CHAPTER II.

On the way home Walburga stepped into the cathedral, the grand old Frauen Kirche, and remained a short while on her knees before the high altar. There Conrad and all that he had spoken passed out of her mind; she felt as if she were in another world, so changed was everything round about her, so solemn and still. Before her hung the ever-burning lamp, symbol of the Eternal Presence; and as Walburga’s eyes rested upon the sacred flame, she wondered at herself for bearing with so little resignation the troubles of this life.

“What I seek, what I yearn for,” she sighed, “is not to be found here below. Everything sooner or later passes away; the happiest home we may found on earth must in the end know tears and desolation. O eternity, eternity!”

Yet, strange to relate—and yet, no, not strange, but quite naturally enough—the moment Walburga emerged from this peaceful sanctuary and found herself once more in the noisy, airy, life-throbbing street, with the azure sky overhead and gladsome faces flitting to and fro, she felt very human again, ay, very human; and her craving for something human to love and be loved by grew none the less intense when presently she saw happy Ulrich and happy Moida advancing towards her arm-in-arm. It was not necessary for them to speak to tell that their hearts were throbbing in sweet harmony together, and that for them at least this world was all a paradise.

When Conrad and Ulrich found themselves back at Loewenstein again they talked of little else than their pleasant trip to Munich.

“The only harm ’twill do me,” said the artist, smiling, “is that I’ll lie awake a good while to-night thinking of Moida. The more I see of my betrothed, the more virtues do I discover in her. She is so full of common sense; she keeps store and keeps house too; nobody can make a better bargain when she goes to market, and it is a fortunate thing that Walburga has such a friend.”

“Miss Hofer is indeed a rare girl,” said Conrad, who was seated beside him watching the moon rise over the mountain; “and you have proved your own good sense in choosing her for your future spouse.” Then, assuming a graver tone: “But now let me tell you something which is of great concern to me. You remember that I spoke to you about a young lady whom I met with in the Pinakothek, and that it was in order to see her again that I went to-day to Munich. Well, she turns out to be your sister.”

“My sister! Walburga! Really!” exclaimed Ulrich, feigning surprise at this piece of news.

“And, Ulrich”—here Conrad took his hand in his—“I mean to try my best to win her heart.”

“And most sincerely do I hope you may succeed,” rejoined the youth.

“Well, is she quite free? Is any gentleman courting her?”

“Nobody, sir, is courting her.”

“It must be because she is poor,” said Conrad inwardly, “and perhaps, too, a little proud. Well, a Loewenstein has a right to be proud.”

They remained thus conversing together until a late hour, until all the lights in the valley were out, until the moon was sailing high in the heavens, and every sound was hushed except the voice of the waterfall in the ravine back of the castle.

And when at length they withdrew to rest, Ulrich, instead of lying awake, as he had feared he might, soon fell asleep, and till cockcrow next morning did nothing but dream of his beloved Moida. He dreamt—O naughty dreamer!—that he was tearing off his buttons purposely, that he might see her plump, ready hand sew them on again; and when he opened his eyes and heard the monastery bell ringing the _Angelus_, Ulrich fell at once on his knees and prayed with fervor, because he knew that at that same hour in Fingergasse Moida was saying the _Angelus_ too.

The day which now opened was to be a busy one at Loewenstein. Ulrich betimes set himself to work renovating the half-destroyed frescos; and, to his great delight, several beautiful and interesting pictures came to view as he carefully scraped the whitewash off the walls. They appeared in patches: here an eye would peep out upon him; there a hand, a foot, a tress of hair; until by and by a lovely damsel or a knight in armor would stand full-length before his admiring gaze. This whitewash had been daubed over nearly the whole interior of the tower by a simple-minded cobbler, who had intended to make the place his home after Ulrich and Walburga went away, but who only passed one night in it; then was scared off by ghosts.

And when Conrad, who was superintending a band of laborers outside, came in and saw the art treasures which had been brought to light, he clapped his hands for joy. But more even than with the fair lady and mailed warrior was he charmed with a wild, shaggy figure, underneath which in quaint Gothic letters was written the word “Attila.”

“And now, as I behold anew this fresco,” remarked Ulrich, “my childhood comes vividly back to me, and I remember once hearing my father tell my mother that the great-grandsires of those who laid the foundations of Loewenstein might have known the king of the Huns.”

In short, these unlooked-for discoveries so excited Conrad that he could hardly go back to the open air, where the stones and earth which covered the site of three other towers were being cleared away; and ever and anon he would run in again to show Ulrich an old coin or other curious object which the workmen had found amid the rubbish. Whereupon the youth would point to still another long-concealed wall-picture gradually coming to view, till finally Conrad exclaimed: “God bless the stupid cobbler! I’ll not rail at him any more. But for his vile whitewash I should not have enjoyed all these surprises.”

Yes, it was a busy, happy day for them both. When the sun dipped behind the mountain in the west Conrad called to Ulrich to cease his labors and come out and watch the path leading down into the valley. “For I am expecting,” said he, “all the things I purchased of your betrothed to arrive this evening, and Miss Hofer is coming with them. I kept it secret, lest you might be too distracted if you knew it.”

“Really! is Moida coming?” cried Ulrich.

Scarcely had the words escaped his lips when they heard the bark of a dog—not a sharp, quick yelp, but the thick, husky bark of a dog that is aged—and in another moment who should be seen emerging from a clump of hazel bushes through which the pathway led but Caro and his mistress.

Down at a break-neck pace flew Ulrich, and, ere the girl had ascended a dozen steps further, she found herself clasped in his arms.

“My knight always takes me by storm,” said Moida, laughing merrily as soon as she recovered her breath.

“Nay, ’tis you who were taking us by storm at the pace you were mounting,” answered Ulrich; then, catching her hand, he assisted her up the rest of the way.

“Everything is coming, sir, everything,” were Moida’s first words to Conrad, who greeted her warmly when she reached the spot where he stood. “But the donkeys have a heavy load—a very heavy load—and so I determined to run ahead and tell you they were coming.”

“Bravo!” cried Conrad. Then, patting Caro’s woolly head: “And is this the good old poodle that I have heard so much of?”

“Yes, sir. And as my pet would be killed by the horrid police if they knew he was alive, I concluded to carry him away from Munich. I hope you are not displeased at my bringing him here?”

“Displeased? Why, nobody likes dogs more than I; and this one shall find a snug home in my castle. But why didn’t you bring the other pet, too?”

“What! the nightingale?” exclaimed Moida, with an air of surprise. “Oh! Walburga would not part with him for anything.”

“Well, the young lady only yesterday spoke of giving him his freedom.”

“Did she? Well, I trust, sir, you persuaded her not to do so,” answered Moida, smiling inwardly; for Walburga had related to her the whole conversation which had passed betwixt herself and Conrad at the Pinakothek, and ever since she had been full of hope that great good would result from her friend’s acquaintance with the new owner of Loewenstein. “And not only will Walburga not let her bird out,” she thought to herself, “but it may end by its joining Caro in this peaceful retreat.”

“But now, Moida, do come and see what I have been about since morning,” spoke Ulrich, drawing her gently along. With this all three passed into the tower, where verily a great change had been wrought in a few hours.

Not only were many frescos long invisible brought again to view, but it was now manifest that each figure and group of figures, from the barbarian Attila down to the most modern one of all, which was scarce a century old, were linked together and presented a tolerably good pictorial history of the house of Loewenstein; and Conrad observed to Moida with a roguish smile: “Your betrothed, miss, has for his remote ancestor a Hun.”

They were still examining these wall-paintings when the donkeys made their appearance, and, although the hour was rather late, Moida clapped her hands and said: “Let us put everything to rights at once. Do!” Accordingly, inspirited by her blithe voice, Conrad and Ulrich, without summoning others to help them, unpacked the loads, and so zealously did they work that in a very short while everything was in its proper place except the huge earthenware stove.

Then Conrad donned a suit of armor (rusty and dented, but all the better for being so), and, clutching firmly a heavy two-handed sword, laid about him right and left like mad for above a minute, to Moida’s great delight, and until he was fain to pause for breath.

“I have a friend in Cologne,” said he, “a republican like myself in his opinions; but I mean to write and warn him never to buy a castle—never; otherwise he’ll become a changed man. Oh! there’s nothing like buying a castle to make one an aristocrat.”

After joining in the hearty laugh with which he ended this speech, Moida said to him in a whisper, and as though she felt there was something touching in what she was about to communicate: “My friend Walburga entered the curiosity-shop to-day, sir, for the first time since I have had anything in it belonging to Loewenstein; and ere I packed up the various objects, she placed her hand on each one and stroked it, and even kissed yonder clock, for she said: ‘It stood in my mother’s chamber, it called many a happy hour, and now ’tis going back to the old home again.’”

“Well, now let me tell you a secret,” said Conrad, likewise in an undertone, but with a bright gleam in his eye: “I hope one of these days to see the young lady here herself.”

“Oh! wouldn’t that be charming! Wouldn’t that be glorious!” replied Moida, who understood what he meant. “Why, in the whole of Bavaria there is not her equal, and I am sure you will make her an excellent husband.”

“I hope so, Miss Hofer, even though I am no longer a believer in Christianity.”

“’Twill give Walburga the great happiness of making you a Christian again,” she added, with an arch smile. But Conrad’s expression did not respond to hers, and for a minute or two he was silent. When again he opened his lips the tone of his voice was changed, and, in order to shake off the gloom which he felt creeping upon him, he asked her to sing him a song.

“Yes, yes, do!” exclaimed Ulrich, turning away from the grated window through which he had been gazing while the others were whispering to each other. “Sing that wild ballad called the ‘Scream of the Eagle.’” Moida sang. Never before had Conrad Seinsheim heard anything half so thrilling, and the words were accompanied by such graceful motions as proved the girl to be no mean actress.

“Yes, it is a grand song,” she said when it was finished; “and I like to be in the country, where I may give it with my whole heart. In Munich our lodging is too small and the air out-doors too heavy with beer for such rousing, inspiring words.”

“Your grandfather composed it, did he not?” said Ulrich.

“Oh! no. But he and his riflemen used to chant it when they went into battle. ’Tis as old as the hills; perhaps it rang in the ears of the Roman legions.”

“Well, truly, you are a rare bird,” thought Conrad Seinsheim as he looked at Moida’s bright-blue eyes and cheeks glowing with health; “and if I had not already found my ideal I’d wish to marry you.”

Then, praying her to sit down in one of the old family chairs: “Now please,” he said, “tell me a little of your history; for”—here Conrad dropped his voice—“I hope ere long that you and Ulrich, and Walburga and myself, as well as Caro and the nightingale, will all form one happy family together. Therefore I am curious to know more about you.”

This was spoken in such a kindly way that Moida could not refuse. Accordingly, she began and told him how she was descended from a race of mountaineers who had never been serfs, like the peasants in other parts of Europe.

“We did not dwell in castles,” said Moida, darting a sportive glance at Ulrich, who was patting her hand. “Still, for all that we were nobles.”

“Yes, yes, you were indeed,” cried the youth.

“But after grandfather was put to death our family quitted their native place in South Tyrol—’twas too full of painful memories—and came north to Innspruck; and finally we drifted to Munich, where I now live. My parents are dead, but Walburga is like a sister to me; and as for this boy—”

“He is a poor, dreamy fellow, but, thanks to you, is turning over a new leaf at last,” interrupted Ulrich. “And I mean soon to have a studio in Munich, where I’ll paint fine pictures, and my darling sha’n’t keep shop any longer.”

“Ay, you must be weary of that sort of life,” observed Conrad.

“Well, if people would only buy something when they pause to look at my curiosities, ’twould not be so trying to my feelings, sir. But you can’t imagine how it excites me when I see a gentleman eyeing the things in the window, even pressing his nose against the glass to obtain a better view. Sometimes he actually enters and scrutinizes every article in the store; asks the price of this and that; smiles approvingly; in fact, looks as if he were about to draw forth his purse; then he coolly turns and walks out. O sir! I have more than once cried for disappointment.”

“Well, except that I might never have met you,” said Ulrich, “I’d rather you had stayed hidden among your native hills than lead such a life.”

“Ay, nothing is so mean and slavish as trade,” remarked Conrad, “and I am very glad that I have given it up.”

“Ha! but if you or your father, sir, had not turned over a good many banknotes and thalers, you might never have become owner of Loewenstein,” said the wise Moida. “And then dear Caro wouldn’t have had a home here, and all these pikes and helmets and other venerable relics would have been for ever scattered to the winds. Whereas now, thanks to your wealth, there will soon be no castle in all Tyrol like this one.”

“Well, tell me, Miss Hofer, what would you have me do now that I am out of business?” asked Conrad. “A man ought not to be idle.”

“Do? Why, I’d hunt chamois, and fish in the Inn, and climb the glaciers, and I’d find happiness in making others happy, for there are many poor people in the Innthal.”

“But would that suffice? Oh! you do not know what a restless mortal I am. I have always been sighing for something, but no sooner do I attain my heart’s desire—and thus far I have been very fortunate—than straightway I begin to yearn for something else. Suppose now I devote myself to science, say to astronomy, and build a telescope, a gigantic one, bigger than the biggest, and sweep the heavens millions of miles beyond the farthest star now seen?”

