, with a firmer step than he, descended the two steps of the chapel and crossed the nave.

The Marseilles pilgrims thronged the church, singing the power of the Immaculate Mother of God, not knowing that close beside them, in a little side-chapel, during the stillness of a Low Mass, that benignant power had just been put forth.

On leaving the basilica Mme. Guerrier descended with ease the twenty-five steps of the stone flight at the foot of which the carriage was waiting.

The coachman gazed at Mme. Guerrier in amazement and remained motionless, until, on a sign from her husband, he got down and opened the door.

“No,” said the cured lady; “I wish to go to the grotto.”

“Certainly; we will drive there.”

“Not at all. Your arm is enough. I will walk.”

“She is cured,” said the Abbé Martignon; “let her do as she wishes.”

So, all together, they walked to the grotto.

Here Mme. Guerrier made her second act of thanksgiving before the image of Mary Immaculate. Then, after drinking of the miraculous spring, she went to the piscina, in which, though cured, she wished to bathe. After this immersion she lost entirely a certain stiffness which had remained, and which had somewhat impeded the free play of the articulations.

She made a point of returning on foot to the town, the carriage preceding at a slow pace; but about half-way the Abbé Martignon said, smiling: “Madame, _you_ are cured, but I am not; and I must own that I can go no further. In charity to me let us get into the carriage.”

“Willingly,” she replied, and, hastening to it, she sprang lightly in.

They traversed Lourdes, until, a little below the _old_ parish church, they turned into the Rue de Langelle, and stopped near the rising walls of the _new_ one.

Mme. Guerrier and her companions alighted, and, descending some steep wooden steps, entered the crypt. Here was a tomb, as yet without inscription. She sprinkled some holy water over it with a laurel spray that lay there, and then knelt down and made her third act of thanksgiving by the venerated remains of Mgr. Peyramale.

During the week which had followed the death of this holy priest no pilgrimage had appeared in the mourning town. It was on this same day of glory that the first, that of Catholic Marseilles, came to pray at his tomb, and thus the first crown (from a distance) placed upon it bears the date of the event we have just related: “_Les Pélerins Marseillais, 16 Septembre, 1877_.”

When M. and Mme. Guerrier returned to the house of M. Lavigne great was the joy of those who had so kindly received them. They regarded this miracle as a benediction upon their house, and heard with deepest interest the details of what had taken place.

“Madame,” then said M. Lavigne, “are you aware into what place exactly Providence led you in bringing you to us?... You are in the house which was the presbytery of Lourdes at the time of the apparitions; and you occupy the room in which M. le Curé Peyramale questioned Bernadette and received from her mouth the commands of the Blessed Virgin.”

After remaining some days at Lourdes M. and Mme. Guerrier returned to St. Gobain. The journey was rapid and without fatigue. Passing over its earlier details, we quote the following portions of a letter from M. Guerrier, now before us:

“When we reached Chauny my wife’s younger brother, M. Alfred Biver, was waiting for us at the station, full of anxiety; for, in spite of the letters and telegrams, he could not believe. What was his surprise when my beloved wife threw herself into his arms!—a surprise from which he could not recover, and which drew from him repeated exclamations during the drive of fourteen or fifteen kilometres from Chauny to St. Gobain. We drove rapidly, for we were eager to reach home. How long the way appeared! At last there was the house! It was then about five in the evening. We saw the whole family waiting for us, great and small: sisters, sisters-in-law, nephews, nieces, and, above all, our dear little ones—all were at the door, eager to make sure that their happiness was real.

“Ah! when they saw their mother, sister, aunt alight alone from the carriage and hasten towards them, it was a picture which no human pencil could paint. What joy! what tears! what embraces! The mother of my Justine was never weary of embracing the daughter whom Our Lady of Lourdes restored to her upright, walking with a firm step—cured.

“Detained by his eighty-three years, her father was in his sitting-room up a few stairs. We mounted; he was standing at the door, his hands trembling more from happiness than age, and his noble countenance glistening with tears.

“‘My daughter!...’

“Mme. Guerrier knelt before him. ‘Father,’ she said, ‘you blessed me when, incurably afflicted, I started for Lourdes; bless me now that I return to you miraculously cured—as I said I should....’

“And, as if nothing were to be wanting to our happiness, it so happened that this very day was the _fête_ of her who returned thus triumphantly to her father’s house. What a glad feast of St. Justine we celebrated!

“But this is not all. The family had its large share; the church also must have hers. The excellent curé of St. Gobain, the Abbé Poindron, had obtained from the lord bishop of Soissons authority to have solemn benediction in thanksgiving for the incomparable favor that had been granted to us.

“On the day after our arrival, therefore, we repaired to the parish church, through crowds of awestruck and wondering people. The bells were ringing joyously, and the church was full as on days of great solemnity. Above the congregation rose the statue of Notre Dame de Lourdes, and, facing it, a place was prepared for her whom Mary had deigned to heal. The priest ascended the pulpit, and related simply and without comment the event that was the occasion of the present ceremony, after which some young girls, veiled and clad in white, took upon their shoulders the statue of Our Lady of Lourdes, and the procession began; my dear wife and myself walking immediately behind the image of our heavenly benefactress, amid the enthusiastic singing of hymns of praise and the triumphal sound of the organ.... Then the _Te Deum_ burst forth. Our Lord God was upon the altar....”

If earth has festivals like this, what must be the festivals of Paradise?

* * * * *

Here we would fain close our narrative, leaving the hearts of our readers to sun themselves in these heavenly rays. But in this world there is no light without a shadow. In the letter we have just quoted M. Guerrier, after speaking with fervent gratitude of the heroic charity of Canon Martignon, says how earnestly he and his are praying for the restoration of his health. Alas! these prayers are not yet granted. A few weeks after the event here related he left Lourdes for Hyères, being too ill to return, as he had desired, to his own archbishop in Algiers.

In the midst of her joy Mme. Guerrier has a feeling very like remorse. “Poor Abbé Martignon!” she lately said to us; “it seems to me as if I had stolen his cure.”

No! This lady has, it is true, received a great and touching favor; but assuredly a still more signal grace was granted to that holy priest when he was enabled to perform so great an act of self-renunciation and charity—an act which bestows on him a resemblance to his divine Master, who said: “Greater love than this no man hath, to lay down his life for his people.” Let us not presume to pity him, for he has chosen “the better part.”

May his humility pardon us the pain we shall cause him by publishing, contrary to his express prohibition, this recent episode of his life!

PIUS THE NINTH.

In the afternoon of Thursday, February 7, our Holy Father, Pope Pius IX., died.

In his person passes away one who to two hundred millions of spiritual subjects was the greatest figure of the age, and who to all the rest of the world, if not the greatest, was certainly the most conspicuous. The history of the last thirty years—that larger history that takes within its scope the whole human family rather than this or that nationality or people—will in after-times centre around him. It will be seen that he has had a hand in shaping it, though to-day it may seem that that hand was brushed rudely aside or lifted only in impotent menace against the irresistible movements and the natural aspirations of the age. Time is a great healer and revealer of truth; and time will deal gently and justly with the memory of Pius IX. When the smoke of the long battle that has been raging in Europe, and more or less over all the world, during the last half-century, shall have finally cleared away, and men’s eyes be better prepared to regard all things honestly, truth, now obscured and hidden, will come to light, and the persistent action, misnamed reaction, of Pius IX. will appear to have been the truest wisdom and the soundest policy.

The field, of which this wonderful life is the central figure, is so vast, its lights and shadows so changing, its surface so diversified, and the events with which it is crowded are so many and so great, that one shrinks from attempting to picture it even faintly. Yet we cannot, even with the brief time allowed us, permit the Holy Father to go to his grave without a tribute of admiration and respect for his memory, however inadequate that tribute may be. Into the minute details of his life we do not purpose here to enter. These are already sufficiently well known, and there are ample sources of information from which to gather them. We purpose rather passing a rapid glance over the most prominent events that mark the career of the Pope, that give it its significance and make of it one of the most remarkable in history.

Whoever attempts to deal with Pius IX., with a view to what the man was, what he achieved, what he failed to achieve, the meaning, the purport, and the influence of his life, must necessarily regard him in a twofold aspect: first, as a temporal prince, a man occupied with human and secular affairs; secondly, as the supreme head of the Catholic Church, the vicar of Christ on earth, and the father of the faithful. As the one his life was a failure, outwardly at least. He has gone to his grave shorn of all his earthly possessions and dignities; and his successor will enter into office much as the first pontiff entered, with no authority save that bequeathed him by his divine Master. As the second—as supreme pastor of the church—Pius IX. yields to none of his illustrious predecessors in point of moral and real dignity and grandeur. This is the strange and significant contrast in the man’s life: the decadence and utter loss of the temporal power and principality of the church under his reign, with a contrary deepening and strengthening of the bonds that bind him to the faithful as their spiritual father and guide. In both these aspects we shall look at him: as a prince who failed in much that he attempted, and as a spiritual ruler who grew stronger by his very losses; under whom the church has marvellously, almost miraculously, developed; and who leaves it to-day in a spiritually stronger condition than perhaps it has ever been in. As a temporal sovereign there may have been greater popes than he; as a spiritual, few, if any, have surpassed him. And much, very much of the growth of the church within the period of his troubled reign is undoubtedly to be attributed to the personal influence of the pontiff, to his own high example of virtue and burning zeal, and to the keen eye he had for the church’s truest interests and welfare.

He was ushered into a revolutionary epoch, in a time when disaster was heaped upon the church and on civil society. Lacordaire says of himself: “I was born on the wild and stormy morning of this nineteenth century.” The same is true of him who became Pius IX. He was born at Sinigaglia, May 13, 1792, while Louis XVI. and Marie Antoinette were prisoners and waiting for the scaffold to release them from their woes. Napoleon I. had not yet arisen. The United States had not much more than come into being. Joseph II. ruled and reigned in Austria. France was in the hands of the progeny of Voltaire. Sardinia did not exist. Catholic Ireland did not exist politically. Australia was almost an unknown land. It was a period of moral earthquakes. The progeny of Voltaire were very active in the propagation of their doctrines; and Italy, which for centuries had been the battle-ground of kings and the theatre of petty rival factions, offered an inviting soil for the evil seed. In 1793 the heads were struck off from Louis and his queen; the Goddess of Reason was enthroned in Notre Dame; and the reign of “liberty, fraternity, equality” began and ended with—“death.”

Then came that grim child of the Revolution, Napoleon, and changed everything. He had an eye to religion, and he wanted a sort of tame pope whom he might use as a puppet. Italy felt his iron heel, and things went from bad to worse there. It saw the pope, with others of its treasures, carried off by this rough-and-ready conqueror. In 1805 this same conqueror had himself crowned “King of Italy”—king of a kingdom which did not exist, save as a pillage-ground for whoever chose to enter. In 1808 the Papal States were “irrevocably” incorporated with the French Empire. So decreed the omnipotent conqueror. Where is his empire now? Where was it and where was he a few years afterwards? He was eating his heart out at St. Helena; his empire had vanished; and the pope whom he had captured and imprisoned was back in Rome.

ROME PREPARED FOR REVOLUTION.

All this time the young Giovanni Mastaï-Ferretti was pursuing his studies as conveniently as he could under such circumstances. We do not recall these events in the earlier life of the boy idly, but with a very distinct purpose: to show that when in 1846 Pius IX. was elevated to the Papacy, and to the guardianship of the church’s temporalities, he stepped into no bed of roses. He stepped, on the contrary, into a very hot-bed of revolution—a revolution that, with less or more of secrecy, had overspread Europe, and that found its most convenient as well as its most necessary centre of attack in Rome and in the Papal States. Italy had long been the prey of Europe. The people had suffered terribly from foreign invasions. They suffered almost equally from home intrigues and jealousies. With all this the popes had nothing to do. It was simply a repetition of the history of the Italian peninsula from the disruption of the Roman Empire down. The outer barbarians were always knocking at her gates and trampling on her soil, invited there by native quarrels.

It is necessary to bear these things well in mind, in order to judge rightly of the difficulties against which Pius IX. had to contend. He was elected to an impoverished and disturbed principality, to a centre of revolution in an era of revolution. All Italy groaned with trouble. The people were ripe for any mad-cap scheme which should profess to better their condition. There was revolution in the air, all around them, all over the world. There were burning ideas afloat of people’s rights, and people’s wrongs, and people’s futures. Schemes of regeneration for the human race were abundant as the schemers; and some of these were very keen, far-sighted, and resolute men. Mazzini was one of them. His policy was simple enough, and it is the policy of all his followers to-day: For the people to rule you must first destroy the rulers—kings; before destroying the kings, who (in Europe at least) are the representatives of authority, you must destroy the priests who preach submission to lawful authority. Death to the priests! death to the kings! and then, long live the people!

That, we believe, is a fair presentation of the Mazzini programme for the regeneration of Italy and of the rest of the world. It has its fascinations for empty minds and empty stomachs, and the masses of the people, particularly of the Italians, just about the time of which we write had both empty minds and empty stomachs. The people of the Papal States, in common with the people of all the other Italian States, and, indeed, of states generally, were not in the happiest condition possible. Wars and foreign invasions and constant turmoil from day to day are not the best agents of good government. So Pius IX. came to an uneasy throne.

PIUS IX. AS A POLITICAL REFORMER.

The cry of the Roman people, of the whole Italian people, as of all people just then, was for reform. They wanted a share in the government; and there was no harm in that. The new pontiff began his reign by at once setting about practical reform. His scheme was excellent. The details of it must be found elsewhere. Practically it amounted to letting the people have a just and rational share in the government. It was not universal suffrage. But the Papal States were not the United States; and there are intelligent and patriotic men in the United States even who begin to doubt about the actual efficacy of universal suffrage as a panacea for all political or social evils. It is not long since Mr. Disraeli laid down the daring doctrine in the English House of Commons that universal suffrage was not a natural right of man, to which doctrine nobody seemed to object. The Pope, then, set earnestly and practically to work at every kind of reform. He set on foot a scheme of government which should admit the laity to their lawful place in civic functions. He looked to the laws of commerce, which were in a very bad state. He struck at vicious monopolies, in return for which the monopolists struck viciously at him. He was very careful about the finances, his treasury being low indeed, or rather non-existent. He advised the people, who, under the impulse of a steady conspiracy, seized every opportunity at the beginning of his reign of getting up festivals in his honor, to spend their money at home, or hoard it for an evil hour, or devote it to some charitable or educational purpose. He was clement to political offences. He was kind and charitable to the oppressed Jews of Rome, and removed their civil disabilities before England thought of doing so.

All this is matter of fact, beyond question or dispute. It was recognized by the outer world. All the crowned heads of Europe, with the exception of Austria and the Italian principalities, who found themselves in a position of painful contrast, sent their hearty congratulations to the Pope; and the voice of New York—non-Catholic New York—joined in with them. The Pope was, for the time being at least, the most popular man in the world as well as in Italy. And he deserved his popularity, for he was real and resolute in what he attempted.

WHY HE FAILED AS A REFORMER.

How, then, came the sad sequel? Why did all this fail? Pius IX. looked even beyond the Papal States in his political schemes. He wished for a united Italy. He was a true Italian. He proposed a confederation of the Italian States, which, without infringing on any people’s rights, should constitute one Italy, show a united front to the foreigner, and remove all excuse for foreign interference. Why was this, too, a failure?

Because it was intended that it should be a failure. Because the men who used the clamor for reform as an agitating force among the people wanted nothing so little as actual reform, least of all in the prince of the church. Good government was what most they feared; for good government makes, as far as government can make, people happy and well off and reconciled to order. But order and contentment among the people were precisely what Mazzini least desired.

Pius IX. was in heart and soul and act a reformer of reformers. As a temporal ruler he desired nothing in this world so much as the welfare and happiness of his people, and he took all honest means to bring about that happiness and welfare. But he was met at the outset by a strong and wide-spread conspiracy—a conspiracy that had existed long before his time, that had laid its plans and arranged its mode of action, and that was ready to do any diabolical deed in order to carry its purpose through. The very willingness of the Pope to concede reforms helped it. It took him up and petted and played with him. The clubs that roamed the streets and shouted themselves hoarse with _Viva Pio Nono!_ and _Viva Pio Nono solo!_ were instruments of the conspirators. The offices which the Pope threw open to the laity were seized upon by conspirators. His guards and soldiers were corrupted and led by corrupt officers and generals. Some of the clergy even felt the contamination. Ministry after ministry was tried and changed, and only succeeded in exasperating the minds of the people, as it was intended they should. The Pope had faith in human nature, and could not believe but that the honest measures which he devised for the benefit of his subjects would be honestly accepted by them. Although he knew of the conspiracy against his throne and against society, perhaps he scarcely realized its depth and intensity. The horrible assassination of De Rossi undeceived him, and the reformer and gentle prince had to fly for his life and in disguise from his own subjects.

TRIUMPH OF THE REVOLUTION.

Not two years of his reign have passed, and the Pope is already an exile at Gaeta. Pandemonium reigned in Rome. It was not the secret societies alone who brought all this about. They were aided by some, at least, of the crowned heads of Europe; and Palmerston, as infamous a politician as ever conspired against the right, was hand and glove with them, ably seconded by Gladstone, whose recent attack on the Pope cannot have surprised those who remembered his political career. Meanwhile Piedmont was creeping to the front in Italy, and though at first Mazzini was as thoroughly opposed to Charles Albert as to the Pope and the priests, the conviction grew upon the conspirators that kings might sometimes be utilized as well as killed, and that Italy might, for the time being at least, be united under the Sardinian. This conviction only came slowly, and there was a man at the head of affairs in Piedmont who was keen in reading the signs of the times, and who never missed a chance. Cavour utilized the secret societies, and the secret societies utilized Cavour. In like manner Louis Napoleon, then coming to the front in France, utilized, and was in turn utilized by, them. Palmerston, Cavour, Louis Napoleon, a dangerous and powerful triad, were with the conspirators, while Austria blundered on with characteristic stupidity, actually courting the fate which has since overtaken it.

It may be said that we concede too much power to the secret societies. Who and what are they after all? A handful of men working in the dark, led by crack-brained enthusiasts who write inflammatory letters and publish silly pamphlets at safe distances from the scene of action. They are more than this, however. They are well organized, and they trade on real wrongs and disaffection too well grounded. Certainly, in the earlier period of the Pope’s reign men were far from being, as a whole, well governed in Europe. They were not at rest; they had not been at rest from the beginning of the century. Reforms from their rulers came very slowly and grudgingly. The conspirators possessed all the daring of adventurers, and spread out a political _El Dorado_ glittering before the hungry eyes of bitter and disappointed men. In such a state of affairs the wildest chimeras seem possible to the common mind, and in this lies the real strength of secret societies, which find their growth cramped only where men are freest and best off, as among ourselves.

A fair idea of what the reign of “the people” meant may be gathered from the state of Rome while the pontiff was in exile at Gaeta. It was cousin-german to the reign of the _Commune_ in Paris in more recent days. And for this the Pope was driven from his own city. These were the reformers who could not be satisfied with the Holy Father’s rational measures of real reform. These were the “heroes” honored by England, by the United States, by all the enlightened and advanced men of all lands. It was for opposing and condemning these that Pius IX. is regarded by enlightened non-Catholics as a reactionist of the worst type, a foe to progress, an enemy to popular liberties. A government of assassins was preferred by the world, or at least by a very large portion of it, to the mild and beneficent sway of Pius IX. For condemning cut-throats he is against the spirit of the age; and for refusing to honor men like Mazzini and Garibaldi—men who openly professed and caused to be practised murder as a necessary political instrument—he is condemned as one who refused to recognize the progressive spirit of the times in which we live.

THE POPE AND LOUIS NAPOLEON.