“Well, I’d rather busy myself with the things near me,” returned Moida. “However, if you like to look through a telescope, why I’d build one. But, telescope or no telescope, I’d do nothing but laugh from sunrise till sundown if this castle belonged to me.”

And this was true enough. Hers was a happy nature; nothing ever disturbed her serenity. Although poor, she did not envy the rich. Although a very good girl, she was never troubled by religious scruples; the most fiery sermon on eternal punishment could not keep Moida’s head from nodding after the preacher had been preaching more than twenty minutes, and Walburga used to envy her from the bottom of her heart. And now Ulrich’s betrothed felt inclined to smile at Conrad, who was so rich and free from care, but whose visage had assumed a grave look, and she thought to herself: “’Tis a pity he has moody spells, for dear Walburga is prone to them, too; she should have a laughing, jovial husband.”

Then, to cheer her host, Moida sang another song, which presently drove away the cloud from his face. But the girl paused not with one; the music continued to flow in an unbroken stream from her lips, until the oil in the lamp burned low and warned them that it was time to seek repose.

“And now good-night,” said Conrad, after showing his fair guest to a little room near the top of the tower. “I hope the moonbeams shining in through the chinks in the wall will not keep you awake. Good-night.”

“Nothing ever keeps me awake; I’ll soon shut out the moon. Good-night, sir,” she answered. And in a very short while Moida was fast asleep, with her rosary in her hand—for she always closed her eyes before she had half finished, and let her guardian angel say the rest of the prayer.

* * * * *

“Why, what an early bird you are!” exclaimed Walburga the following morning, as she was preparing to set off for the Pinakothek. “Back already?”

“Yes,” answered Moida. “I took the first train. Not that I didn’t wish to stay longer, but—”

“Ah! true, you have to look after the dinner—my breakfast was miserable without you—and keep store, and one night was quite as long as you could be spared,” added the other, smiling; and good-natured Moida smiled too; then with an arch glance said: “By the way, he came with me.”

“He! Whom do you mean?” asked Walburga, pretending not to understand.

“Why, Conrad Seinsheim. And really, I advise you to accept him if he proposes. The short time I passed in his company has convinced me that he is a good man, and I doubt not but you will bring him back to the faith. Yes, love and prayer will make a Christian of him again sooner than anything else.”

“But what makes you think he has any notion of courting me?”

“Oh! I can tell by the way he talks, and by what you yourself told me about him the other day. So you’ll surely see him this forenoon; he may be already at the gallery awaiting you.”

“Well, true, Mr. Seinsheim did ask my leave to come and renew our conversation. Therefore I presume he will be there.”

“Yet a moment since you feigned not to know that he cared for you,” continued Moida, twitching her sleeve.

“Oh! he merely wishes to converse on art. Besides, some men enjoy being near a woman, without having any thought of matrimony. There are full as many flirts in one sex as in the other; however, if Mr. Seinsheim imagines he can throw dust in my eyes, he’ll be mistaken. It shall be all art between us—nothing but art; not a single silly syllable.”

“Well, he doesn’t look like one to pay foolish compliments; you have owned as much yourself,” said Moida. “Now, remember his words when you spoke of uncaging your nightingale; and if I can read character, Mr. Seinsheim is just the man to ask a girl to be his wife at the second or third interview. So, dear friend, you may return at noon engaged.”

“How can you dream of such a thing!” said Walburga, half reproachfully.

“Oh! now don’t be vexed. But let me calmly inquire why I should not dream of it; for where could he find a better helpmate?”

“Because all men are alike. Even the holy patriarchs were guided by outward appearances in choosing their wives. Scripture tells us that Laban had two daughters, Leah and Rachel: ‘Leah was tender-eyed; but Rachel was beautiful, and Jacob loved Rachel.’”

This was more than Moida could gainsay; therefore she let the subject drop and asked about the bird.

“I have given him his liberty,” said Walburga.

“Have you truly? Well, I declare!”

This was all that Moida could utter. Then, putting on her hat and shawl, Walburga quitted the room, leaving her friend repeating to herself:

“What a sentimental girl she is! What a sentimental girl she is!”

We may be sure that while on her way to the picture gallery Walburga thought only of the one whom she expected to meet there, and she quite agreed with Moida that Conrad did not seem like a man to play at courtship. Yet, admitting that he was in earnest, would he not prove to be in the end like the great majority of his sex—a blind follower only of what his eyes revealed to him? Would he dive below the surface and judge her by her inner self?

“I will try not to indulge any hope,” thought Walburga. Yet, at this very moment, down in her heart’s depths the flower of hope was already beginning to bud, and no doubt that was why her step this morning was lighter than usual. As for Conrad having lost his faith, however much she regretted it, and pious girl though she was, this did not lead her to believe that he was a bad man. Walburga had sense enough to discern the difficulties which lie in the way of belief in the revelation to those who have wandered from, or never known, the truth; she knew, too, that the universities were full of learned professors who spoke of God as a myth. “And even some saints,” she said, “have been racked by doubt, and overcame this, the greatest of all the temptations of the arch-fiend, only by severe self-tortures. Therefore I will continue to pray for Conrad Seinsheim.” (Walburga had remembered him in her prayers ever since she had heard that he was an unbeliever). “And I will pray also for dear Ulrich, who is young and confiding, and is much in Conrad’s power.”

A quarter of an hour later and the girl was busy at her easel, and working swiftly too. “For I must accomplish all I can before he arrives,” she murmured to herself.

But Conrad did not allow her time to do much. Presently his voice was heard bidding her good-morning. Whereupon she returned his greeting in a cheery tone, but without looking round.

“Gracious lady,” he began, “doubtless Miss Hofer has already told you of her pleasant visit to Loewenstein. The weather was delightful, the old place looked charming, and I should not have let her return so soon, nor come myself either, only that I longed to see you again.”

“Dear Moida enjoyed it very much, but she knows that ’tis impossible for me to get along without her,” answered Walburga, revealing only by a faint flush the emotion excited by Conrad’s words. Her hand, however, was steadier than it had been the first time he paid her a compliment. Then the other, after observing her a moment in silence, went on:

“How rapidly you paint, Miss Von Loewenstein! And what life you throw into your picture!”

“Well, yes, sir, I am a quick worker. I hope my brother is not disappointing you and dawdling over his task.”

“No, indeed! And I consider myself very fortunate in having found such an artist. There he was, seated amid the ruins of the old castle, when I arrived, apparently waiting for me to appear; and if you saw the tower now you would hardly recognize it. Why, some of the frescos, since Ulrich has restored them, are as fine as anything in this gallery.”

“Really!” exclaimed Walburga.

“Yes, really. And he declares his skill and energy are all due to Moida. Ulrich says she spurs him on, and I believe it. Oh! nothing like a woman to put fire into a man.”

“Well, some gentlemen, sir, manage to live and prosper without any such spurring,” rejoined Walburga, with a smile lurking on her lips.

“I am exceedingly hard to please; that is why _I_ am still a bachelor,” said her admirer, wincing a little at this remark.

“Well, believe me, sir, ’tis foolish to be so fastidious. Why, in any town of ten, nay, of even five thousand inhabitants a good man may find a good woman to be his wife.”

“Do you think so?”

“’Tis my conviction. This hunting up and down the world for an ideal woman is nonsense.” Then, with a slight gesture of impatience: “O these lips!” exclaimed Walburga—“these lips! when shall I get them right?”

“Well, you see, Miss Von Loewenstein, what a severe critic you are of your exquisite copy of Carlo Dolce; whereas to me it seems already perfect.”

“Oh! but this is a picture, not a living being. Here the eye is our only guide. In the other case—”

“Then a blind man might do as well as one who had sight in choosing a wife?” interrupted Conrad, laughing.

Walburga laughed, too, then answered:

“Verily, sir, there is more truth in that than you imagine. He knows little of a woman who knows only what his eyes tell him of her.”

“Well, you may be right,” he added musingly; “you may be right. Yet I trust a good deal to mine.”

“If women did the same, might there not be fewer weddings?” said Walburga. “Besides, I know I am right. Why, the happiest lady in Munich—I know her intimately—is wedded to a little squab of a man, who squints so badly that his two eyes seem blended into one.”

Here a pause ensued, during which Conrad made up his mind that Ulrich’s sister was no ordinary character. She had ideas of her own, and was not afraid to express them. Then, unable to resist the temptation to speak something else that was flattering, he said:

“I wonder how a person so gifted as yourself should be content to remain a mere copyist.”

“’Tis all one can be in our age,” replied Walburga. “The days of originality are gone by. We need another deluge to blot out whatever mankind has wrought in literature and art; then, after the flood should have subsided, artists and writers might begin anew.”

“Oh! but surely there are original things painted and written nowadays?” said Conrad.

“It may appear so, sir. But ’tis only because the ignorant public does not know where lies hidden the musty parchment or worm-eaten canvas whence the so-called genius has stolen his prize. No, no; originality, in this age of the world, is the art of knowing how to pilfer. True originality is stark dead.” And the girl ended these words with a sigh, which proved that she, at least, believed what she said to be true.

“Well, if all copyists did their duty as faithfully as yourself,” pursued Conrad, “we might readily forego any more originals.” Then, while the bright color which this speech brought to her cheek was still glowing upon it, he added: “And now, gracious lady, let me remind you that I once asked if your picture was for sale, and you told me ‘yes.’ But we came to no bargain.”

“Well, what will you give me for it?” said Walburga, little dreaming what a weighty response her question would draw forth.

“A castle and my own poor self with it,” answered Conrad.

For full a minute the girl stayed silent; her brush fell to her lap, and, without giving him a glance, she bowed her head. Then presently, resuming her work: “Come back, sir,” she said, “in three days and you shall have my decision.”

“Oh! but why not to-day? now? at this moment? Nobody is near to hear what you say,” pleaded Conrad, and so fervent was his tone that Walburga’s resolution was half shaken. Then, while her right hand hung quivering upon the canvas, he seized it and pressed it to his lips.

The effect of this kiss was magical; it thrilled like lightning through every vein in her body, and from that instant Walburga’s heart was won.

But presently, to Conrad’s amazement, the glow faded from her cheek and she heaved a sigh; then came a tear.

“What can it mean?” he asked himself, strongly tempted to sweep the bright jewel away with another kiss. “What can it mean?” And again he implored her to end his suspense, to let him know his fate at once.

“Please do not urge me; I would rather not,” said Walburga, in a voice little above a whisper. “I believe, sir, you love me; therefore wait and be patient.”

These last words lent fire to Conrad’s hopes, and scarcely doubting that her response, when it came, would be favorable, he allowed her hand to go free.

But any more work was out of the question for the fair artist; while the other, albeit longing to linger in her company, judged it would be best to withdraw. And so Conrad went away, full of gladness, leaving Walburga cherishing, too, the fond belief that here was a man who was not like other men—a man who would take her for her inner worth, who would give her that home, that celestial harmony of loving hearts, which had been for years the craving of her soul.

TO BE CONCLUDED NEXT MONTH.

HELL AND SCIENCE.

The editor of _Popular Science Monthly_ gave us in one of his late issues an article concerning the belief in hell. The article begins by referring to the lively discussion which has recently been carried on in the pulpit and the press as to whether there is a state of eternal torments. According to Prof. Youmans, this discussion shows that “there has been, thanks to the influence of science, a pretty rapid liberalizing of theological opinion during the past generation, and is an instructive indication of the advance that has been made.” After this expression of satisfaction he very naturally remarks that the question of the existence of a veritable hell is a theological one, which he cheerfully leaves “to those interested,” as if men of science, especially those of a certain school, were not interested in the question of knowing what is kept in store for those who sin against truth and against God. But “the topic,” he adds, “has also a scientific side. The rise and course of the _idea_, or what may be called the natural history of the belief in hell, is a subject quite within the sphere of scientific inquiry. It is legitimate to ask as to how the notion originated, as to its antiquity, the extent to which it has been entertained, the forms it has assumed, and the changes it has undergone; and from this point of view it of course involves the principle of evolution.” Whence he concludes that a few suggestions concerning this view of the subject may not be inappropriate.

This preamble, though the least objectionable portion of Prof. Youmans’ article, is full of questionable assertions. First, the discussion about the existence of eternal punishment does not show any “rapid liberalizing” of theological opinion. For, on the one hand, the doctrine of hell is not a theological opinion but a revealed dogma; and, on the other, the foolish attempt of discrediting it among the ignorant did not proceed from theologians, but from such men as have been, and are, the worst enemies of theology. Theology is essentially based on authority; hence theology has no existence in the Protestant sects, whose very reason of being is a contemptuous disregard of authority and the assumed right of private interpretation. Now, all those who ventured to argue against the existence of eternal punishment belonged to Protestant sects. And, therefore, their “liberal” view of the subject does not constitute “theological opinion.” Protestants may, indeed, assume the title of “divines”; but the title is not the thing. There is no real theology outside of the Catholic Church. When Catholic divines shall discuss the existence of hell as a free theological opinion—which, of course, will never happen—then only Prof. Youmans will be welcome to say that there has been “a liberalizing of theological opinion.”