While the Pope was at Gaeta, and while Rome was in the hands of what, without fear of contradiction, may be described as the vilest of vile rabbles, the baleful star of Louis Napoleon was rising over France. He was false from the very beginning to the Pope, and the Pope understood him. But he was tricky and adroit. He had the born conspirator’s liking for mystery and secrecy and intrigue. He seemed by nature incapacitated to speak and act openly. He never was a friend to the Pope. By means that are already known and stamped in history he came to the lead of what, in spite of all vicissitudes and awful changes, remained at heart a Catholic nation. The trickster realized his position and trimmed his sails accordingly. He cared nothing for the Pope or for Catholicity; but the French people did. Moreover, the protection of the Pope and French predominance in Italy was a part of the Napoleonic legend, and likely to advance his own cause. French cannon, then, and French bayonets cleared the way for the return of the Pope to Rome. Not France, Catholic France alone, but all the world, had been shocked at the awful excesses perpetrated by the revolutionists in Rome, as was the case earlier still at the outbreak of the first French Revolution. France only anticipated Europe in its action by staying the reign of blood.

Louis Napoleon thenceforth assumed the character of protector of the interests of the Holy See. He was the persistent enemy of those interests. He was altogether opposed to ecclesiastical rule in an ecclesiastical state. This friend and protector of the Pope labored all his political life, and used the great influence of a Catholic nation, to bring about what has since been consummated: the robbery of the States of the Church, the invasion of the Holy See, the Piedmontese ascendency in Italy, and the reducing of the head of the Catholic Church to a political cipher in his own states. Yet intelligent men are surprised at the ingratitude displayed by Pius IX. towards Louis Napoleon! Pius IX. loved France; he despised the dishonest trickster to whose hands the fate of so noble a nation was for a time committed. He despised him, for he knew him with that instinctive knowledge by which all honest and open natures detect duplicity and fraud, under whatever smiling guise they may appear. Some good qualities the man may have had. Open honesty was not one of them. Some regard for the Catholic religion he may have had. He never allowed it to interfere with his schemes or with the schemes of those of whom after all he was a tool, never a master. Louis Napoleon knew perfectly well that the Pope understood him and his schemes.

THE POPE AGAIN AS A REFORMER.

Pius IX. returned to Rome in 1850. He immediately set to work to repair the losses which his subjects had sustained during his absence. He proceeded in his work of reform. Within seven years he succeeded in clearing off the enormous debt with which the country had been saddled. The French commission, of which M. Thiers was a member, appointed to examine and report on the political wisdom and practical value of the institutions granted to his states by Pius IX., reported to the Republican Government (1849):

“By a large majority your commission declares that it sees in the _motu proprio_ (the Pope’s decree reorganizing the government of the Pontifical States) a first boon of such real value that nothing but unjust pretensions could overlook its importance.... We say that it grants all desirable provincial and municipal liberties. As to political liberties, consisting in the power of deciding on the public business of a country in one of the two assemblies and in union with the executive—as in England, for instance—it is very true that the _motu proprio_ does not grant this sort of political liberty, or only grants it in the rudimentary form of a council without deliberative voice.

“... That on this point he (the Pope) should have chosen to be prudent, that after his recent experience he should have preferred not to reopen a career of agitation among a people who have shown themselves so unprepared for parliamentary liberty, we do not know that we have either the right or the cause to deem blameworthy.”

And Palmerston, whose testimony is surely as unbiassed as that of Thiers, said of the same act in 1856:

“We all know that, on his restoration to his states in 1849, the Pope published an ordinance called _motu proprio_, by which he declared his intentions to bestow institutions, not indeed on the large proportions of a constitutional government, but based, nevertheless, on popular election, and which, if they had only been carried out, must have given his subjects such satisfaction as to render unnecessary the intervention of a foreign army.”

We have gone into this matter of reform and home government in the Papal States at some length, because it is precisely on this ground of all others that the temporal power of the popes is attacked. Priests are unfit to rule, it is said; their business is with the souls of men, to tend to spiritual wants. They should have no concern with the things of this world. This may be all very well, and is a very convenient way of disposing of rights and properties which do not belong to us. If the invasion of the Papal States and their occupation by a hostile power is justified on the ground that the Pope was a priest, and, _because_ a priest, unfit to rule his subjects, that at least is intelligible. We have seen, however, that Pius IX. was in heart and in act a wise and just ruler, who aimed at doing nothing but good, and who did nothing but good, to his people, but who was steadily prevented from doing all the good he wished and attempted to do by conspiracy at home and abroad. Had he been left alone to work out the constitution he framed, to carry through the reforms he proposed and entered upon, it is beyond question that the States of the Church would have been more happily governed and more peacefully ordered than any states in the world. But he was prevented from ruling as he wished as well by the opposition of governments, such as those of Palmerston, Cavour, and Louis Napoleon, as by the organized conspiracy within his own domains—a conspiracy that sprang from causes with which he had had nothing to do, which assailed him because by his very position he was the symbol and type and fountain-head of all earthly order, and which would not be reconciled to good. He trod on volcanic ground from the beginning. All that a good man could do to dissipate the evil elements he did. But the conspiracy abroad and the conspiracy at home were too much for him. Indeed, the existence of the Papacy as a temporal power always depended on the sense of right and the good-will of men. There have been a few fighting popes in other days; but as a matter of fact the Papacy has always been a power built essentially on peace; and if powerful enemies insisted on invading it, it was always open to them. The pope, like the Master whose vicar he is, is “the prince of peace.”

It is needless here to enter into the details of the intrigues and events that led up to the invasion of the Papal States, and to their forced blending into what is called united Italy. We cannot here go into the question as to when invasion is necessary and justifiable. Common sense, however, is a sufficient guide to the doctrine that no invasion of another’s territory or property is justifiable or necessary, unless the holder of that property is incapable; unless that property has been and is being grossly abused; unless those who live on that property invite the invasion on just grounds; and unless the invader can guarantee a better holding and guardianship of the property, a reform in its administration, a sacred regard for rights that are sacred. If any man can show us that any one of these conditions was fulfilled by the Sardinian invasion of the Papal States, we are open to conviction. Nor in this matter are we taking the rights and property of the church as something apart from ordinary rights and property, though they are so. We base our whole opposition to this most infamous usurpation and robbery on known and accepted natural rights common to all property and holders of property. It is useless to tell Europe that it solemnly sanctioned a sacrilege. Europe has forgotten the meaning of the word sacrilege. It has still some sense of what robbery and wrong mean, though constant practice in robbery and wrong and nefarious proceedings has so blunted its moral sense that it can always readily connive at the wrong, especially when the wrong is done to the Catholic Church.

We invite all honest men to contrast the condition of the Papal States to-day, under the present Italian _régime_, with their condition under the Papal _régime_. They cannot show that that condition is bettered. All Italy is in a chronic state of legal and secret terrorism. There was no terrorism under Pius IX. The people groan under taxes such as in their worst days they never had to sustain. Parliamentary representation and freedom of election in Italy is a farce. As for the social and moral effects of the invasion, they have been dwelt upon so often and are so patent that they need no mention here. Pius IX. failed as a political leader and ruler, not because he was not a wise and just and benevolent ruler, but because, as we said, it was intended that he should fail. The combinations against him were too powerful. The wonder is that he withstood them so long. But history will faithfully record that the last ruler—the last, at least, as things are at present—of the temporalities of the church was the best and most just prince in Europe, and the one who cared most for the material and moral advance of his people.

PIUS IX. AS HEAD OF THE CHURCH.

So much for one aspect of the Pope’s life and character. It is a sad and a saddening one—the one in which he is most bitterly and unjustly assailed. Thus far the story has been one of a long and disastrous failure. We turn now to look at him in his greater character as Pontiff and High-Priest of the Catholic Church

Here the heart lifts, the eyes grow dim, the pen falters, as we glance across the ocean and see the meek old man who has done so much for the church, who has served her so faithfully, who has given her so high and holy an example of undaunted faith, of burning zeal, of universal charity, of meekness and long-suffering, laid out at last on the bier to which the eyes of all the world turn in sorrowing sympathy and respect. In this is his true triumph. In the midst of universal disaster the great and mighty church, which was entrusted to him in a condition that was truly deplorable, so far as its existence in the various states of the world went, has gathered together its strength, has renewed its youth like the eagle, has flown abroad on the wings of the wind to the uttermost parts of the earth. In 1846 how stood the church in Europe? In England the Ecclesiastical Titles Bill had not yet been passed. The Act of Catholic Emancipation had only been granted in 1829. Ireland was still a political nonentity. Catholicity in France was suffering under the worst features of the Napoleonic Code. In Austria it was strangled by Josephism. In all places it was under a ban. In the United States and Australia it was still almost a stranger.

WONDERFUL GROWTH OF THE CHURCH.

But a new spirit was awakening among men. The American Revolution was productive of important results to mankind. The French Revolution, which followed, gave a startling impetus to these. All over the world men were rising to a new sense of their natural rights. The awakening found expression in deplorable and revolting excesses here and there, but there were some right principles under the mass of extravagances and chimeras afloat. These principles good, earnest Catholics hastened to grasp and utilize. They beat the progeny of Voltaire, they beat the liberal philosophers, the apostles of liberty, equality, and fraternity, with their own weapons. They gave the right and lawful meaning to those words and would not surrender their claims. Thus uprose O’Connell, who gave the cue and the lead to so many other illustrious champions of civil and religious liberty. O’Connell roared and thundered in England, and made himself heard over the world. Montalembert and Lacordaire and the unfortunate De Lamennais took up the great Irish leader’s cry in France. Görres sharpened his pen in Germany. Balmes arose in Spain. Brownson was won over in the United States. Louis Veuillot found the antidote to his infidel poison, and the school of Voltaire found one of their doughtiest warriors heart and soul in the Catholic ranks. A crowd of men, equally illustrious or nearly so, sprang up and around these leaders. Catholic laymen took heart, entered zealously into good works and political life, and many a one lent his powerful pen and voice to the service of the church, in places often where the priest could not well enter. Catholicity assumed, if we may so say, a more manly and aggressive tone. The children of Voltaire were wont to laugh at it as a thing of cassocks and sacristans. They were astonished to find the young, the enthusiastic, the noble entering on what was veritably a new crusade, and defending their faith courageously and ably wherever they found it attacked. What Pius IX. had attempted in his temporal dominions had actually and, as it were, spontaneously come to pass in the spiritual domain. The laity assumed their lawful place in the life of the church. The Holy Father encouraged them in every way possible; and his aged eyes have been gladdened by witnessing in all lands a new army of defenders of the faith growing up and disciplined, and daily increasing in numbers, strength, and usefulness.