But, secondly, the very idea of “liberalizing” Protestant thought is supremely ludicrous. For who has been the forerunner, the inventor, the father, and the fosterer of liberalism but Protestant thought? Whence did religious scepticism spring but from Protestant inconsistency? Liberalism is nothing but Protestantism applied to philosophical, political, and social questions. It is Protestant thought, therefore, that has liberalized a portion of modern society, not modern thought that has liberalized Protestant opinion. To liberalize Protestant thought is like carrying coal to Newcastle.

Thirdly, it is not true that the recent discussion of the doctrine of hell shows “the influence of science.” It simply shows the ignorance of some Protestant divines and the wickedness of perverted human hearts. Science, as now understood, is exclusively concerned with things that fall under observation and experiment, or that can be logically inferred or mathematically deduced from experiment and observation. Now, surely, the torments of hell are not a matter of observation and experiment during the present life, as even Prof. Youmans will concede. And therefore it is evident that the doctrine of hell cannot be made the subject of scientific reasoning. On the other hand, how can science influence the opinion of men as to believing or not believing in a future state of eternal punishment? Our advanced thinkers assume that science knows everything, and that what is unknown to science has no existence. It is on this ground that they ignore revelation, creation, immortality, and a number of other important truths. But the absurdity of such an assumption is so evident that there can be no mistake about it. Science knows, or pretends to know, matter and force; but it knows nothing about right and wrong, nothing about virtue and vice, nothing about religion and moral law, nothing about the origin and the finality of things, and it is so ignorant (we speak of _advanced_ science) that it even fails to see the absolute necessity of a Creator. Is it not ridiculous, then, to assume that there may be no hell because modern science professes to know nothing about its existence?

But “the topic,” continues Prof. Youmans, “has also a scientific side. The rise and course of the _idea_, or what may be called the natural history of the belief in hell, is a subject quite within the sphere of scientific inquiry. It is legitimate to ask as to how the notion originated, as to its antiquity, the extent to which it has been entertained, the forms it has assumed, and the changes it has undergone, and from this point of view it of course involves the principle of evolution.” This reasoning, on which the professor endeavors to ground a scientific claim to meddle with a revealed doctrine, is altogether preposterous. For, although it be legitimate to ask how the notion of hell originated, and how ancient it is, and how ignorance and vulgar prejudices may have distorted it, nevertheless it is not from natural science that an answer to such questions can be expected. The theologian, the historian, and the moral philosopher are the only competent authorities on the subject. The scientist, as such, is not qualified to speak of the origin of revealed doctrines; for science, especially advanced science, has no knowledge of revelation. Hence, when our scientists venture to pass a judgment upon matters connected with revelation, they deserve to be reminded of the good old precept: Let the cobbler stick to his last.

The reader will have remarked that Prof. Youmans proposes to deal with the “forms” which the doctrine of eternal punishment has assumed, and with the “changes” it has undergone. This, of course, has no bearing on the question of the existence of hell; for the existence of things does not depend on the changeable views entertained as to their mode of existing. But the professor, who is wise in his generation, perceived that by insisting on the changes undergone by the doctrine two advantages could be gained. On the one hand, a precious opportunity would be offered of confounding our revealed doctrine with the fabulous conceptions of the pagan world; on the other hand, the professor would be enabled to treat our revealed doctrine as a mere development of old fables, according to certain principles of evolution which modern science has invented though never established. But we would remark that, since the professor meant to show, as we see from the conclusion of his article, that our Christian doctrine of hell “should be eliminated from the popular creed,” the argument drawn from the discordant views of heathen and barbarous nations should have been considered preposterous. For what does it matter if the pagan fables took different forms and underwent any number of changes? It is quite enough for us that our own doctrine has been invariably the same. It is a blunder, therefore, to condemn the latter for the variations of the former.

Prof. Youmans begins to develop his subject in the following manner: “In the first place, it is necessary to rise above that narrowness of view which regards the doctrine of hell as especially a Christian doctrine or as the monopoly of any particular religion. On the contrary, it is as ancient and universal as the systems of religious faith that have overspread the world.” In our opinion, this pretended necessity of rising “above the narrowness of view” which regards the doctrine of hell as especially Christian doctrine is only a futile pretext for putting on the same level the Christian dogma and the pagan inventions. In the recent discussion of the doctrine by the Protestant sects there had been no question about the existence of the imaginary hell of the pagans; the whole question regarded the Scriptural hell. Hence a reference to pagan ideas could not be necessary. Nor is it true that the view which regards the doctrine of hell as a specially Christian doctrine is “narrow.” We see that different sects have kept or borrowed some points of doctrine from the Catholic Church, and that they have perverted them more or less, as was the case with the doctrine of baptismal regeneration, of the Eucharist, of justification, and of other supernatural truths; and yet no one will say that it is a “narrow view” to regard these doctrines as essentially and exclusively Catholic. For to whom were they originally revealed but to the Catholic Church? and where are they to be found in their primitive entirety but in the Catholic Church? The vagaries of sectarian thought are surely not to be considered as a development of doctrine; they are only a travesty and an adulteration of truth, just in the same manner as the evolution of species is no part of natural science, being only a mass of absurdities, as we have abundantly shown in some of our past numbers. To mix together doctrinal truth and doctrinal error is not to avoid narrowness but to produce confusion. Were we to collect all the errors of modern scientists about force or about the constitution of matter, we could easily prove, by Prof. Youmans’ method, that science is a mere imposition and a disgrace to the age. But our logic differs from that of the professor; hence we do not consider it “narrowness” to distinguish science from the errors of scientists, that truth and error may not be involved indiscriminately in the same condemnation. But let us proceed:

“The oldest religions of which we have any knowledge—Hindoo, Egyptian, and the various Oriental systems of worship—all affirm the doctrine of a future life with accompanying hells for the torture of condemned souls. We certainly cannot assume that all these systems are true and of divine origin; but, if not, then the question forces itself upon us how they came to this belief. The old historic religious systems involved advanced and complicated creeds and rituals, and if they were not real divine revelations in this elaborate shape, we are compelled to regard them as having had a natural development out of lower and cruder forms of superstition. To explain these religions we must go behind them. There is a prehistoric, rudimentary theology of the primitive man, the quality of which has to be deduced from his low, infantine condition of mind, interpreted by what we observe among the inferior types of mankind in the present time.”

This passage contains the main argument of Prof. Youmans’ article, by which he intends to show that the doctrine of hell has no ground in divine revelation, but simply originated in human ignorance. Unfortunately, Professor Youmans’ interpretation of history cannot be depended upon. The fact that Hindoos, Egyptians, and all other nations admitted in some shape the doctrine of hell is a very good evidence that the doctrine of the existence of hell was co-extensive with humanity, and therefore had its origin in a primitive tradition of the race, and not in the imagination of isolated individuals or families. This primitive tradition, as well as the primitive religion, must be traced to Noe and his family. It is Noe’s religion, not the Hindoo or the Egyptian or any other Oriental religion, that has been “the oldest religion of which we have any knowledge”; and this oldest religion had its secure foundation in the knowledge of the true God and of his supreme, omnipotent, provident will. Hence, when Prof. Youmans, forsaking all mention of this primitive religion derived from direct divine revelation, resorts to other systems of worship more or less corrupt, and declares that “we cannot assume that all these systems are true and of divine origin,” he shows either a perverse desire of deceiving his readers, or at least a strange ignorance of ancient history.

The consequence he draws from the preceding assertions is even more unreasonable. If the religious systems of the ancient heathens were not divine revelations, “we are compelled,” he says, “to regard them as having a natural development out of lower and cruder forms of superstition.” This conclusion is so contrary to all we know of mankind that it required the inventive genius of an advanced scientist to formulate it. The known truth is that the objectionable systems of worship invented among different nations were not a progress of humanity from a lower form of superstition, but a departure from the form of worship originally practised according to God’s prescription, a fall from the region of light into the darkness of error. Noe’s religion was no superstition; and it is from Noe’s religion that the pagan nations apostatized by a gradual corruption of revealed truth.

Our advanced scientist invents also “a prehistoric rudimentary theology of the primitive man.” The invention is quite new and deserves to be patented. And the primitive man was still “in a low, infantine condition of mind”; which is another great discovery. The pity is that it has no ground. The Darwinian theory of evolution cannot be appealed to; for it is philosophically, historically, and even scientifically exploded, so that only “the inferior types of mankind”—that is, “the low and infantine minds”—can hear of it without shaking their heads. The primitive man knew his noble origin, conversed with his Creator, received his orders, and learned from him his own destiny. Adam was a great deal sharper, wittier, and more instructed in all important things than his modern scientific descendants; and Noe, the second father of our race, the second propagator and witness of divine revelation, was as eminent a man at least as any of our contemporaries; for he it was who transmitted to his descendants that knowledge of astronomy, architecture, philosophy, history, agriculture, and other arts and sciences by which the post-diluvian world, as soon as sufficiently repeopled, displayed in the wonderful magnificence of Babylonian and Egyptian civilization the intellectual treasures inherited from the antediluvian culture. Such was the man who handed down to us the fundamental truths of primitive religion. If such a man is said to have been “in a low and infantine condition of mind,” could we not say as much of the average scientist of the time?

The professor remarks that the early men, _in profound ignorance_ of the surrounding world and of their own nature, must have grossly misinterpreted outward appearances and their internal experiences, and this, he says, “is certain.” Indeed? How did the professor ascertain this? Men whose lives were measured by centuries could not have sufficient experience of things to save them from gross mistakes! They made no sufficient observations to enable them to interpret exterior and interior phenomena! They did not even know their own natures! Their ignorance was profound! Adam had the advantage of nine hundred and thirty years of experience, and yet “it is certain” that he remained in profound ignorance of the surrounding world! His descendants soon invented different useful arts, as metallurgy, architecture, and music both vocal and instrumental; they built cities, and reached that high degree of civilization and refinement without which the subsequent universal corruption would have been impossible; and yet, if we believe our professor, they did not know their natures nor what they were doing!

Then we are told that the analysis of the conditions of early men “has abundantly shown how these primitive misunderstandings led inevitably to manifold superstitions.” It is plain, however, that the conditions of early men have never been analyzed by those who reject the Mosaic history, for the first requisite for proceeding to such an analysis is a knowledge of the conditions themselves which are to be analyzed; and these conditions are found nowhere but in the book of Genesis. And as to “primitive misunderstandings” and the “inevitable superstitions” to which they have led, can Prof. Youmans give us more detailed information? Did Adam, in his “profound ignorance of the surrounding world,” imagine that the sun was a god? or the moon a goddess? Or was it possible for him to fall into “inevitable superstition,” seeing that he had been in frequent direct communication with his true Creator and God?

It is altogether ridiculous to pretend that Herbert Spencer “has carefully traced out this working of the primitive mind, and explained how the early men, by their crude misconceptions of natural things, were gradually led to the belief in a ghost-realm of beings appended to the existing order.” Herbert Spencer did nothing of the kind. He analyzed fictions, not facts, and his conclusions are worthless.

But, says Mr. Youmans, “the idea of a life after death, so universally entertained among races of the lowest grades of intelligence, is accounted for, and is only to be accounted for, in this way. Through experiences of sleep, dreams, and loss and return of consciousness at irregular times, ... there grew up the idea of a double nature—of a part that goes away leaving the body lifeless, and returns again to revivify it; and thus originated the theory of immaterial ghosts or spirits.” This is just what we could expect from an admirer of Herbert Spencer’s philosophical method. Prof. Youmans does not know, apparently, that the idea of a life after death is a simple corollary of a manifest truth—viz., that the reasoning principle which is in man is neither matter, nor an affection or modification of matter, but a distinct substance, and one which possesses powers and properties of a much higher order than the powers and properties of matter. This truth, against which materialists can allege nothing which has not been refuted a hundred times, combined with another obvious truth which even advanced science admits—viz., that no substance is or can be naturally annihilated—leads directly to the consequence that our reasoning principle, our soul, will naturally survive the death of our body. This mere hint concerning the substantiality, spirituality, and natural immortality of the human soul may here suffice. It shows that men had no need of resorting to the experiences of dreams, swoons, catalepsy, trance, and other forms of insensibility to be enabled to infer that the human soul is a spiritual substance. Every act of our intellectual faculties proclaims that our soul is a self-moving and self-possessing being. Dreams and swoons and catalepsy, being common to the lower animals, have never been considered a proof of the spirituality and immortality of the human soul. It is childish, therefore, to derive the idea of spirituality and immortality from the experience of such phenomena.

Mr. Youmans tells us also that when the conception of a separate and future life arose in men’s minds, such a life could not have been supposed to differ much from that of the present order of things. This he takes for granted, owing to the profound ignorance which, according to advanced science, characterized the primitive men; and he illustrates this view by some examples of savages, who bury food, weapons, implements, etc., with the bodies of their dead friends. But, “as knowledge accumulated, the conception grew incongruous, and underwent important modifications, so that similarity gradually passed into contrast. The intimacy of the intercourse supposed to be carried on between the two worlds decreased; the future world was conceived of as more remote, and as having other occupations and gratifications more consonant with developing ideas of the present life.” Such is the professor’s theory. We need hardly say that, as a scientific theory, it has no value. Science is based on facts; but here we have nothing but dreams exploded by history as well as by philosophy. The origin of the belief in hell is not to be traced to the profound ignorance of the primitive man. This profound ignorance is not a fact but a fiction. The assumption that man’s intellect was originally in an undeveloped condition, and that it has gone on improving all along till it became able to discover the incongruousness of its previous notions and to give them up, is another fiction. That the “accumulation of knowledge,” such as obtained among infidel nations, could enlighten them on a question as to which nothing can be definitely known on merely natural grounds, is a third fiction; whilst the truth is that the pretended knowledge of the heathens, like the pretended science of our modern sceptics, has been rather a source of innumerable absurdities, by which the primitive holy and healthy traditions of the race have been obscured, corrupted, and disfigured.

But the professor has more to say in support of his “scientific” view. “Rude conceptions regarding good and evil could not fail to be early involved with considerations of man’s futurity. Good and evil are inextricably mixed up in this world, which seems always to have been regarded as a faulty arrangement, and, as there was little hope of rectifying it here, the future life came to be regarded as compensatory to the present.... This idea of using the next world to redress the imperfections and wrongs of this grew up early and survives still, and it has exerted a prodigious influence in human affairs.” It is evident that the consideration of man’s futurity, to be rational, must involve the consideration of man’s moral nature; for the futurity of a moral being is necessarily connected with the moral order. It would be folly to deny that virtue deserves reward, or that vice deserves punishment; and even the most stupid understand that the future of a scoundrel must differ from the future of a saint. This universal belief “survives still,” as Mr. Youmans himself testifies, and is not “growing obsolete,” as he pretends, but is still universal in our civilized society. Of course a dozen or two of advanced thinkers may be found who reject this universal belief; for, as they suppress God and worship _Nature_, they would be embarrassed to explain how the good can be rewarded and the wicked punished by their blind goddess that has no knowledge of the moral law. But this shows only the “profound ignorance” of such advanced thinkers regarding things supersensible, and proves to demonstration that, in spite of all their pretensions, they do not belong to the civilized world. The early men, whose conceptions our professor denounces as “rude,” were better and deeper philosophers than he is. They recognized a personal God, the eternal source of morality, the judge of his creatures, the rewarder of justice, and the punisher of crime. They knew, therefore, that the problem of good and evil was to be solved “not by the absorption and disappearance of evil,” but by separating the good from the bad, “the good being all collected in a good place, and the bad ones all turned into a bad place.” Mr. Youmans does not like this solution. He seems to insinuate that the true solution implies the absorption and disappearance of evil. He seems to say: Let virtue be rewarded, but let not wickedness be punished. He may have his reasons for preferring this solution, but we have none for accepting it. Reason as well as revelation declare it to be unacceptable.

What follows is a vulgar tirade against priesthood. All priests indiscriminately are denounced by our liberal professor for having taught the existence of heaven and hell. He says:

“As the grosser superstitions were gradually developed into systematic religions, a priestly class arose, and religious beliefs were embodied in definite creeds. Fundamental among these was the belief in heaven as a place of happiness, and of hell as a place of torment for the wicked. To one or other of these places, it was held, all men are bound to go after death; but to which depended—and here the office of the priesthood assumed a terrible importance, for they knew all about it and had the keys. It is impossible to conceive any other idea of such tremendous power for dominating mankind as this! It raised the priesthood and the ecclesiastical institutions into despotic ascendency, brought it into unholy alliance with civil despotism, and became the mighty means of plundering the people, crushing out their liberties, darkening their hopes, and cursing their lives.”

This bit of declamation might safely be left without answer. But to clear up the confusion made by the scientific writer, we will ask him to explain what he understands by the word “priesthood.” Does he mean the ministers of all religions without exception, or the ministers of false religions only? Does he involve in the same sentence the priest of God and of Christ with the priest of Baal and of Moloch? or does he admit that a distinction should be made? Perhaps he will smile at our simplicity in asking a question about which his habitual readers can entertain no doubt, it being evident that a man who worships nothing but matter and force is a natural enemy of Christ and of his ministers. Nevertheless, as no one must be allowed to snarl and bite without motive, we insist on an explanation. If the Christian priesthood is not involved in his denunciations, then Mr. Youmans’ eloquence is all thrown away; for it is by the Christian priesthood that the doctrine of hell has been most efficiently taught and inculcated all the world over. If, on the contrary, as it is logical to assume, the Christian priesthood is involved in his denunciations, then Mr. Youmans’ brain is surely not in a sound condition. A man in full possession of his reasoning power would never have thought of connecting the Christian priesthood with despotism, or of charging them with plundering the people, crushing their liberties, darkening their hopes, or cursing their lives. No; the professor is not in full possession of his faculties in this matter. Were it otherwise, he would be guilty of the most odious slander. In some of his articles, which we have analyzed not long ago, we had already found what might be taken as unmistakable signs of scientific aberration. The reader may still remember how the professor countenanced the conception of the unthinkable, how he advocated continuous evolution without any actual link of continuity, and how he made life spring from dead, inert matter. But now it is the Christian priesthood that makes an unholy alliance with civil despotism and crushes the liberties of the people! This assertion cannot be excused by the plea of bad logic; for it regards a matter of fact, not of speculation, and logic, whether good or bad, has nothing to do with it. Only a natural or preternatural derangement in a man’s brain can account for the oddity of such a charge. We say _natural_ or _preternatural_, because it sometimes happens, even in this age of advanced civilization, that a man who makes profession of militant infidelity is taken possession of, either consciously or unconsciously, by “the father of lies,” who makes a fool of him in this world the better to secure his everlasting ruin in the other. We repeat that a man of sound mind, and free from satanic influence, would never make such a silly and unhistorical denunciation of the priesthood as Prof. Youmans has ventured to make. He would rather say that the Christian priesthood has been the most earnest champion of popular liberties in all times and in all countries, as all ecclesiastical and secular history testifies. He would say that their ascendency, far from being despotic, was kind and paternal, and calculated to win, as it did, the love of the people without ceasing to command their respect. He would say that this ascendency was not derived from their threats of the torments of hell, but was the reward of their virtuous life, ardent charity, singular prudence, and superior education; and was used, not to plunder the people, but to protect them against baronial, royal, and imperial plunderers.

Plundering is a masonic virtue; witness the great French Revolution in the last century, and the policy of Italy, Germany, and Switzerland in the present. And who are the men that plunder the American people but the infidel politicians who do not believe in hell? Mr. Youmans may depend upon it, no judicial, legislative, or executive power will ever put a stop to such a wholesale plundering until they humbly kneel before the priest, and conjure him to take in hand the education of our citizens and to revive in them a salutary fear of hell. It is not the fear of hell that “curses the lives” or “darkens the hopes” of men. All the world knows, on the contrary, that there has never been on the face of the earth a thriftier and happier people than the Christian has been. Of course criminals are troubled by the remembrance of hell, their lives are galled, and their hopes are darkened; but we presume that Mr. Youmans does not mean to patronize them. After all it is not the priests that have created hell; they merely warn the sinner of its existence, that he may mend his ways and be saved. Indeed, it is sin, not hell, that darkens the hopes and curses the life of man.

From the bitter tone of the passage we have been refuting it would appear that Mr. Youmans is extremely jealous of the authority and ascendency of the priesthood. The jealousy is very natural. The priest, who teaches the Gospel backed by the authority of the universal church, is a very serious obstacle to the propagation of false scientific or unscientific belief. Therefore it is that Mr. Youmans cannot bear to see the Christian priesthood revered and esteemed by the people, and does his best to destroy their reputation and authority. At this we are not astonished; for modern unbelief is so destitute of intrinsic grounds and so incapable of defending itself that it is constrained to go out of its lines and try a diversion. Accordingly, it takes the offensive. But when the offensive is carried on with no other weapons than those recommended by Voltaire, “_Mentez, mentez toujours; il faut mentir comme des diables_,” then _tranquillus judicat orbis terrarum_, the world, though wicked, will be heard to pronounce its sentence against the offender.

The professor adds:

“So productive an agency of unscrupulous ambition could not fail to be assiduously cultivated, and the conception of hell, the most potent element in the case by its appeal to fear, was elaborated with the utmost ingenuity. Language was exhausted in depicting the terrors of the infernal regions and the agonies of the damned. We by no means say that these ideas were mere priestly inventions, but only that they grew up under the powerful guidance of a class consecrated to their exposition and incited by the most powerful worldly motives to strengthen their influence. In order to enforce belief, to compel obedience to ecclesiastical requirements, to coerce civil submission, and to extort money, people were threatened with the horrors of hell, which were pictured with all the vividness of rhetorical and poetic fanaticism. As the hierarchical spirit grew in strength and became a tyrannical rule, obedience to its minutest rites was enforced by the most appalling intimidations.”

We did not know, before we read this passage, that preaching the Christian doctrine of hell was productive of “unscrupulous ambition”; we rather thought that it was productive of deep and sincere humility. The preacher of the Gospel believes in the Gospel, and knows that hell is awaiting the bad and “unscrupulous” priest no less than the bad and unscrupulous layman. Hence, if the priest assiduously cultivated the thought and elaborated the doctrine of hell, it would appear that the priest could not be “unscrupulous”—at least, not so unscrupulous as those professors who get rid of hell by the final “absorption of evil.” Nor do we understand why a wise man should complain that the priests assiduously cultivated and elaborated the doctrine of hell, and that “language was exhausted in depicting the terrors of the infernal regions.” This fact should be a matter of congratulation, not of blame; for the terrors of hell “exert a prodigious influence,” as the professor acknowledges, in human affairs; they discourage crime, fortify virtue, and contribute to the maintenance of those conditions without which human society would be transformed into a lair of ferocious beasts. A professor who pretends to a high place among the friends of civilization should have seen this.

As to the motives which induced the priesthood to dilate so assiduously on the torments of hell, we admit that they were “powerful”; but that they were “worldly” we do not admit, for had they been worldly they would have lost all their power. In like manner we admit that the hierarchical spirit may have grown in strength; but that it became a “tyrannical rule,” enforcing the minutest rites “by appalling intimidations,” we most confidently deny. These malicious assertions cannot be substantiated. And again, we understand how the fear of the eternal torments may have helped to secure obedience to the lawful authorities, whether civil or ecclesiastical; but we do not see how this fear could be used “to extort money” from the people. The thing is absurd, as it involves the assumption that the most virtuous, venerable, and self-sacrificing friends of the people, the Christian priesthood, were a set of knaves.

The professor’s remark that “the terrors of hell were not mere priestly inventions, but grew up under their powerful guidance,” will receive more light from the passage which follows:

“We must not forget that the future life, being beyond experience and inaccessible to reason, offers an attractive playground for the unbridled imagination. It opens an infinite realm for sensuous imagery and creative invention, stirs the deepest feelings, and concerns itself with the mystery of human destiny. It accordingly offers a favorite topic for poetic treatment, and this is more especially true of the darker aspect of the future world, poets having taken with avidity to delineations of hell.... Homer, Virgil, Dante, and Milton, working through poems of immortal genius that have fascinated mankind, some of them through thousands of years and others through centuries, have thus combined to familiarize countless millions of people with the conception, and to stamp it deep in the literature of all countries.”

There is some truth in this; for it is true that all our pictures of hell are drawn more or less from our imagination. However, we do not mistake our pictures for the reality. No effort to depict what we have never seen can be a success. But what of that? The belief in the existence of hell is not derived from, or subordinated to, our mode of representing its torments, just as the belief in the existence of heaven is not derived from our wild theories of celestial spaces or from our poor notions of happiness. The future life is indeed “beyond experience,” as Mr. Youmans says, but its existence is not “inaccessible to reason,” as he sophistically assumes; for it is by reasoning that both the ancient and the modern philosophers established the truth of the conception. On the other hand, our pictures of hell are not drawn exclusively from our imagination. The lake of fire and brimstone, the undying worm, the weeping and gnashing of teeth, the sempiternal horror, the company of devils, etc., are mentioned in the Bible. Hence, when we use such words as these for describing the state of eternal damnation, we use images authorized by Him who knows what he has prepared for the unrepentant transgressor of his commandments.

From these remarks it clearly follows that if the poet can find in the notion of hell “an attractive playground for the unbridled imagination,” such is not the case with the priest. The imagination of the priest is not “unbridled”; it is ruled by the Scriptural language. The preacher who would countenance Dante’s _Inferno_ from the pulpit would be accounted a traitor or a fool. The hell of the poets may be highly amusing in spite of its terrors, but it makes no conversions, whilst the hell of the Bible has converted millions upon millions of sinful souls. Prof. Youmans strives to confound the hell of the Christians with the hell of the poets. It is lost labor. Fecundity and sterility demand different subjects. It is truth that fructifies. Fiction is barren.