He saw the faith in France and in the German states revive wonderfully. Able and zealous bishops were appointed; the education of the clergy, on which he always insisted with especial vehemence, was very carefully cultivated. Bands of missionaries followed the newly-opened rivers of commerce and carried the faith with them to new lands. The Irish famine of 1846–1847 sent out a missionary nation to the United States, to Australia, to England itself. Priests went with them, or followed them, and in time grew up among them. While Sardinia was confiscating church property, destroying monasteries and institutions of learning, and turning priests and monks out of doors, England and her possessions and the United States were beginning to receive them, and, in accordance with the principles of their government, letting them do their own work in their own way.

And so the church has gone on developing with the greatest impetus in the most unpromising soil. Already men say wonderingly that it is strongest and best off in Protestant lands. Pius IX. had the happiness of creating the hierarchy in England, in the United States, and in Australia, in the British possessions—wherever the faith is to-day reputed to be in the most flourishing condition. But all this has not come about by accident. There was a very active, keen, and observant man at the head of affairs. It is wonderful how the Pope, with the troubles that were for ever pressing upon him regarding the affairs of the Papal States, could have found time to attend to those wider concerns of the universal church. But if he loved Rome and its people with a love that was truly paternal, his first care was always for the church of which he was the guardian. His heart was in every work and enterprise for the advancement of the faith. His eye was all-seeing. His prayers were unceasing.

GREAT EVENTS OF THE PONTIFICATE.

The definition of two great dogmas marks the pontificate of Pius IX. and will make it memorable for ever in the annals of the church: the dogma of the Immaculate Conception of the Blessed Virgin Mother, and of the Papal Infallibility. The last was a death-blow to schism and heresy. We do not mean that schism and heresy will die out because of it. But it roots them out of their holes; and henceforth they will know that over them hangs a voice, not often used, indeed, or idly, but which, once it has uttered its last and final and solemn decision, is irrevocable. The scenes that Rome witnessed in its last declining days as the city of the popes will dwell in the memory of men. The bishops of all the earth, in numbers unprecedented, flocking to what was vainly thought to be the rocking chair of Peter, was perhaps one of the most striking testimonies to a scoffing and unbelieving age of the immense vitality of the faith, of the vastness, the splendor, and renown of the Catholic Church. A more solemn testimony still was the joyful acceptance by the faithful of the dogma of Papal Infallibility, which, it was thought by those who knew not the Catholic faith, would rend the church asunder. The canonization of the martyrs of Japan, the thronging of the bishops and faithful to Rome on the occasion of the various jubilees, and the crowning event of last year, when all the Catholic world assisted at the celebration of the fiftieth episcopal jubilee of Pius IX., are other events that mark this great pontificate with significance and splendor. These last were as much personal tributes to the man as of respect to the supreme head of the church, and they showed, if aught were needed to show, that Pius, stripped of his dominions, bereft of his possessions, imprisoned in the Vatican, lived and reigned as, perhaps, no other pope lived and reigned in the hearts, not of a small section of his people, but of all the great church that covers the earth.

THE POPE’S PERSONAL CHARACTER.

One feature of all others marks the character of Pius IX. Personally the meekest and most yielding of men, he was always filled with the sense of his position and his sacred charge. We do not mean that as Pope he was proud, overbearing, intolerant. He was anything but that. But in all that touched the faith and the sacred prerogatives that had been placed in his pure hands he was simply inflexible. He would not yield a jot of them. He would not compromise. He would not temporize. A singularly open, honest, and frank character, ready to trust all men, he seemed to scent out danger from afar off when it threatened what was dearer to him than life—life was always a small matter in his eyes—the chair of Peter and the faith of Christ. The utterances of his bulls and encyclical letters, the speeches that he delivered, sometimes off-hand, on important subjects, bear all one tone, never contradict one another. They are resolute and bold and breathe authority throughout. He saw from the first the movement of the age, and that it was moving in a false direction. The movement was, in one word, towards a complete rejection of divine authority, of divine revelation, and consequently of the church as a divine institution, and of all authority save such as men choose to set up for themselves. From his first papal allocution to the Syllabus of Errors to be condemned, he always struck at this spirit, and this spirit recognized its vigilant foe and master. Hence the rage with which his utterances were received in the courts of Europe and by the infidel press. But he never swerved from his course. He was never weary of condemning what he knew to be wrong; and the state of public opinion to-day regarding rights that were once held as sacred even by large and powerful non-Catholic bodies is a sufficient vindication, if any were needed, of the pontiff’s course. Rights, natural and supernatural, are everywhere invaded. The cloister is desecrated. The home is threatened with disruption by divorce and an easy marriage that is no marriage. Innocent infants are no longer consecrated to God. “Free” thought finds its issue in “free” religion, and free religion means no religion. The sense of right has yielded to the sense of force. Education is handed over to infidels. This is the larger growth of the conspiracy that swept away the States of the Church only by way of a beginning to a wider sweeping that was to desolate the earth.

All this was what Pius IX. felt coming on and resisted to his last breath. He guarded the church well, and, if human judgment be allowed to follow him, he goes before his divine Master with a clean heart and untroubled conscience, having done his work thoroughly. We shall miss that majestic figure from our busy scene. We shall miss the grand old man seated prophet-like on the now bare and barren rock of Peter, the storms of the earth roaring around and threatening to overwhelm him, and he calm and unmoved, his head lifted above them clear and lovely in the white light of heaven. We shall miss the face that we all know as we know and cherish the picture of a father: with its large, bright eyes, its sweet lips, and that smile that could only come from a heart free from guile and clear from constant communings with heaven. Set the men of the age beside him, and see how they dwarf and dwindle away. Set Cavour, Louis Napoleon, Bismarck, Thiers, Palmerston, those known as the greatest among the leaders of men, by Pius IX., and what a contrast! The story of the struggle that he waged is told in this. Ages stamp themselves in the men they deify. In brutal, debased, but “civilized” pagan Rome statues were set up to men like Nero and Domitian and Claudius and Diocletian; and these were the gods of the degenerate Romans. The gods of to-day, the idols of the people, are the men we have mentioned above and the lower brood of the Mazzinis, Garibaldis, Victor Emanuels, Gambettas. To the worshippers of these heroes Pius IX. was a despot and a ruler of a brood of despots, an enemy of the human race. The gown of the cleric has become the garb of ignominy and darkness; the blood-red cap of the revolutionist the beacon of liberty and light. The intellectual stream of Voltaire and the Voltairists, the men of “science” of to-day, filters down into the mud and blood of the rabble. These dainty gentlemen prepare the dynamite, leaving others more ignorant to fire it. This is the progress that Pius IX. stigmatized, and these the lights of the age whom he condemned. But his work has been effectual. He guarded the vineyard of the Lord. He made straight its paths. He weeded it well and watered it, if not with his heart’s blood, with the labors and sufferings of a long life that never knew rest or thought but of good to the whole human race. He has left to the world the example of a life of unspotted virtue, of large and wise charity, of undaunted courage and zeal, of meekness and childlike simplicity. He goes to his grave amid the tears and benedictions of the mightiest body on earth, followed by the sorrowing sympathy of all who esteem piety, honor integrity, and admire courage.

NEW PUBLICATIONS.

MORNING OFFICES OF PALM SUNDAY, HOLY THURSDAY, AND GOOD FRIDAY. Together with a Magnificat for Holy Saturday and a few selections for the Tenebræ Function. Arranged and edited by Edwin F. MacGonigle, St. Charles’ Seminary, Overbrook, Pa.

The publication of this work is another comforting evidence of the reality of the revival of a better taste amongst church musicians, and of the demand of church people for a style of music at the divine offices which, at least, shall not outrage every sentiment of religious reverence and respect which they have for the house of God.

Although giving but few selections from the vast number of sentences, anthems, etc., enjoined to be sung during the great week, the choice made proves that there is a more general knowledge of the Rubrics than has hitherto prevailed amongst church musicians, and a consequent desire to produce the offices of the church in their entirety. It will also serve a purpose—to us a very desirable one—which is to turn the attention of choir-masters and organists to the _sanctioned chant melodies_ for the Holy-Week services, which are, in our judgment, after long experience, quite unequalled by any musical melodies that were ever written.

We fail to see any possible reason for a harmonized _morceau de musique_ to take the place of the cantor’s chanting of the _Recordare_ at the _Tenebræ_ function, nor can we discover any special merit in the composition itself. The works of Sig. Capocci seem to us to be better suited for exhibition at one of our “Vesper Series” concerts at Chickering and other halls than for practical use _in choro_ before an altar—unless, indeed, the hearing of a musical concert is to be the proper and most edifying manner of satisfying the precept of hearing Mass devoutly, or of piously assisting at Vespers and Benediction.

Can the editor give any authority for the whining _Fa_# in the first member of the cadence of the _Benedictus_, No. 1, here treated as _Do_#? Sig. Capocci may have so written it; but then he ought to have known better.

Those who use concerted music for their church services, and who possess capable singers, will no doubt be pleased to add this publication to their collection of “church music.”

A VISIT TO THE ROMAN CATACOMBS. By Rev. J. Spencer Northcote, D.D., canon of Birmingham. London: Burns and Oates. 1877. (For sale by The Catholic Publication Society Co.)

This book is another proof of the untiring attention that Canon Northcote continues to devote to the object of his special studies—the Roman Catacombs, to which, as he modestly tells us, he first applied himself in 1846. The length of time that he has devoted to the subject, his diligence, scholarship, and perfect orthodoxy, make him the standard authority among English-speaking Catholics on all matters connected with those wonderful subterranean cemeteries which are inexhaustible mines of treasure to students of Christian antiquities, and points of attraction to all really learned, as well as to some ignorant and conceited, visitors to Rome. The traveller to the Tiber and the Seven Hills who does not visit the Catacombs has not seen one of the three Romes, and returns with a very inadequate knowledge of the Eternal City. A study of the Roman Catacombs is as necessary to enable one to understand the manners and customs of the early Christians, and to appreciate the various stages of the doctrines and practices of the church from apostolic times to the period that followed the triumph of religion under Constantine, and its splendid development of ritual and of ceremonial during the middle ages, as the careful examination of the deeply-planted roots of a mighty oak is wanted to show the lover of nature how so noble a tree grows up the monarch of the forest, “and shooteth out great branches, so that the birds of the air may lodge under the shadow of it” (Mark iv. 32).

We are glad to learn from the preface of this short but interesting and instructive _Visit to the Roman Catacombs_ that a second and enlarged edition of the _Roma Sotteranea_ of the same author, published in conjunction with Rev. W. R. Brownlow in 1869, and which will contain the substance of De Rossi’s recently-issued third volume, is in preparation. We shall heartily welcome it. The present little book contains a great amount of information in a convenient, attractive, and well-written form.

MATERIALISM: A Lecture by P. J. Smyth, M.P., M.R.I.A., Chev. Leg. d’Hon. Dublin: Joseph Dollard. 1877.

This is a strong and outspoken defence of Christianity by a layman from the lecture platform against the attacks of materialism on religion as addressed to popular assemblies under the cloak of science. The lecture reaffirms the primitive convictions of the soul and the common consent of mankind against the unsupported assertions of the modern materialist school. The Irish people have heroically withstood the assaults made against their religious faith—assaults more cruel and persistent than have been even charged upon the Spanish Inquisition—and that, too, from a nation which boasts of being the champion of religious liberty. It is a cheering sign to see that they are fully able to defend their faith with personal intelligent conviction against the materialism of the demagogues of science. Ireland has a class of thoroughly-educated laymen, and when religion is invaded from every quarter, as it is in our day, it is time that men who have deep and strong religious feelings should speak out in words which are fraught with the power of intelligent conviction and in tones which will make themselves heard. Mr. Smyth’s lecture is solid, manly, and eloquent, and we hope to hear from him again and often.

RECORDS OF A QUIET LIFE. By Augustus J. C. Hare, author of _Walks in Rome_, etc. Revised for American readers by William L. Gage. Boston: Roberts Brothers. 1876.

The author of this volume, in presenting the picture of the Hare family, labored under the impression that he was revealing a model life to the public. Confined to non-Catholics, perhaps he and the writer of the American preface were not mistaken, and this class of readers will derive profit from its perusal. The Hares were Anglican clergymen, in charge of parishes, and with families. The volume furnishes pictures of the performance of their parochial duties, the life of their family circles, and the characteristics of their members. The Hares were above the common run of men of their class in intellectual gifts and scholarly attainments. They appear to have done their best to fulfil the duties of their position with the incoherent fragments of Christian truth which their sect teaches. A Catholic feels after reading this volume as if he had been passing through a picture-gallery of second-class artists. Our counsel to non-Catholic readers is: read these _Records_, and then take up the _Life of the Curé of Ars_, or _The Inner Life of Père Lacordaire_, or _A Sister’s Story_, or _The Life of Madame Swetchine_, and you will understand, if not fully appreciate, our meaning.

IS THE HUMAN EYE CHANGING ITS FORM UNDER THE INFLUENCES OF MODERN EDUCATION? Edward G. Loring, M.D. New York. 1878.

This is a very clever _brochure_ upon a very vexed question—namely, does compulsory education of the young under certain bad hygienic and dietetic conditions produce ocular deformity, and is such deformity hereditary? Dr. Loring produces certain eminent German oculists who state that myopia (near-sightedness) is certainly hereditary. The doctor only partially agrees with the German _savants_ whom he cites, and believes that no organ having reached its highest state of perfection, as has the human eye, can be changed by hereditary transmission, unless under conditions that affect the human organism as a whole, and that it would take ages to accomplish this under the most favorable conditions. The doctor explains why educated Germans as a rule are myopic by stating that the German forcing system for children under fifteen is radically wrong, and, moreover, that Germans as a nation are not fond of out-door sports. He further argues that their manner of cooking and sanitary arrangements are bad; all which, under certain conditions, will tend to produce hereditary myopia. Americans, it is stated, exhibit in some respects an inclination to follow the German plan rather than adhere to the traditional educational system of our ancestors of the English race.

Children, the doctor argues, must not be pushed in their studies until after fifteen, at which period the danger from over-use of the eye is diminished; and it is thus that watchmakers, type-setters, and other artisans who continuously use their eyes upon minute objects have better sight than the studious professional man or laborious scientific worker. We may sum up the article in a few lines when we say that nothing good, either physical or mental, can accrue from forcing young minds beyond a certain extent, and that we have reached, possibly passed, the ultimum in our present system of education. Encourage, as far as possible, out-door sports, and let the heavy mental work be done after fourteen. Give our children air and light, lest harm be done to the race.

AN AMERICAN ALMANAC AND TREASURY OF FACTS, STATISTICAL, FINANCIAL, AND POLITICAL, FOR THE YEAR 1878. Edited by Ainsworth R. Spofford, Librarian of Congress. New York and Washington: The American News Company.

Few persons in this country are more competent to compile a volume such as this than the Librarian of Congress. Himself a practical bookseller, he brought years of the necessary experience to his aid. The results of this experience are manifest in the intelligently-arranged and trustworthy volume before us. It contains a vast amount of really useful information, on agriculture, politics, banks, finances, libraries, the census, chronology, commerce, the post-office, gold and silver coinage, education—in fact, on every practical subject about which persons need ready and accurate information. Its statistics can be relied on as trustworthy. It is preceded by a short “History of Almanacs,” in which Mr. Spofford enumerates several that have appeared of late years, though he has forgotten to mention the _Illustrated Catholic Family Almanac_, now in its tenth year. This, we presume, was an oversight; for, if we are not mistaken, it has been a guide to some of the statisticians in Washington with regard to the statistics of Catholic colleges and institutions of learning conducted by Catholics.

Footnotes

Footnote 1:

Macaulay.

Footnote 2:

_Marble Faun_, vol. ii. p. 129, Tauch. Ed.

Footnote 3:

John Dwight’s translation.

Footnote 4:

See _Sum_ of St. Thomas, i. 2, cviii.

Footnote 5:

Words of Pius IX.

Footnote 6:

Lutheran I am not; nor Zwinglian; still less Anabaptist. In short. I am one who believes in, honors, and respects the holy, true, and Catholic Church.

Footnote 7:

Childlike simplicity.

Footnote 8:

_The Jukes: A Study in Crime, Pauperism, Disease, and Heredity_, _etc._ By R. L. Dugdale. With an Introduction by Elisha Harris, M.D. New York: G. P. Putnam’s Sons.

Footnote 9:

THE CATHOLIC WORLD, June, 1876, “Hammond on the Nervous System.”

Footnote 10:

_Some Remarks on Crime-Cause._ Richard Vaux.

Footnote 11:

_St. Hedwige, Duchess of Silesia and Poland_. By F. Becker. Collection of Historical Portraits. No. VIII. Herder & Co., Freiburg in Breisgau and Strassburg. 1872.

Footnote 12:

Theodore, Archbishop of Canterbury.

Footnote 13:

Belatucadus was also the name of a divinity worshipped by the ancient Britons. A rock situated a little to the north of Belenus still retains the name of Tombalaine or Tombalène, formerly _Tumba Beleni_. Several strange legends linger about both these rocks. The ancient poem of _Brut_, of which a MS. copy is preserved in the archivium of Mount St. Michael, has the story of King Arthur, Sir Launcelot, and Elaine, and makes out the etymology of the northern rock to be Le Tombe (d’)Elaine.

Footnote 14:

These priestesses were in the habit of selling to the seafaring men who came to consult them arrows of pretended virtue in calming tempests, if thrown into the sea, during a storm, by one of the youngest sailors on board. In the ancient Druidic poem called _Ar Rannou_, or _The Series_, where the _Child_ says, “Sing me the number Nine,” the _Druid_ answers, “... Nine Korrigan with flowers in their hair, robed in white wool, dancing around the fountain in the light of the full moon.” (See De Villemarqué, _Barzaz Breiz_, p. 6.) Pomponius Mela designates as _Garrigena_ (evidently Korrigan Latinized) the “nine priestesses or sorceresses of the Armorican Isle of Sein.”

Footnote 15:

Monsieur de la Fruglaye mentions the existence, near to Morlaix, of a vast forest which has been submerged by the ocean. In a black and compact stratum, which is covered for the most part by a fine white sand, he found traces of very ancient and abundant vegetation: whole trees thrown in every direction—yews, oaks, large trunks, and green mosses. Beneath this layer the soil appeared to be that of meadows, with reeds and rushes, etc. Here all the plants were undisturbed and in a vertical position, and the roots of the ferns still had their downy coating. (See _Observations sur les origines du Mont St. Michel_. Maury.)

A similar, though gradual, sinking of the coast is going on on the western coast of France and England, also at Alexandria, Venice, Pola, and the coast of Dalmatia, besides other localities.

Footnote 16:

See _Itinéraire dans le Mont St. Michel_, par Edouard Le Héricher.

Footnote 17:

_Proceedings at the Tenth Annual Meeting of the Free-Religious Association, held in Boston, May 31 and June 1, 1877_. Boston: Published by the Free-Religious Association, 231 Washington Street. 1877.