And again, to say that the poetic inventions of Homer, Virgil, Dante, and Milton “combined to familiarize countless millions of people” with the conception of hell, is to utter a paradox which has no foundation. Prof. Youmans mistakes the effect for the cause. There has been no need of poesy to familiarize the countless millions with the conception. The millions were familiar with it before they ever read the poets; nay, more, it is from the popular conception that the poets collected the first materials for their descriptions of hell. The multitude, the millions, do not read poets. On the other hand, before the invention of typography—that is, for long centuries—books were extremely rare, and the “countless millions” did not even know how to read. Hence Mr. Youmans’ attempt to trace the general belief in hell to poetical inventions is a manifest fallacy.

The professor now comes to our time, and with an air of great satisfaction makes the following assertions:

“Yet the doctrine of hell is now growing obsolete. Originating in ages of savagery and low barbarism, and developed in periods of fierce intolerance, sanguinary persecutions, cruel civil codes, and vindictive punishments, it harmonized with the severities and violence of society, and undoubtedly had use as a means of the harsh discipline of men, when they were moved only by the lowest motives. But with the advance of knowledge, and the cultivation of humaner sentiments, the doctrine has become anomalous and out of harmony with the advance of human nature. Hence, though still a cardinal tenet of orthodoxy, it is now generally entertained in a vague and loose way, and with reservations and protests that virtually destroy it. Only revival preachers of the Moody stamp still affirm the literal lake of fire and brimstone, and it is certain that the doctrine in any shape recurs much less prominently in current preaching than it did a generation or two ago. Sober-minded clergymen have got in the way of neglecting it, except now and then when rehearsing the creed, or, as at present, under the spur of controversy, or when rallied about the decay of the old theology.”

Here Mr. Youmans surpasses himself; for, though he has given us already other proofs of his recklessness, yet here he displays his power of misrepresentation with an effrontery that beggars description. “The doctrine of hell is now growing obsolete”! Is this a fact? No. It is only a desire and a delusion of the anti-Christian sects. Were it a fact, the church, too, would be growing obsolete; for the doctrine of hell is one of the “cardinal” tenets of the church, as Mr. Youmans himself testifies. But we see, on the contrary, that the church is everywhere gaining new ground and extending her conquests. We are not ignorant that a spirit of apostasy has pervaded a portion of the ruling classes, and that Freemasonry makes daily some converts to Satan; but, while we are sorry to see this ruin of souls, we are far from regarding it as a loss to the militant church. The church cannot but thrive better when cowardice and hypocrisy cease to conceal themselves under her glorious banner. Can the apostasy of her unworthy sons cause her faith to grow obsolete? No. The third part of the angels, according to a received view, refused obedience to God and became his enemies; yet obedience to God did not grow obsolete. At the time of the Lutheran Reformation the authority of the popes was fiercely denounced, vilified, and rejected throughout all Germany, Switzerland, and other countries; yet the pope’s authority did not grow obsolete. What does it matter, then, if a set of fools who have no God but the “unthinkable” agree to reject the doctrine of hell? So long as two hundred millions of Catholics believe the doctrine as a “cardinal tenet” of the church, and so long as the rest of the world, Protestants, Jews, and pagans, believe either the same or an analogous doctrine, it is absurd to call it obsolete. Opinions may grow obsolete, dogmatic truths never; for the church and her doctrine, whether respected or disregarded by our modern wiseacres, will last to the end of time.

The doctrine of hell “originated in ages of savagery and barbarism”! The sapient writer who makes this assertion should be asked to point out a definite age in which the doctrine originated, and to give some proof of the savagery and barbarism of such an age. Will Mr. Youmans give us any evidence on these two points? No; he cannot. He will merely appeal to prehistoric time—that is, to the unknown and unknowable. This is now the style of many scientific jugglers; they draw their conclusions from unknown premises! We have already shown, by reference to the Bible, how the doctrine of hell originated. Let Mr. Youmans examine our statement of facts, and we do not doubt but that, in a lucid interval, he will see the absurdity of his assertion, and the futility of his struggle against historical truth.

The doctrine of hell “was developed in periods of fierce intolerance, sanguinary persecutions, cruel codes, and vindictive punishments”! Much might be said about this bold untruth. Perhaps we might reverse the whole phrase, and say that it is the hostility to the doctrine of hell that was developed in a period of fierce intolerance, sanguinary persecution, cruel codes, and vindictive punishments. Unbelief had a period of triumph in the great French Revolution. Its intolerance was so fierce that it brought about “the Reign of Terror”; its persecution was decidedly sanguinary; its code the will of a drunken mob or the caprice of a profligate dictator. That period is past, but another, and not a better one, is approaching. Freemasonry is maturing new diabolic plans, and, if allowed to conquer, when the time comes will not stop midway in their execution. Meanwhile these enemies of “fierce intolerance” are satisfied with a Bismarckian humanity, and these denouncers of “sanguinary persecutions” wash their innocent hands in the blood of Colombian and Ecuadorian citizens, priests, and bishops who have had manhood enough to oppose the tyranny of the sect. We might add much more, of course, to unmask these virtuous Pharisees, who are so scandalized at the intolerance of Christianity; but we must return to our subject.

The assertion that the doctrine of hell “was developed in periods of fierce intolerance,” etc., is really nonsensical. For the truth is that this doctrine was never _developed_. The doctrine, as now held in the universal church, does not contain anything besides what it contained at the time of the apostles. Hence the development of the doctrine of hell is a “scientific” invention of Mr. Youmans’ brain. Nor can he exculpate himself by pretending that his phrase refers to the barbarous inhabitants of the primitive world. For civil codes had then no existence, and nothing allows the assumption that the early men passed through periods of fierce intolerance and sanguinary persecution. These words are meant to stigmatize Christianity and the middle ages as contrasted with the scepticism of the present age. If our professor had a correct idea of what the middle ages really were, we fancy that, though a man of progress, he would admire their culture, wisdom, and humanity.

The doctrine of hell was used as “a means of harsh discipline when men were moved only by the lowest motives”! Be humble, Mr. Youmans; you are not a competent judge in matters of this sort. First, you know not the facts. Secondly, you know not the nature and value of supernatural motives. Thirdly, you know not that a “harsh discipline” is as much needed to-day to curb the unruly passions as it was a thousand years ago. Fourthly, you do not know that the lowest motives do not exclude the highest. Fifthly, you do not know that no motive is low which is suggested and inculcated by God. Sixthly, you do not know that your words are a crushing condemnation of modern liberalism, whose god is the almighty Dollar, and whose best motives are infinitely lower than those which animated the chivalric and high-spirited Christians of the mediæval time.

“With the advance of knowledge and the cultivation of humaner sentiments the doctrine of hell has become anomalous”! What does this mean? Did the advance of geography, physics, mechanics, cosmogony, chemistry, or other branches of science alter the conception or diminish the certainty of the doctrine of hell? Common sense says no. And yet these are the only branches of knowledge that claim to have advanced. But we must notice that “knowledge,” according to Prof. Youmans’ phraseology, comprises all the wild hypotheses of our modern speculators, and that among these there is a theory which has charmed our professor, and to which he certainly alludes when he reminds us of the advance of knowledge. This is Darwin’s theory of the descent of man. If man is a modified ape, it is quite plain that the doctrine of hell becomes “anomalous”; for apes do not go to hell. But, if such be the case, then “the advance of human nature” is retrogressive, and we cannot boast of “humaner sentiments” without inconsistency. The truth is that we have advanced a little in the knowledge of matter; but our moral advance has been, and still is, badly cramped by false ideas of civilization. The very effort of advanced thinkers to suppress hell reveals the hollowness of their humane sentiments, and proves that their philanthropy is a sham.

The doctrine of hell “is now generally entertained with reservations and protests that virtually destroy it.” By whom?—perhaps by the professor’s friends. And the doctrine is entertained “in a vague and loose manner.” Again by whom?—by sceptics, we suppose. But scepticism is ignorance; it deserves pity, not approval. Yet “only revival preachers of the Moody stamp still affirm the literal lake of fire and brimstone”! Perhaps Prof. Youmans will be glad to be informed that the literal lake of fire and brimstone is preached even now all over the earth, and in the very centres of civilization, by men of a far higher stamp of intellect than Moody and Sankey. The “sober-mindedness” of the Protestant clergymen who “have got in the way of neglecting” the Scriptural hell is nothing but scepticism, or, worse still, cowardice. But the silence of these men proves nothing. They have no mission to teach. They are not “the salt of the earth”; and their defection does no harm to the dogmas of Christianity.

Mr. Youmans concludes thus:

“In the recent pulpit utterance there is a perfect chaos of discordant speculation, open repudiation, tacit disavowal, and ingenious refining away, but no stern and sturdy defence of it, in the old form and spirit, from any source that commands respect. The doctrine of hell is still conserved in popular creeds, but, if not eliminated, it will be pretty certain to carry the creeds with it into the limbo of abandoned superstitions.”

This conclusion would be unanswerable, if the Protestant pulpit were the standard of religious doctrine. But why did not Mr. Youmans reflect that his clergymen are only leaders of sects whose Christianity is nearly extinct, and whose words have no authority? Is it not plain that, if the blind lead the blind, both will fall into a ditch?

But we must conclude without entering into further developments. The Christian doctrine of hell is incontrovertible. It is universal, it is reasonable, and it is revealed in unequivocal terms. Advanced scientists may not like it; yet, instead of sowing malicious doubts about it, they should bear in mind that they themselves are of all men the most likely to fall into the lake of fire in which they disbelieve. To Prof. Youmans we offer a text from St. John’s Apocalypse, chapter fourteen:

“And the third angel followed them, saying with a loud voice: If any man shall adore the beast and his image, and receive his mark in his forehead or in his hand, he also shall drink of the wine of the wrath of God, which is mingled with pure wine in the cup of his wrath, and _he shall be tormented with fire and brimstone in the sight of the holy angels, and in the sight of the Lamb; and the smoke of their torments shall ascend up for ever and ever_.”

Professor Youmans need not be informed that this great beast with its adorers and followers is a symbolic representation of anti-Christianism. Its soul is the spirit of apostasy; its heads and horns are governments and kings; its body is an organic confederation of all secret societies, comprising diplomatists, statesmen, politicians, godless newspaper editors, authors of infamous books, writers of “scientific” articles against revelation, and the whole army of the enemies of Christ. The beast will have great power, God so permitting; but its reign will be short. Jesus Christ will defeat it, and its followers will find no mercy. Their portion shall be “in the lake of fire and brimstone,” and their punishment shall last “for ever and ever.” We think that no sensible man can deceive himself so as to undervalue this solemn prophecy. The great beast, which is now walking upon the earth, has been minutely described by the evangelist and by Daniel; and it would be odd to pretend that they could, without a revelation from God, foresee, thousands of years ago, what was to happen in this time of ours. But if their words have come from God, then the lake of fire and brimstone and the eternity of the torments deserve the most serious consideration, especially on the part of our professors of anti-Christianity. Materialism will not help them in the day of wrath. Friends will not save them. Faith, repentance, and a timely satisfaction for past delinquencies are the sole chance of salvation.

We earnestly entreat Prof. Youmans to ponder over this momentous truth. It may be unattractive, but it has the merit of being absolutely certain.

SORROW.

Sorrow and I so long have lived together How would it seem now if we had to part? So many storms we two have had to weather, Such thunders heard! following the lightning’s dart! Come, Sorrow, now what say you to a truce? Wilt lift the cloudy curtain so long hung Around our fates, those heavy rings unloose, Let fly the fetters that have made us one?

And yet it might be—_I should miss thee, Sorrow!_ Thy constancy to me has been so great, Thy shadow banished from my life to-morrow, What earthly lover on me thus would wait? For thou art sent from heaven, a sacred guest. And though, sweet Sorrow, I’ll not bid thee stay, Yet to those sins I bear one more confest Were this: that I turned Heaven’s guest away.

A. T. L.

KITTY DARCY.

“You have overdone it, Bertram.”

“Not a bit of it, father.”

“You must get away.”

“Can’t afford expensive luxuries.”

“Do you consider health a luxury?”

“A necessity.”

“And yet, for the sake of piling up a few hundred dollars, you fling, yes, actually _fling_, it from you as though you were tired of it.”

“I love my profession too much not to make some little concession to _it_.”

“Come, now, Bertram, this won’t do. You have overworked yourself, and off you must go. This is the right time to start.”

“Whither?”

“To Paris.”

“Paris! Why not say Timbuctoo?”

“I say Paris.”

“You are surely jesting.”

“I do not jest on so serious a subject as your health, my boy.”

“It can’t be done, father.”

“It _must_ be done, Bertram. Your Uncle Kirwan starts on Wednesday, and with him you shall go. He hopes to be in time for the opening of the Exhibition.”

“My Uncle Kirwan goes on business.”

“His nephew shall go on pleasure. Why, what’s the matter with you? Half the young fellows in New York would be half-mad with delight to be in your place.” Doctor Bertram Martin laughs. The idea is ridiculous, absurd. He cannot, he _dare_ not leave his patients. That delightful case of tetanus, that splendid fracture of the hip, that exquisite tumor yielding to a new treatment, that interesting consumption, that curious cardiac dropsy, that superb typhus!