Footnote 18:

Vide Moehler’s _Symbolism_.

Footnote 19:

_The Impeachment of Christianity_, p. 6.

Footnote 20:

Ibid. p. 1.

Footnote 21:

P. 26.

Footnote 22:

P. 23.

Footnote 23:

P. 29.

Footnote 24:

P. 28.

Footnote 25:

_Is Romanism Real Christianity?_ p. 14.

Footnote 26:

P. 22.

Footnote 27:

P. 28.

Footnote 28:

P. 28.

Footnote 29:

P. 29.

Footnote 30:

P. 30.

Footnote 31:

P. 33.

Footnote 32:

P. 34.

Footnote 33:

P. 40.

Footnote 34:

P. 42.

Footnote 35:

The fact of St. James having taken this journey has been generally considered indubitable, although Baronius held it as uncertain. Mariana, in his history, affirms that all written documents were destroyed in Spain, first by the persecution of Diocletian, and afterwards by the Moorish invasion and its attendant wars. The silence of ancient testimony is thus fully explained, and the learned Suarez, writing on the subject, says: “It matters little that the local histories of the time make no mention of this journey of St. James; for, besides that nothing happened in it so extraordinary or notorious that the renown thereof would necessarily spread abroad, Spain had at that period no writers careful to collect the facts of her history, and strangers would not be likely to know anything about it, especially as being of a religious nature, concerning which men would not trouble themselves at all.... If St. Luke had not left in writing the acts of St. Peter and St. Paul, many of their journeyings would be forgotten, or rest only upon such traditions as might be preserved by the churches they founded.”

Footnote 36:

Tome vi. _Aprilis_.

Footnote 37:

_In fest. Sancti Isidori, lect. 2a._

Footnote 38:

See the account as given by John de Beka in the _Chronicle of Utrecht_.

Footnote 39:

Datum Viterbii, XII. Kalend. Junii.

Footnote 40:

We published last month an article on the Indian question, based chiefly on the official reports to and of the Board of Indian Commissioners. We publish this month a second article on the same question by another writer, one who is personally familiar with the matter of which he treats, and whose observations and suggestions on so important a subject cannot fail to command attention.—ED. C. W.

Footnote 41:

Audax omnia perpeti, Gens humana ruit per vetitum nefas.

Footnote 42:

“Gentiles have often said before me that Mormonism is as good as any other religion, and that Mr. Joseph Smith ‘had as good a right to establish a church as Luther, Calvin, Fox, Wesley, or even bluff King Hal’” (_The City of the Saints_, by Richard F. Burton).

Footnote 43:

It was one of Mr. Finney’s doctrines that whenever we pray with sufficient faith, God, so to speak, is bound not only to answer the prayer, but to give us the precise thing we ask for; in other words, that we know better than God what is good for us. “There are men and women still alive and among us,” says Dr. Spring, “who remember the circumstances of the death of Mrs. Pierson, around whose lifeless body her husband assembled a company of _believers_, with the assurance that if they prayed in faith she would be restored to life. Their feelings were greatly excited, their impressions of their success peculiar and strong. They prayed, and prayed again, and prayed _in faith_. But they were disappointed. There was none to answer, neither was there any that regarded.” The italics are Dr. Spring’s.

Footnote 44:

_Remarkable Visions._ By Orson Pratt, one of the Twelve Apostles of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. Liverpool, 1848.

Footnote 45:

Mormon books contain representations of six plates of brass, inscribed with unknown figures, which are said to have been dug out of a mound in Pike County, Illinois, in 1843. Like those which Moroni is supposed to have revealed to Joseph Smith they are described as bell-shaped and fastened together by a ring. But the evidence that any such plates were ever found is not satisfactory, and the characters on the published pictures of them bear little or no resemblance to those which Joseph Smith presented to the world as a fac-simile of a part of the Book of Mormon.

Footnote 46:

Many suppose that Joseph Smith and his brother Hyrum fabricated plates of some basemetal and imposed them upon their credulous followers. But if they had gone to the trouble of doing this it is probable that they would have shown them to a number of people, and not confined the exhibition to a handful of their immediate associates. The mere fact that evidence as to the existence of any plates at all is so defective seems to us conclusive that there were none—not even forged ones.

Footnote 47:

“Revelation given to Joseph Smith, Jr., May, 1829, informing him of the alteration of the manuscript of the fore part of the Book of Mormon.”—_Covenants and Commandments_, sec. xxxvi.

Footnote 48:

Five thousand copies were printed, yet the first edition is excessively rare. The later editions differ a little from the original. The “third European edition,” which is now before us, was published at Liverpool in 1852.

Footnote 49:

Oliver Cowdery was expelled from the church some years later for “lying, counterfeiting, and immorality,” and died a miserable drunkard. Sidney Rigdon attempted to rule the church by revelation after the death of Joseph Smith, and, being “cut off” at the demand of Brigham Young, led away a small sect of seceders. Parley P. Pratt, having induced a married woman to become his polygamous wife, was killed by the outraged husband. Orson Pratt is still living, and one of the ablest of the Mormon leaders.

Footnote 50:

Although these lectures bear Smith’s name, it is understood that they were really written by Sidney Rigdon.

Footnote 51:

_Autobiography of Joseph Smith_, quoted by Stenhouse.

Footnote 52:

This is quoted by Capt. Burton, but he does not give his authority.

Footnote 53:

About the time of the invention of Mormonism Robert Owen’s communistic propaganda was making an extraordinary sensation in America. In his “Declaration of Mental Independence” at New Harmony, July 4, 1826, Owen declared that man had up to that hour been the slave of “a trinity of monstrous evils”—Irrational Religion, Property, and Marriage.

Footnote 54:

In the “Revelation on Celestial Marriage” Joseph Smith is styled “him who is anointed both as well for time and for all eternity; and that, too, most holy,” and it is added: “I have appointed unto my servant Joseph to hold this power in the last days, and there is never but one on the earth at a time on whom this power and the keys of this priesthood are conferred.” Hence a government by the quorum of apostles, in the Mormon idea, can never be anything but an interregnum. They believe that Heaven will not fail to send them a “prophet, seer, and revelator,” and, as Brigham succeeded Joseph, so they look for some one in the appointed time to succeed Brigham. _Uno avulso, non deficit alter_.

Footnote 55:

To avoid unpleasantness, the “Legislature of Deseret” annually re-enacts _en bloc_ the laws of the territorial legislature of Utah.

Footnote 56:

_The Mormon Prophet._ By Mrs. C. V. Waite. Cambridge. 1866.

Footnote 57:

Address by Brigham Young in the Salt Lake City Tabernacle. April 9, 1852, four months before the publication of Joseph’s “Revelation.”

Footnote 58:

“You believe that Adam was made of the dust of this earth. This I do not believe. I never did and I never want to, because I have come to understanding and banished from my mind all the baby stories my mother taught me when I was a child” (Sermon by Brigham Young, Oct. 23, 1853).

Footnote 59:

Joseph Smith professed to get this version by inspiration.

Footnote 60:

They made it over to him as trustee, retaining, however, the use of it. Thus an additional tie was made to keep them true to the faith. Brigham could at any time take away all that they possessed, and if they left the Territory they would have to go penniless.

Footnote 61:

See the whole passage in the _Popular Science Monthly_ for November, 1872.

Footnote 62:

The site of the fort in New York attacked by Champlain in 1615 has only recently been determined, although a number of leading historians have been discussing it for some years.

Footnote 63:

A foot or more of soft black soil (_humus_) on the bottom of the cellar refuted the suspicion entertained by some that this excavation was of more recent origin than the ancient buildings.

Footnote 64:

Indians, some of whom are no mean anatomists, have since pronounced one of them to be part of a _vertebra_ in all probability human.

Footnote 65:

Even at this day our pagan Ojibwas make such a use of human bones. They either carry them in their “medicine bags” as “manitous” or grind them to powder, which they apply especially to their puncturing instruments. In diseases of the head the powder of the skull is used; in the case of a sore leg, that of the _tibia_ or _femur_, etc.

Footnote 66:

_Short Studies on Great Subjects._ By James Anthony Froude, M.A. New York: Scribner, Armstrong & Co. 1877.

Footnote 67:

Alexandre de Saint-Cheron. Introduction to Harber’s translation of Ranke’s _History of the Papacy_. Second edition. Paris. 1848.

Footnote 68:

Prince Bismarck.

Footnote 69:

_North American Review_, Sept.-Oct., 1877, art. on “Perpetual Forces.”

Footnote 70:

The word “royal” has so degenerated in these days that we feel no scruple in applying it to Victor Emanuel.

Footnote 71:

Froude’s _History of England_, vol. ii. p. 447. Scribner & Co. 1870.

Footnote 72:

_St. Louis and Calvin_, p. 149. Macmillan & Co.

Footnote 73:

“Let them not come forth Till the ninth ripening year mature their worth.” —Horat. _Ars Poet_., 388, Francis’ trans.

Footnote 74:

“Than if far Cadiz, Libya’s plain, And either Carthage owned your sway.” —Horat. _Carm._ ii. 2.

_En passant_, it may be said that this stanza, which begins

“Latius regnes, avidum domando Spiritum quam si,” etc.,

furnishes a curious parallel to the words of Holy Writ, Prov. xvi. 32: “He that ruleth his spirit [is better] than he that taketh cities.” It is far from being the only passage in Horace which in spirit, if not in letter, suggests the inspired writers so strongly as to tempt one to believe that he must have had some acquaintance with them. Cf. Virgil’s _Pollio_.

Footnote 75:

Byron, however, if we are to take literally the well-known lines in _Childe Harold_, can scarcely rank with true lovers of our Horace:

“Then farewell, Horace, whom I hated so, Not for thy faults, but mine; it is a curse To understand, not _feel_, thy lyric flow, To comprehend but never love thy verse.”

Footnote 76:

“Why is all _journeyman-work_ of literature, as I may call it, so much worse done here than it is in France?... Think of the difference between the translations of the classics turned out for Mr. Bohn’s library and those turned out for M. Nisard’s collection!”—M. Arnold, _Essays in Criticism_, Am. ed., p. 51.

Footnote 77:

“I can understand that we must not make form everything in poetry. But why, in dealing with an art, we should take no account of the _technique_ of that art, should make light of those who excel in its _technique_, I do not understand at all.”

Footnote 78:

“With a mind undisturbed take life’s good and life’s evil, Temper grief from despair, temper joy from vain-glory; For, through each mortal change, equal mind, O my Dellius, befits mortal born.”

—Horat. _Carm._ ii. 3, Lord Lytton’s trans.

Footnote 79:

“Fell Care climbs brazen galley’s sides; Nor troops of horse can fly Her foot, which than the stag’s is swifter—ay, Swifter than Eurus when he madly rides The clouds along the sky.”

—_Carm._ ii. 16, Martin’s translation.

Footnote 80:

We do not here forget such songs as Shakspeare’s “Come away, come away, Death,” or Ben Jonson’s “See the chariot at hand here of Love,” or the anapests and dactyls in the madrigals. But we think it cannot be gainsaid that the general tendency of the earlier poets was to simple rhythms, and that the intricate arrangements of rhyme and novelties of metre in which modern poets delight were little known to them, or, if known, little relished.

Footnote 81:

“Fled are the snows; and the green, reappearing, Shoots in the meadow and shines on the tree.”

Footnote 82:

_Note by the author of the article._—The import of this needs some further explanation. Since the body is full of various and contrary physical forces, these must come either from the soul as the active principle giving the _materia_ of the body its first being, or from the elements which are the chemical components of the blood, bones, and other integral parts of the body. The soul cannot furnish them, because it does not possess them. Therefore the elements remain, and the material substance remains, and they are not divested of their substantial formality.

Footnote 83:

Viz., that the modern theory destroys the unity of substances, and particularly the unity of the human nature or substance.—_Author of the article_.

Footnote 84:

Cant. iv. 7.

Footnote 85:

Ex. xvi. 33; Heb. ix. 4.

Footnote 86:

See THE CATHOLIC WORLD, July, 1877, “The European Exodus.”

Footnote 87:

Among the Catholic colleges whose teaching staff is wholly or mainly German, and whose students are largely of German birth, we may mention the Redemptorist Convent and House of Studies at Ilchester, Maryland, which has a staff of 11 learned professors; St. Charles Borromeo’s Seminary of the Congregation of the Precious Blood, Carthagena, Ohio; St. Joseph’s College, Cincinnati, conducted by the Brothers of the Holy Cross; Seminary of St. Francis of Sales, Milwaukee; College of St. Laurence of Brundusium, Calvary, Ohio, conducted by the Capuchin Fathers; St. Vincent’s Abbey of the Order of St. Benedict, Beatty’s Station, Pennsylvania, with a staff of 25 professors; St. Francis’ Monastery, Loretto, Pennsylvania; St. Francis Solanus’ Convent of the Franciscan Fathers, Quincy, Illinois; St. Joseph’s College, conducted by the Franciscan Fathers, at Teutopolis, Illinois; Franciscan College, Allegany, New York; St. Ignatius’ College, Buffalo; Franciscan Collegiate Institute, Cleveland; Gymnasium of the Franciscan Fathers at Cincinnati; St. Joseph’s College, Rohnerville, California, under the direction of the Priests of the Precious Blood; and St. John’s College, conducted by the Benedictines, at St. Joseph, Minnesota. We may add in this place that thirteen of our sixty-eight American prelates are of German birth or descent.

Footnote 88:

See THE CATHOLIC WORLD, August, 1877, “Colonization and Future Emigration.”

Footnote 89:

By Carlyle.—ED. C. W.

Footnote 90:

_The Beginnings of Christianity._ With a View of the State of the Roman World at the Birth of Christ. By George P. Fisher, D.D., Professor of Ecclesiastical History in Yale College, etc. New York: Scribner, Armstrong & Co. 1877.

Footnote 91:

Mr. Leeser, a late eminent Jewish scholar and minister of a synagogue in Philadelphia, translated the original text of Gen. i. 11: “The Spirit of God _was waving_ over the face of the waters.”

Footnote 92:

Wisdom i. 14, 15.

Footnote 93:

P. 5.

Footnote 94:

Pp. 393–395.

Footnote 95:

Pp. 464, 465.

Footnote 96:

We should prefer to say contrived by the human intelligence, constructed and directed by the human will.

Footnote 97:

P. 465.

Footnote 98:

P. 66.

Footnote 99:

Pp. 137–139.

Footnote 100:

P. 140.

Footnote 101:

P. 42.

Footnote 102:

_Short Studies on Great Subjects._ By James Anthony Froude, M.A. New York: Scribner, Armstrong & Co. 1877.

Footnote 103:

We cannot, in the space of an article of this kind, give chapter and verse for every statement we may make. Limits forbid this. In saying that incoherency and inconsistency mark the Protestant tradition throughout, we are aware that we make a very large and very grave assertion. To those who feel inclined to doubt its truth we would recommend as the readiest and fullest confirmation of it the very able series of articles on the Protestant tradition which appeared last year in the London _Tablet_—a series that, enlarged and carried further, we should like to see published in book-form.

Footnote 104:

Mr. Froude probably means the children of Catholic parents, who were encouraged by the state to apostatize, and thereby enter into the possession of their family estates; as otherwise there was no legal possibility of a Protestant being injured by a Catholic.

Footnote 105:

_The English in Ireland in the Eighteenth Century_. By James Anthony Froude, M.A. Vol. I. London: Longmans, Green & Co. 1872.

Footnote 106:

Herein is plainly confirmed the view we took of Mr. Froude’s theory of might and right in our last article, “Mr. Froude on the Revival of Romanism,” Dec., 1877.

Footnote 107:

The Great Hall at Westminster, so called from William Rufus, who built it (1097) for a banqueting-hall—and kept his word.

Footnote 108:

See, for the true character of this much-maligned and really lamb-like sovereign, Froude’s _History of England_. Yet—so harsh is the judgment of men—it is this very prince of whose robber—we should say resumption of the church lands the Protestant antiquary, Sir Henry Spelman, writes: “God’s blessing, it seemeth, was not on it; for within four years after he had received all this, and had ruined and sacked three hundred and seventy-six of the monasteries, and brought their substance to his treasury, ... he was drawn so dry that Parliament was constrained to supply his wants with the residue of all the monasteries of the kingdom, great ones and illustrious, ... by reason whereof the service of God was not only grievously wounded and bleedeth at this day, but infinite works of charity were utterly cut off and extinguished.”

Footnote 109:

_Riding the wild mare_—i.e., playing at see-saw. The kneeling of the ox refers to an old English superstition that at midnight on Christmas Eve the oxen would be found kneeling in their stalls.

Footnote 110:

A peculiar peal of bells rung at Christmas-tide on the church-bells in Languedoc—doubtless, like _Noel_, from _natalis_.

Footnote 111:

_Du Darwinisme: ou l’homme singe_. Paris, 1877, page 170.

Footnote 112:

_On the Intrusion of certain Professors of Physical Science into the Region of Faith and Morals_: An address delivered to the members of the Manchester Academia of the Catholic Religion by J. Stores Smith, Esq.

Footnote 113:

_Manuel d’une Corporation Chrétienne_, par Léon Harmel. Tours, Marne, Paris: au Secrétariat de l’œuvre des Cercles Catholiques d’Ouvriers, 10 Rue du Bac. 1877.

Footnote 114:

1 Tim. iii. 7.

Footnote 115:

Cyprian, Epist. lxvii.

Footnote 116:

Celestine, Epist. ii. 5.

Footnote 117:

_De Clericis_, lib. i, cap. vi.

Footnote 118:

Lib. v. _Biblioth._ ad. not. 118.

Footnote 119:

_De Concord. Sacerd. et Imp._, lib. viii. cap. ii.

Footnote 120:

_Vet. et Nov. Ecclesia Discipl._, par. ii. lib. ii. cap. i.

Footnote 121:

Epist. v.

Footnote 122:

Epist. lv. No. vii., ed. Tauchnitz, Lipsiæ. 1838.

Footnote 123:

_Apud Wouters, Hist. Eccl. Comp._, vol. i. p. 65.

Footnote 124:

1 Cor. x. 24.

Footnote 125:

1 Tim. ii 11.

Footnote 126:

Cfr. Alzog’s _Church Hist._, Papisch & Byrne, vol. i. p. 396.

Footnote 127:

See Chrysostom, _De Sacerdotio_, iii. 15.

Footnote 128:

See Graziani, _Lettera di S. Clemente Primo Papa e Martire ai Corinti_, ... _corredata di note critiche e filologiche_, Rome, 1832.

Footnote 129:

Cfr. Devoti, _Inst. Can._, lib. i. tit. v. sect. i. par. vii., in note.

Footnote 130:

See Augustine, Epist. clv.; Synesius, Epist. lxvii.; Baronius, ad an. 304; Baluze, _Miscell._, ii. 102.

Footnote 131:

_H. E._, vi. 43.

Footnote 132:

Compare Tertullian, _Apol._, xxxvii.

Footnote 133:

Cfr. Novaes, whose voluminous, erudite, and orthodox work, the _Lives of the Popes_, is enriched with preliminary dissertations on every subject relating to the Papacy and the Cardinalate.

Footnote 134:

De Rossi, in his _Bullettino di Archeologia Cristiana, Anno iv._, Jan.-Feb., 1866, has given the reasons for the preponderating influence which the cardinal-deacons had in the affairs of the church, and for their frequent succession to the Papacy. Indeed, it became in the third and fourth centuries an almost invariable rule to elect the archdeacon to succeed to the chair of St. Peter.

Footnote 135:

Cap. _Si duo_, viii, dist. lxxix.

Footnote 136:

Strange to say, Vigilius did, although not immediately succeed to the Papacy, and is reckoned the sixty-first in the series of pontiffs.