Bertram Martin, although but twenty-four years of age, is regarded by the profession as the coming man. His work on aneurism is considered the ablest essay yet written upon the subject, and his reputation with the “knife” is second to none. He is highly cultured, earnest, a calm intelligence, with the fires of enthusiasm well banked up; but he is full of latent purpose, an energy that is ever on the spring, and of lava that eventually cools into solid success. He has a great future before him, and he _feels_ it.

His father, in whose Turkey-rugged, book-lined office he reclines in a low chair—one of those delightful chairs that fondle and caress the weary occupant—is also a physician, and who, having amassed a considerable fortune, now that he has safely launched the good ship that bears his name, is about to enjoy a well-earned _otium cum dignitate_.

Bertram’s mother has noted the increasing pallor in the young physician’s face, the drag under the eye, the hard, dark lines, and the weariness of tone, that denote an active brain heated to a white heat, and has determined, _coûte que coûte_, that her eldest-born shall “drop both spade and plough for a revel amongst the daisies.”

“Exhibitions are played out, father,” exclaims Bertram. “The last and best was at Philadelphia, and no show on the earth could beat that.”

He is intensely American, regarding Europe as effete, old-world, used up.

“Paris is not played out.”

“I should much prefer seeing Paris at any other time.”

“That’s what everybody will say who can’t go. I may as well tell you, Bertram, that there’s a little conspiracy got up against you, and at the head of it is your mother.”

“Yes, Bertie,” exclaims Mrs. Martin, who enters, “we have undermined you. Your Uncle Kirwan starts on Wednesday by the _Scythia_, and here’s the ticket for your state-rooms,” handing him the article in question.

“Why, mother—”

“My darling child, you look dreadfully ill, and it is fretting my heart out. I spoke to Doctor Lynch, and he _orders_ change of air and total cessation from work. You never opposed me in your young life; you are not going to commence _now_.”

“But—”

“But me no buts, Bertie.”

“This trip would take two months.”

“Three.”

“I should be out of the race in three months.”

“You’ll return fresh and vigorous, and to win.”

“This is sheer folly. I never felt better in my life.”

“Next Wednesday, Bertie.”

“I could not, even if I listened to this absurd proposal, be ready before two weeks.”

“Next Wednesday, Bertie.”

In vain does the young doctor expostulate, contesting the ground inch by inch. In vain does he plead for time. His pickets are driven in, the enemy is upon him in force, and, ere he can well realize the exact posture of affairs, his mother has obtained his solemn promise that he will leave for Europe by the _Scythia_ upon the following Wednesday in company with his uncle, Walter Kirwan.

A bright and joyous group was assembled at the Cunard wharf to see him off, and to bid him Godspeed across the waste of waters. Mr. Kirwan, a fine, handsome man of five-and-thirty, over six feet high, with a winning eye and a wooing voice, stood “one bumper at parting” in his state-room, which was decorated with a profusion of glorious flowers, the offerings of very near and very dear friends. One bouquet, composed exclusively of forget-me-nots and mignonette, caused any number of “Oh! my’s,” “How beautiful!” “Isn’t it lovely!” from pouting female lips.

“Who sent it to you, Bertram?” asked Mrs. Martin.

“It may not be for me, mother.”

“Oh! yes, it is; here is the card with your name upon it.”

“I have no idea.”

“No idea?”

“None in the world.”

A tall, lithe, graceful girl stands a little aside, trifling with the fringe of her parasol, as these questions are being put, her embarrassed looks and blushing cheeks denoting fierce and scarce controlled agitation.

“Did you send me this bouquet, Miss Reed?” asks Bertram in a low tone.

“I—I—that is—I hope you will—that they will—look pretty,” is the murmured response.

“Did Carrie Reed send those flowers to Bertram?” asks Mrs. Martin of her sister, Mrs. Kirwan, in freezing tones.

“Yes; I heard her admit it just now.”

“What a forward minx! I’ve a great mind to tell her so.”

How severe these mothers are when “my son” is approached by youth and beauty! The idea of marriage is a horror.

* * * * *

“And this is Liverpool!” exclaims Bertie, as the good ship steams up the Mersey. “I’m awfully sorry to have been asleep when we were at Queenstown; why didn’t you shake me up, uncle?”

“Because you want all the sleep you can get. You were nearly in for a dose of _insomnia_, and that would have pretty soon squared _your_ account, my boy.”

“Pshaw! you all made me out worse than I really was.”

“Not a bit of it. You allowed a nice lot of sand to run out of your glass. But isn’t _that_ a sight, Bertie? There are masts—a forest. There are docks—_the_ docks of the world.”

“What docks we’ll have in twenty years at New York!”

“You don’t believe in anything outside of the stars and stripes.”

“Not much,” with a laugh; adding, “Shall we make any stay in Liverpool?”

Mr. Kirwan consults his watch.

“We shall only just catch that train due in London at 6.40. The Dover express starts at 7.35. This will decant us in Paris to-morrow morning at six. We shall have nice time for a big wash, a big breakfast, and then for the opening of the Exhibition.”

“This is close shaving.”

“That’s my principle. Narrow margins. They pay best all round.”

Mr. Kirwan’s calculations, based Upon professional experience, proved correct. A vague soup and an ill-dressed cutlet at Charing Cross, a thick omelette and a thin wine at Amiens, did duty for refreshment. In the sheen of dazzling early sunlight Bertram Martin first saw Paris, the bright, the joyous, the glittering, the beautiful. A dream of his life was about to be realized.

Mr. Kirwan having telegraphed for apartments, he with our hero was “skied” at the Hôtel du Louvre, and after a breakfast which would have done honor to a navvy had been disposed of by Bertie, who in New York would flirt with a slice of toast and coquette with a fresh egg, cigars were lighted and the two gentlemen set forth in the direction of the Champ de Mars.

“This is the best sight I have ever seen,” cried the young physician, as they strolled along the Rue de Rivoli. “Why, it’s nearly as bright as Broadway.”

“What a thorough Yank you are, Bertie! Come here, now; just take a look around you, and confess that you are fairly dumbfounded.”

They stood at the Place de la Concorde. The fountains were throwing feathery sprays high in air; the flowers were blooming in a myriad hues. Thousands of vehicles were flashing past, tens of thousands of pedestrians. The great tide of human life had set in towards the Trocadero. Regiments in gorgeous uniforms, headed by bands playing superbly, marched onwards, quaint costumes of every nationality under the sun flitted by—bizarre groups chatting and laughing and gesticulating!

Behind them the blackened walls of the Tuileries, in front the Champs Elysées and the Arc de Triomphe, on the left the Chamber of Deputies, on the right the glorious Madeleine.

“It _is_ magnificent,” exclaimed Bertie at length, in a subdued tone of emotion.

“Nearly as bright as Broadway,” laughed Kirwan.

“Wait! Twenty years, and our up-town will be as gorgeous as this. We have the taste, we have the money, all we want is the time; _that_ we have not.”

“And never will have. We rush too much. But come along; we must be at the Exhibition building early or our chances of getting in will be a little thin. We shall have, as we say in New York, to take a back seat, doctor.”

“I should prefer to stop here. What a sight this is! What contrasts; how vivid! Look at that grim sergent-de-ville, and beside him that _piquante_ girl in the Normandy cap as high as his cocked hat, and earrings as long as his sword. See that _ouvrier_ in the blouse; how cheerfully he smokes his cigar, carrying his two children! I do believe he would carry his wife into the bargain. How coquettishly she is attired, and how cheaply! See the artistic manner that two-dollar shawl is draped over her shoulder, and how that five-cent ribbon hangs. I’ll wager that these fellows coming along as if walking on air are of the Quartier Latin, the students’ quarter. They, poor fellows! have come to see the crowd. I suppose their united wealth at this moment will scarcely do more than omelette and beer them. What flashing equipages! How beautifully finished! We _do_ want these liveries in Central Park. Imagine those yellows, and purples, and blues, and saffrons, and whites glancing amongst our green trees or up Fifth Avenue. What cavalry! How superbly those dragoons sit their horses—Centaurs every man of them. It must have been by sheer force of numbers that they bit the dust in the late war. What fountains! what flowers! what trees—four rows of them up to that magnificent arch—and what residences!” gushed Bertram Martin.

“These gilded pagodas, and Swiss chalets, and marble palaces, and fairy bowers are for open-air concerts. Wait till you see them lighted up, and I tell you what it is, Bertie, you’ll go into raptures. Why, no tale in the _Arabian Nights_ equals them for glitter. And the music, my boy, sparkles like champagne,” cried Kirwan enthusiastically.

Arrived at the Champ de Mars, the crowd gradually filtered into the Exhibition building. At the turnstile Bertie was separated from his uncle, who made a rush for another entrance. Immediately in front of him was a young girl, lissome and lithe of figure, attired in a raiment of soft, filmy, cloudy, floating white. He could detect a delicate little ear, and a white neck from which the hair was scrupulously lifted and arranged—she had removed her hat—dark and lustrous, tight and trim, in a fashion exceedingly becoming to the beautiful, but trying to the more ordinary of womankind.

Have we not all at some time or another felt that something strange was going to happen to us? that steps were coming nearer and nearer? that a voice was calling to us at a great way off that would presently become more distinct?

A something urged Bertram Martin to see this girl’s face. Was it mere curiosity? No. The impulse was indefinable as a subtle perfume, indefinable as a sweet sound in music. A shapely head, and lustrous hair, and a lissome form—this was a very ordinary scaffolding whereon to build a romance, and, although the young doctor would have laughed anybody to scorn who would have taxed him with being romantic, there was no boy of half his age and quarter his experience more likely to make a fool of himself about a woman than Bertie Martin.

He had led his life amongst his books, his profession his mistress. Too much absorbed in the engrossing duties attendant upon the alleviation of the ills the flesh is heir to, he was in the world and yet not of it, beholding it as through a polished sheet of plate-glass. His mother, a woman of the highest culture, refinement, taste, and ability, had vainly urged upon him the necessity of taking part in the gayeties of a very extended and highly fashionable circle—vainly, indeed; for having on a few occasions attended “swell” receptions and upper-crust entertainments, he squarely pilloried himself in a _cui bono_? and from that hour the butterfly world knew him no more.

He is tall, lightly built, graceful. His eyes are dark gray, full of earnestness, and blazing with intelligence. His mouth is absolutely faultless, having at command a smile, a veritable ray of sunshine. His light-brown moustache and beard have never known the razor. He dresses well, and is a dandy in gloves and boots.

He must see that girl’s face, and he plunged forward despite the _sacr-r-ré_ of an infuriated Frenchman and the full-flavored exclamation of a London cockney, into whose ribs he had plunged his right elbow. At this moment she turned her head a little to address a portly gentleman behind, who, with a flushed face and a general appearance of acute physical and mental suffering, through heat, crush, and excitement, had been urging her to push onwards.

Her profile was simply lovely: one inch of forehead; a nose a trifle out of the regular line of beauty; eyelashes that swept her cheeks; a short upper lip with a tremulous curl in it, a rich red under one, and a chin worthy the chisel of Phidias. And yet, despite its classical _contour_, her face was Irish—yea, that delicious _ensemble_ which Erin bestows upon her daughters, placing them above all in beauty, in archness, and in purity of expression.

“She is lovely,” murmured Bertie, gazing at her with all his eyes.

A rush came, a great pressure from behind, and the wave flung him beyond the turnstile.

“Well done, old fellow!” cried Kirwan, clapping him on the back.

“Where is she?” demanded the young physician, gazing round him on every side, as though his head were rotary.

“Just gone up this way with her son.”

“Who? What son?”

“Why, the Duchess of Lachaunay. That’s what caused the rush; her toilet is by Worth, and cost twenty thousand francs.”

“Hang the duchess!” groaned Bertie. “I have lost sight of the loveliest girl I ever laid eyes on.”

“Where was she?”

“There, right in front of me.”

“Never mind. Take heart of grace. We’ll pick her up by and by. Let’s get our seats or we’ll forfeit them.”

“You go, uncle. I’ll do as I am, I think I’ll walk about.”

Kirwan looked at his nephew with a merry glance.

“So badly hit as that, Bertie?”

“Pshaw!” cried the doctor, turning on his heel.

And they did not find her. Not a bit of it. Bertram walked, and stalked, and darted hither and thither, until Kirwan fairly let him have his own way, giving him a rendezvous at the hotel for seven o’clock.

What cared Bertram Martin for the gorgeous array of foreign princes, ambassadors, commissioners, presidents, ministers, deputations, senators, or deputies? What cared he for the address to Marshal MacMahon, or the one-hundred-and-one gun salute, or the military music, or the hoisting of flags, or the playing of fountains? What cared he for the procession, with all its glittering magnificence, or for all the treasures of the earth dug up by man and nurtured by art? He sought the four-leaved shamrock in the bright young girl whose beauty had flashed upon him as a revelation, and although he posted himself at the chief exit until he came to be regarded with suspicion by a grim sergent-de-ville, in the hope of obtaining another glimpse of her, he was doomed to disappointment, and he returned to the hotel, and to a _petit dîner_ ordered for the occasion by his uncle, in the worst possible spirits.

“Did you find her, Bertie?”

“No.”

“If she’s French she won’t go to the Exhibition again for some time. She has done the opening, and will take it now, as the Crushed Tragedian says, ‘in sections.’ But come, Bertie, love or no love, try this _Soupe à la Bonne Femme_; it will ring up the curtain to a _menu_ that even Delmonico never dreamt of in his wildest imaginings.”

* * * * *

For the two weeks that Bertie remained in Paris he sought the fair unknown—sought her in the Exposition, in the galleries of the Louvre, at Versailles, amongst the ruins of the palace of St. Cloud, in churches, on the boulevards, in _cafés_—everywhere. Once he thought he caught a glimpse of her passing along the Rue de Rome, and, plunging from the top of the omnibus at the imminent risk of breaking his neck, came up with a very pretty young girl who turned into the residence of the ex-Queen of Spain.

“It is a perfect infatuation,” wrote home Kirwan. “Bertie is crazed about some girl he saw on the opening day of the Exhibition. I can get no good of him. I scarcely ever see him, and when he is with me he is continually darting from me in pursuit of this will-o’-the-wisp, or craning his neck in search of her. And only to think of grave Doctor Bertram Martin being in this horrid state!”

It had been announced that the tour was to include London, the English lakes, Scotland, and Ireland. Bertie voted London a bore, the lakes a nuisance, the land of cakes nowhere, and declared in favor of a few days in Ireland. With a sigh, as though tearing up his heart by the roots, he took his departure from Paris.

“I shall never, _never_ see her again,” he groaned, and was silent the whole way to Calais.

Kirwan fondly imagined that London would shake off this glamour, and did his uttermost to bring all the attractions of the modern Babylon into bold relief; but four days seemed so thoroughly to weary his nephew that it was resolved to start for Ireland without any further delay.

A glorious evening found them pacing the deck of the mail steamer _Connaught_, _en route_ from Holyhead to Kingstown. Before them lay the Dublin mountains, bathed in glorious greens, yellows, and purples. Away to the left stretched the Wicklow hills, guarded by the twin sugar-loaves and backed by lordly Djouce. To the right the Hill of Howth, the famous battlefield of Clontarf, and in the smoky distance the city of Dublin. Kingstown, its white terraces sloping to the sea; Dalkey, its villas peeping timidly forth from the fairest verdure-clad groves; Killiney, lying in the lap of a heather-caressed mountain; Bray, like a string of pearls on the ocean’s edge; the dark-blue waters of the bay, dotted here and there with snowy yachts, or with the russet brown of the Skerries fishing-smacks—what a _coup-d’œil_!

“It is glorious,” murmured Bertie, as, leaning on the railing of the bridge, he drained this cup of loveliness to the very dregs.

Arrived at Dublin, they put up at the Shelborne Hotel, in Stephen’s Green, whither they were borne from the dingy station at Westland Row on an outside car that jingled, rattled, creaked, and groaned at every revolution of its rickety wheels.

“What’s this fur?” demanded the tatterdemalion driver, got up in a cast-off suit of Con the Shaughraun, as he glanced from half a crown lying upon the palm of his horny hand to Kirwan and Bertie.

“What’s this fur at all, at all?”

“It’s your fare, my man,” said Kirwan.

“Me fare? An yez come from Amerikey?”

“Yes.”

“The cunthry that me sisther, and me aunt, an’ me cousin Tim, an’ me cousin Phil is always braggin about? Wisha, wisha, but it’s lies they’re tellin’ me, sorra a haporth else. The people over there must be regular naygurs afther all,” reluctantly preparing to pocket the coin.

“It will never do to let the American flag go by the board,” whispered Bertie. “Here, my man, here is half a crown for the stars, and here’s half a crown for the stripes.”

“An’ won’t yer honor stand somethin’ for the flagstaff?” with a grin of such unspeakable drollery that both the Americans burst into a fit of laughter.

Mr. Kirwan had been provided with a letter of introduction to a family residing in Merrion Square.

“Shall we look up the Darcys, Bertie?” he asked one morning shortly after their arrival.

“_Cui bono?_”

“The Joyces were so anxious about it. It would never do to go back to New York without calling, at all events.”

“At it, then. Let’s get it over, and on to Killarney.”

The Darcy mansion in Merrion Square was muffled in its summer wraps. The shutters were closed, the windows barricaded with newspapers, the knocker removed, while a profound air of dust and melancholy hung over it like a pall—this though the scarlet and white hawthorn, the lilac and laburnum, were shedding their delicious odors from the enclosure of the square opposite.

“The famly is out av town,” responded a very dilapidated-looking old woman to Kirwan’s query.

“Indeed! I shall leave a card.”

“Av ye plaze; but shure where’s the use? They’ll not get it this three months.”

“Where are they travelling?”

“In furrin parts.”

“I shall write a line.”

“Step in, sir, and welkim.”

This elderly damsel ushered them into an apartment from which the carpet had been removed, the curtains taken down, the gasalier and pictures muffled, and the furniture piled up and partly concealed by matting. Kirwan took out his letter of introduction, and, opening it, proceeded to write a line of regret upon missing Mr. Darcy. The young doctor moved about the room, amusing himself by listlessly gazing out through the half-opened shutter. Presently he approached a massive book-case, and endeavored to peer through the interstices afforded by the gaping of the brown paper that concealed the books.

Little did he imagine what an influence this simple action was destined to bear upon his near future! His wandering gaze suddenly merged into earnestness, then it became fascinated, then fixed.

“Come here!” he said to the attendant, his voice hoarse from suppressed emotion.

The woman came to his side.

“Do you see that _carte de visite_?”

“Cart o’ what?”

“That photograph there, lying on its side,” the words coming in hot gasps.

“Yes, sir.”

“Whose is it?”

“Misther Darcy’s, I suppose.”

“Whose likeness is it?” clutching her by the wrist.

“I dunno, sir.”

“You _don’t know_! Is it one of the family?”

“I dunno, sir.”

“Is—is there a Miss Darcy? Has Mr. Darcy a daughter?” his impatience wrestling with a desire to throttle the caretaker.

“I heerd that he has wan.”

“Heard! Don’t you know it?”

“I do not, sir. I’m a sthranger. I come from Stoneybatther, beyant the wather, but I heerd that Misther Darcy has a daughter, and that she is married—”

“Married!” reeling as if he had been struck a heavy blow.

“What’s all this, Bertie?” asked Kirwan uneasily.

“That photo there.”

“Yes, I see it.”

“It’s the photo of the girl I saw at the opening of the Paris Exhibition.”

“And a pretty girl she is!” exclaimed Kirwan, indulging in a prolonged whistle as he gazed at it sideways like a bird.

“I must have it,” said Bertram, a dogged resolution in his tone.

“How is that to be done? You can’t steal it, Bertie.”

“It shall be done fairly and squarely if possible; if not, I shall smash the glass.”

“Tut! tut! man, you’re not thinking.”

The wound had been nearly healed, the memory of that girlish face was fast becoming a sweet treasure of a by-gone time, to be lingered over at fitful intervals, and always with rapture, when this unlooked-for freak of destiny caused the wound to bleed afresh, and memory to burst into rich and fragrant blossom.

During each of the three days that he remained in Dublin Bertram Martin visited the deserted mansion in Merrion Square, to gaze at that photograph, all so near and yet so far. Could he have but obtained a solitary clue to the whereabouts of the Darcys no earthly power would have prevented his following them; but clue there was none.

* * * * *

The train clanked into the station at Killarney in a mist as thick as a ladies’ _tulle-illusion_ veil.

“If this sort of thing is going to last we sha’n’t see much of Kate Kearney,” laughed Kirwan.

“I wish I had never left New York,” said Bertie. “I did my very uttermost not to come, but you set your trap, all of you, and I go back—what?”

“You can run over again.”

“Never! Once back, my profession shall have all my energy, all my hope—my life.”

They put up at the Railway Hotel, and after dinner strolled out as far as Ross Castle. The mist had cleared away, and the view of Innisfallen sleeping in the moonlight, of the cluster of dreamy islands, the soft outlines of the Mangerton, the purple mountain and the Toomies bathed in liquid pearl, the twinkling lights along the shore, the mirrored waters of the lake shimmering in silver glory, sent a wave of delicious reverie over the hearts of the two men, as, seated in silence on a ruined wall of the ivy-covered keep, they gazed in solemn rapture upon a scene exquisite, soothing, sublime.

“I wish to heaven your aunt was here to see this,” said Kirwan, lighting a fresh cigar.

“I wish—” but Bertie did not utter another word.

The following morning was one in ten thousand—fresh, sunny, breezy, inspiriting, laden with the languor of summer, rippling with the coquetry of spring; a primrose light, a violet shade. Our two friends joined a party bound for the Gap of Dunloe. The ponies were sent on, and a boat ordered to meet them at the upper lake with luncheon. Bertie was unusually depressed, and, despite the vigorous efforts of his uncle to pull him together, he clung, as it were, to himself, avoiding all intercourse with his fellow-man, and especially his fellow-woman, a buxom, blithe, hearty English lady, who laughed with anybody and at everything, and whose whole trouble lay in a morbid terror lest any accident should happen to the bitter beer. After a two hours’ drive through lovely and matchless scenery the carriage arrived at the entrance to the Gap, and here the party dismounted.

“Where do we meet the ponies?” asked Kirwan.

“A little bit up the Gap, sir.”

“Any bitter beer up there?” laughed the English lady.

“Troth, thin, there’s not, but Kate Kearney’ll give ye a dhrop o’ the mountain dew, me lady,” replied the driver.

Bertie strode on before. There was a something exhilarating in speeding up the craggy pass, in bounding from rock to rock like a mountain deer, in plunging through the purple heather, and in leaping saucy brooklets flashing their glittering waters in the glorious sunlight. In vain did Kate Kearney assail him with blarney, blandishments, and bog oak, with “a dhrop o’ the craythur” under the thin disguise of goat’s milk. In vain did arbutus-wood venders, and mendicants, and wild-flower girls trudge by his side and cling to his heels. He distanced them all, leaving them standing at different places in the middle of the road, baffled and worsted in the encounter. Up against the sky line stood the ponies. Up against a sheer wall of dull gray rock covered with ferns, and mosses, and lichens leant a wooden shanty, and for this shanty Bertram Martin made.

A party had ascended before him; they were from the Victoria Hotel—two gentlemen and two ladies. One gentleman was seated on a granite boulder as Bertie reached this coigne of vantage.

“Glorious day, sir,” exclaimed the tweed-covered excursionist.

“Superb,” replied Bertie, flinging himself on the purple heather to await the arrival of Kirwan.

“You’re from the other side of the pond. Have a cigar,” flinging over his case in a right royal manner.

Bertie selected a weed.

“Have a light,” shying a silver fusee-box which the doctor dexterously caught.

“From New York?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know any people of the name of Joyce?”

“Daniel Blake Joyce, of Gramercy Park?” asked Bertie.

“Yes.”

“I know him and his family intimately.”

The tweed-arrayed stranger jumped to his feet.

“I call this jolly. My name is O’Hara.”

“Not Tim O’Hara?”

“Yes, Tim.”

“Why, my dear sir,” cried Bertie, “I’ve heard the Joyces speak of you fifty times.”

“This is first-class. Have a card. You’ll come and stop with me a week, a month—six. I live in the County Wicklow.”

“I most seriously wish I could,” said the physician, exchanging cards, “but I leave by the _Asia_ on Friday.”

“Not a bit of it. Hi, Dick! Dick! I say,” calling to a fat, jovial-faced, red-nosed elderly gentleman who had just emerged from the shanty. “Here’s a friend of Dan Joyce’s, of New York, who says he’s going to leave by the _Asia_ on Friday. Will that fit?”

“I should say not,” said the other, approaching.

Where had Bertram Martin seen that face?

“Any friend of Dan Joyce’s is our friend, and shame be upon us if we let you leave Ireland without at least giving us the opportunity of having a gossip and a bottle over Dan.”

Where had Bertram Martin seen that face?

In a few words, even while this perplexing thought was whirling through his brain, Bertie informed the new-comer—for O’Hara had disappeared into the shanty in search of the ladies with his news—of his doings since he landed at Liverpool.

“At what time were you in Paris?” asked the stranger.

“On the opening day of the Exhibition,” replied the doctor with a deep sigh, as his thoughts flew back to the lovely girl he was destined never, oh! never, to behold again.

“I was in Paris on that day,” said the stranger.

Bertie seized him by the wrist.

“You were? I have it all now. _Now_ I know where I saw you,” speaking with fearful rapidity. “It was at the entrance C——. There was a fearful crush. You were not alone. You were with a young lady. Who is that girl? Where is she?” And he stopped, a world of excited earnestness in his eyes.

“That young lady is my daughter.”

“Where is she?”

“She is here.”

“_Here_?” a mad throb at his heart.

At this moment O’Hara emerged from the shanty, accompanied by two ladies, one of them, young and fresh and lovely, hanging fondly on his arm.

Bertie saw it all now. One wild glance told him that she was as far from him as the fleecy cloud sailing above his head—that she was the wife of Tim O’Hara.