Footnote 137:

See the controversy apud Ferraris, _Bibliotheca_, Art. “Papa.”

Footnote 138:

Const. _Prudentes Bullar. Rom._, tom. iv. par. ii. page 90.

Footnote 139:

Pagi, _Breviarium RR. FP._, vol. i. p. 129, _in vita Symmachi_.

Footnote 140:

In a curious old ballad sung in low French by the Scotch in the king’s service occurs the contemptuous line, _Les Romains bien tout villain mutinail_. Francisque-Michel, _Les Ecessais en France_.

Footnote 141:

_Apologia del Pontificato di Benedetto X._, par. i. cap. ii. num. 2.

Footnote 142:

Odoacer, the first king of Italy in olden times, become so by violence and usurpation like the first king of Italy of modern times, and the first to interfere in a papal election, was captured in March, 493, and put to death by his victorious rival, Theodoric.

Footnote 143:

Darras, _General History of the Catholic Church_, vol. ii. p. 66.

Footnote 144:

Some writers, it must be said, attribute the imposition of this odious burden to the Gothic kings. Graveson, who agrees with them, says (_Hist. Eccl._, tom. ii. page 62) that the money was always distributed in alms to the poor.

Footnote 145:

Cap. _Quia Sancta_, xxviii. Dist lxiii.

Footnote 146:

Paul the Deacon, _apud Pagi_ (_Breviarium, RR. PP._, tom. i. p. 350).

Footnote 147:

When a successor to the throne was elected or appointed during the emperor’s lifetime he was called King of Rome or of the Romans.

Footnote 148:

Ad an. 884.

Footnote 149:

_In Ord. Rom._ cap. xvii. page 114.

Footnote 150:

Ad an. 884.

Footnote 151:

_De Nummo Argenteo Benedicti III._, pag. 22 et seq.

Footnote 152:

_Vet. et Nov. Eccl. Discipl._, part ii. lib. ii. cap. xxvi par. 6.

Footnote 153:

_Primacy of the Apostolic See_, p. 243.

Footnote 154:

_Die Deutschen Päpste_, 2 vols., Regensburg, 1839.

Footnote 155:

See a long and interesting note to the point headed, _Quali consequenze discendano dalla condizione della chiesa romana al secolo x._ in Mozzoni’s _Tavole Cronologiche critiche della Storia della Chiesa Universale_. _Secolo Decimo_, Rome 1865.

Footnote 156:

Cap. _In Nomine Domini_, i. dist. xviii.

Footnote 157:

Ix., cap. _Licet, 6. de Elect._

Footnote 158:

Bede’s _Ecclesiastical History of England_, p. 217. Edited by J. A. Giles, D.C.L. (Henry G. Bohn).

Footnote 159:

This thought is taken from St. Teresa.

Footnote 160:

One of the most recent and significant signs of change in the Anglican communion is the movement in favor of confession. It may be well to inform our readers that the above article is from the pen of Mgr. Capel, than whom no man in England probably is better fitted from his position, knowledge, and experience to treat of such a subject.—ED. C. W.

Footnote 161:

This strange narrative, which has never hitherto been published in any language, is the autobiography of a friend of the Lady Herbert of Lea, who has translated it for THE CATHOLIC WORLD.—ED. C. W.

Footnote 162:

_The Final Philosophy; or, System of Perfectible Knowledge issuing from the Harmony of Science and Religion_. By Charles Woodruff Shields, D.D., Professor in Princeton College. New York: Scribner, Armstrong & Co. 1877.

Footnote 163:

Have we no word to express shortly the meaning of the fine German word “_Thaten-drang_”?

Footnote 164:

_Katholische Stimme_.

Footnote 165:

Sparks’ _Life of Arnold_, p. 218.

Footnote 166:

Pp. 25–27.

Footnote 167:

The remains of St. Honorat are now in a church at Cannes.

Footnote 168:

Near Cap Roux is an inlet called Aurèle from the old Roman road along the shore.

Footnote 169:

Is. i. 18.

Footnote 170:

1 Cor. xv. 31.

Footnote 171:

_Report of the Joint Special Committee to investigate Chinese Immigration_. Washington, 1877.

Footnote 172:

“Who, perched on one foot, as though ’twere a feat, Some hundreds of verses an hour would repeat.”

—Horat., _Sat._ i. 4, 9.

Footnote 173:

A couplet from this great work is quoted in the _Dunciad_:

“So when Jove’s block descended from on high (As sings thy great forefather, Ogilby), Loud thunder to its bottom shook the bog, And the hoarse nation croaked, “God save King Log!”

Footnote 174:

“And iron slumber fell on him, hard rest weighed down his eyes, And shut were they for ever more by night that never dies.”

—_Æneid_, x. 745–746, Morris’ translation.

Footnote 175:

The translation of the Earl of Lauderdale appeared before Pitt’s, but it was really completed before Dryden’s, and the latter had the use of it in MSS. in preparing his own, as he admits in his preface. Some three or four hundred of the earl’s lines were adopted by Dryden without change.

Footnote 176:

“There is her temple, there they stand an hundred altars meet, Warm with Sabæan incense smoke, with new-pulled blossoms sweet.”

—_Æneid_, i. 415–416, Morris’ trans.

Footnote 177:

“Whence she with kindness prompt And eyes glistering with smiles,”

Carey gives it, which is certainly English, but—

Footnote 178:

_La Vie Domestique, ses Modèles et ses Règles—d’après les documents originaux_. Charles de Ribbe. Paris: Edouard Baltenweck.

Footnote 179:

In regard to the heroic virtue that can be practised in the married state there can be no question. As little can there be any question that in the scale of perfection the religious is the higher state.—ED. C. W.

Footnote 180:

He refused the chancellorship when Boucherat gave up the seals, but did his work effectually as commissioner of finance and overseer of public work in the south and west of France between 1650 and 1690.

Footnote 181:

_Dixit etiam Deus: Producant aquæ reptile anima viventis, et volatile super terram.... Producat terra animam viventem in genere suo ... et factum est ita._—Gen. i. 20, 24.

Footnote 182:

The translation is from the graceful pen of Lady Georgiana Fullerton.

Footnote 183:

As for “gall,” there is, according to the writer’s own showing, more of fallen than regenerate humanity in it. The less gall, then, the better. The Holy Father has recently favored the Catholic press by selecting St. Francis de Sales as its patron saint. The more closely writers adhere to the saint’s spirit the nearer they will approach their divine model, and the more abundant will their labors be in good fruits.—ED. C. W.

Footnote 184:

Marchetti, _Critica al Fleury_, vol. ii. p. 193.

Footnote 185:

_Ad auctorem opusc. Quid est Papa?_ vol. ii. p. 112.

Footnote 186:

Du Cange, _Gloss._, ad verb.

Footnote 187:

Macri, _Hierolexicon_, ad verb. _Conclave_.

Footnote 188:

Biondo da Forlì, lib. vii. decad. 2.

Footnote 189:

Cap. _Ubi periculum. 3 de Elect. in 6_.

Footnote 190:

Ne Romani electioni Pontificis indeterminata opinionum diversitas aliquod possit obstaculum vel dilationem afferre; nos, inter cætera præcipue attendentes, quod lex superioris per inferiorem tolli non potest, opinionem adstruere, sicut accepimus satagentem, quod constitutio felicis recordationis Gregorii Papæ X. prædecessoris nostri, circa electionem præfatam edita in concilio Lugdunensi, per coetum cardinalium _Romanæ ecclesiæ_ ipsa vacante modificari possit, corrigi vel immutari, aut quicquam ei detrahi sive addi, vel dispensari quomodolibet circa ipsam seu aliquam ejus partem, aut eidem etiam renunciari per eam tanquam veritati non consonam de fratrum nostrorum consilio reprobamus, irritum nihilominus et inane decernentes, quicquid potestatis aut jurisdictionis, ad Romanum, dum vivit, Pontificem pertinentis (nisi quatenus inconstitutione prædicta permittitur) coetus ipse duxerit eadem vacante ecclesia exercendum, _etc._

Footnote 191:

Voting by proxy is not recognized in the conclave.

Footnote 192:

Such, for instance, is a woman, a manifest heretic, an infidel—_i.e._, one who is not baptized.

Footnote 193:

_Cæremoniale continens ritus electionis Romani Pontificis, cui præfiguntur Constitutiones Pontificiæ, et Conciliorum decreta ad eam rem pertinentia._ Romæ, 1622, in 410.

Footnote 194:

_Lib. Pontif._, tom. iv., _in vita Bonif_.

Footnote 195:

_Mus. Ital._, cap. xvii. p. 112.

Footnote 196:

Labbé, _Concil._, tom. vi. col. 1721.

Footnote 197:

4 Kings x. 3.

Footnote 198:

_Hist. of Alex. VII._

Footnote 199:

_Const. In eligendis Bullar. Rom._, tom. iv. part ii. pag. 145.

Footnote 200:

_Spiritual Exercises_. Second Day.

Footnote 201:

Turkeys were introduced into France by the Jesuits in 1570, in which year they were first eaten at Mézières, department of Ardennes, at the marriage of Charles IX. and Elizabeth of Austria.

Footnote 202:

The Feast of Our Lady of Dolors is on the 3d Sunday of September. This Sunday, in 1877, fell on the 16th—_i.e._, the ninth day after the Nativity of Our Lady, which is on the 8th of September.

Footnote 203:

Hodie nomen tuum ita magnificavit, ut non recedat laus tua de ore hominum, qui memores fuerint virtutis Domini in æternum, pro quibus non pepercisti animæ tuæ propter angustias et tribulationem generis tui, sed subvenisti ruinæ ante conspectum Dei nostri (Epistle in the Mass of Our Lady of the Seven Dolors, third Sunday in September).

● Transcriber’s Notes: ○ Missing or obscured punctuation was silently corrected. ○ Typographical errors were silently corrected. ○ Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only when a predominant form was found in this book. ○ Text that was in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_) and text that was bold, is enclosed by equal signs (=Now!=).