“I don’t think, Dick, that I introduced you to my young friend, Dr. Martin. Doctor, this is Dick Darcy, one of the gayest fellows in all Ireland. Get your legs under his mahogany in Merrion Square and——”

“I have been in your house in Merrion Square. I have a letter of introduction to you from Mr. Joyce,” burst in Bertie.

“And you shall be again, my young friend,” wringing his hand warmly. “Mary,” to the elder lady, “this is Dr. Martin, a friend of Dan Joyce’s. Doctor, this is my wife. And this,” turning to the girl, “is my daughter.”

Bertie took her courteously-proffered hand, and held it for one instant in his. He looked down, down into those Irish gray eyes, where truth and innocence and purity lay like gems beneath crystal waters; he gazed with a wild rapture upon the beauteous face that had haunted him day and night in its rosy radiance, and then with a muttered exclamation was about to turn away when O’Hara exclaimed:

“Miss Darcy looks as if she had seen you before.”

“_Miss_ Darcy?” cried Bertie.

“Yes; you wouldn’t have her Mrs. Darcy, would you?”

Oh! the weight lifted off his heart. Oh! how gloriously shone out the sun, how blue was the sky, how radiant the flowers, how sweet the song of the mountain thrush, how delightful everything. The great black shadow which had hung over him like a pall had passed away before the dayshine of her presence, and, borne on that sunlight, came the message to his heart that Kitty Darcy was to be wooed, and—possibly to be won.

Kirwan’s pleasure knew no bounds as he clasped the hand of Dick Darcy.

“What a sorry opinion you would have had of the old country if you had only known its hospitality through the medium of a hotel, Mr. Kirwan!” laughed Darcy as the party mounted their shaggy mountain ponies.

Of course Bertie rode beside Miss Darcy, and descanted not as eloquently as he could have wished upon the glorious bits of scenery that revealed themselves at every turn in the Gap. He spoke glowingly of home, of the lordly Hudson, the dreamy Catskills, the White Mountains, and the Yosemite.

“Oh! isn’t that gloriously gloomy,” cried Miss Darcy, as they emerged from the granite-walled Gap to the ridge overlooking the Black Valley to the right, stretching away in gray sadness, locked in the embraces of mountains standing in ebon relief against the blue yet lustreless sky.

“Not unlike my own reflections for the last six weeks,” laughed the doctor; “they were gloriously gloomy.”

“See the sunshine over the upper lake.”

“I accept the omen.”

“And the Eagle’s Nest, how superbly it towers over the water! What greens!—from white to russet. How charmingly the foliage of the arbutus seems to suit this lovely scenery!”

And what a scene in its brilliance, its repose, its poetry! Verdure-clad mountains dreaming in the haze of summer, lifting themselves to the blue vault of heaven, the tender green mixing with the cerulean, as a spring leaf with the forget-me-not; mirror-like lakes reflecting every crag, every tree, every bud with that fidelity only known to nature’s mirrors; the path winding tortuously down to the lake, now disappearing in a patch of wood, now meandering through a waving meadow as yet uninvaded by the ruthless scythe. Away stretched the lakes, away the old Weir Bridge—away in shimmering loveliness all too lovely to describe, all too lovely save to gaze and gaze upon, until heart and soul absorbed it in a thirsty greed.

Three days spent in Kitty Darcy’s society—three days in wandering through the ruins of Muckross Abbey, that home of silent prayer, that “congealed _Pater Noster_,” by the low, dulcet murmur of O’Sullivan’s Cascade, amid the leafy dells of “Sweet Innisfallen,” up the steep ascent of Mangerton, on the fern-caressed road to the police barracks, stopping at the exquisite little chapel perched like an eerie up in its wooded nest and uttering an _Ave_, always by Kitty’s side, always inhaling the subtle perfume of her presence—three centuries compressed into three days.

The Darcys were _en route_ to a fishing-lodge at Valentia, out where the cable flashes into the wide Atlantic, and the day arrived when farewell—a word that must be, and hath been, a sound that makes us linger—must be said.

“Are you going by the _Asia_ on Friday, uncle?” asked Bertie.

“Why, of course.”

“I am not.”

“No!”

“I go on to Carrick-na-cushla with the Darcys.”

“I thought as much, Bertie. What shall I tell them in New York?”

“That I shall bring home a young, lovely, pure, and charming wife, if I can. I have two letters for you, one for my mother and one for my father. If things turn out—all right, I’ll return; if—” here he paused with a writhe—“all wrong, you won’t hear of me for some time.”

* * * * *

Dr. Bertram Martin’s three months’ vacation is not yet over. It threatens to lengthen into six, possibly into nine months; and when he returns he will not return alone. His uncle Kirwan has had a sad time of it ever since; and Dr. Martin’s fair patients are inconsolable.

ROSARY STANZAS.

PROLOGUE.

Mulier amicta sole, et luna sub pedibus ejus, et in capite ejus corona stellarum duodecim.—APOC. xii. 1.

Cloudless her early dawn, more pure, more bright Than the blue sapphire of the eastern sky Above her head. To the prophetic eye All the long future lay in folds of light. Her noontide sun thick darkness veiled from sight, Prelude of rushing storms that moan and sigh Among the forest-leaves, then fiercely fly In wrath and ruin, burying all in night— To die in silence. See! the light returns, A gathering splendor in its peaceful ray, And all the western heaven at sunset burns And kindles to a golden after-glow, Bidding the tender hearts that love her know The fuller glory of her perfect day.

JOYFUL MYSTERIES.

I.

LUKE i. 38.

And does the crownèd one ever look back On her long sojourn in the vale of tears? Whate’er of earth her simple home might lack, Her blissful _Fiat_ filled those far-off years, Doubling their joys and calming all their fears. Her faithfulness to grace divine how great! In the early time as when the goal she nears, As the Lord’s handmaid, or in queenly state, Content on his command expectantly to wait.

II.

LUKE i. 43.

Bride of the Holy One! of all his grace, At the beginning, full! God’s Mother blest! Hope of the world, the glory of her race! When _Be it done_ was said, awhile to rest Within her quiet home were it not best? She her aged kinswoman a kindness owes; Nor daunted by the desolate mountain-crest, To sanctify the unborn infant goes: Better to love and serve than holiest repose.

III.

LUKE ii. 16.

Long ago full of grace, what is she now? Her time has come, her God upon her knee— Reward how rich for her all-perfect vow! Fountain of grace unlimited to be; Every heart-pulse an act of worship free To Him who visited his world forlorn. Mother of his divinest infancy, Bid our dull souls be as the Newly-Born, Living henceforth his life who came that Christmas morn.

IV.

HEBR. x. 7.

With lowly willingness and simple awe The sinless Mother and her sinless Child Offered themselves at bidding of the law: She to be purified, the Undefiled! While he on his redemption-offering smiled. Obedience! never did thy secret power Brood calmer o’er a world of passions wild Than to God’s temple, in that silent hour, When Son and Mother came, wearing thy lowly flower.

V.

LUKE ii. 48.

Three days and nights the Mother for her Son In sorrow sought and self-upbraidings meek; The joy of finding him her patience won: She sought, and he was found. But for the weak, The wandering, his patient love must seek ’Mong thorny by-ways of the world to find. Deign to the King for them a word to speak, Pray something for them of thy constant mind, For ever to his Heart all wayward souls to bind.

RELATIONS OF JUDAISM TO CHRISTIANITY. I.

The Catholic Church, founded by Christ to be the depositary, the guardian, and the interpreter of his word, was from all eternity in the mind of God, not in the same manner as the other things that were made by him, and which constitute the visible universe, but as a creation apart, far superior to the world that we see, the completion of the designs of love which he entertained for men, and the reason of the existence of everything else inferior to it. It is the sublime theology of St. Paul: “All things are yours,” he writes to the Corinthians—“the world, life, death, things present and things to come. And you are Christ’s, and Christ is God’s.” From this it is easy to see the rank which the church holds in the divine plan. Christ stands first in the scale; he is the link, the Supreme Pontiff by whom all creatures are united with God; the church, his spouse, is for him and forms one with him, and has been ordained for the good of the elect and the sanctification of souls; she is the mother of the living. As Christ is first in the intention of God, the church, which is so intimately connected with him, is conceived along with him in the Divine mind, and has in it the precedence over all other things. Thus she can apply to herself the words of the inspired writer: “The Lord possessed me at the beginning of his ways. I was set up from eternity, and of old before the earth was made. When he established the sky above, and poised the fountains of waters; when he compassed the sea with its bounds, and set a law to the waters that they should not pass their limits, I was with him forming all things.”

Such being the case, it is not astonishing to see the whole drama of human history turned towards a central figure, Christ and his church, which are the grand objects contemplated by God in the universe. Nations rise and fall, empires are founded which are succeeded by other empires, each having a special mission, that of preparing the way for the kingdom of God; and when that mission is accomplished they disappear from the scene. The barriers set up to divide nationalities are forcibly broken down; conquest, commerce, the sciences and arts form a link between them; languages are modified, ideas are interchanged, intellectual systems are brought in contact; efforts are made sometimes in the right, sometimes in the wrong, direction; men grope in the dark, but some ray of light, however faint it may have been, is still there to urge them in their researches after truth; views are conflicting, but their very conflict paves the way to a broader spirit and more universal conceptions. When we glance at the state of the human mind before the coming of Christ, it seems that all is confusion and a perfect chaos from which there is no possible issue; but an attentive observer will easily discern, even when obscurity is most intense, the Spirit of God, as of old, brooding over the vast abyss and ordering all things so as to make light finally shine out of darkness.

The providential action of God manifested in the gradual preparation of the world for the acceptance of Christianity has always been considered one of the most striking proofs of its supernatural character, and modern rationalism has completely failed in its attempt to destroy it. To confine ourselves to the theories invented for that purpose, and bearing on the subject which we have undertaken to treat in the present article, the relation of Judaism to Christianity, they may be briefly summed up as follows: they peremptorily deny all supernatural agency in the march of events recorded in the sacred writings; they equally deny the divine mission of Jesus Christ; the apostles were, it is affirmed, men of their age, and did not escape the influence of popular opinions, which they knew how to use for their own ends; as to Christian dogmas, they followed in their formation the law of progressive development and growth; Christianity is nothing else but an evolution of Judaism or its various sects by a natural process and under the pressure of circumstances and prevailing ideas. Now, every page of the Jewish history contains a refutation of these doctrines. There we see a people especially chosen by God, among all others, to be the authentic and accredited witness of the truth among the nations; to keep alive in the world the belief in one true God and the hope of a future Redeemer already promised to our first parents after the fall; to be the depositary of that promise and the organ of its promulgation. Judaism, therefore, is related to Christianity, not as the seed to the plant, but as the well-prepared soil to the harvest; as the figure to the reality, as the prophecy to its accomplishment; as the harbinger to the King whose coming he announces to the populations that are to receive him. It is, as Isaias expresses it, “the voice of one crying in the desert: Prepare ye the way of the Lord, make straight in the wilderness the paths of our God” (Isaias xl. 3).

From the early dawn of their history the destiny of the Hebrews is clearly defined. They are a nation set apart to be a living protest against the prevailing idolatry of the times. From the vocation of Abraham to the promulgation of the law on Mount Sinai, and throughout the succeeding periods of their existence, the fundamental dogma of their religion is monotheism: “I am the Lord thy God; thou shalt not have strange gods in my sight. Thou shalt not make to thyself a graven thing, nor the likeness of any thing that is in heaven above, or in the earth beneath, nor of those things that are in the waters under the earth. Thou shalt not adore them, nor serve them.” Another article of their creed equally pre-eminent as their belief in one God is their expectation of One who was to be sent for the restoration of mankind. To Abraham, the progenitor of that race, it was revealed that “his posterity should be as the stars for multitude, and that from them a blessing should go forth to all other nations.” Later God had said to Isaac: “I will multiply thy seed as the stars of heaven, and I will give to thy posterity all these countries (that is, the land of Chanaan), and in thy seed shall all the nations of the earth be blessed.” Jacob had heard a voice from heaven, saying: “I am the most mighty God of thy father: fear not, go down into Egypt, for I will make a great nation of thee there. I will go down with thee thither, and will bring thee back again from thence”; and when the aged patriarch is on the point of death, God bids him fix his eyes upon the lion of Juda, and shows him all the nations blessed in a prince who is to come out from his lineage. Moses, raised by the Almighty to deliver the numerous posterity of Jacob from the bondage of Egypt, had led to the threshold of the promised land that nation which God had chosen to give birth to the Redeemer, and to maintain upon earth faithful worshippers of his name. He also was divinely apprised that a prophet would rise from his nation and from among his brethren whose voice all should hear. Hence it is that the Old Testament religion was prophetic in its whole nature. “The guides of the Hebrew people,” says Dr. Fisher,[75] “were ever pointing to the future. There, and not in the past, lay the golden age. The Jew might revert with pride to the victories of David and the splendor of Solomon, but these vanished glories only served to remind him of the lofty destiny in store for his nation, and to inspire his imagination to picture the day when the ideal of the kingdom should be realized and the whole earth be submissive to the monarch of Sion. The hopes of all patriotic Jews centred upon a personage who was to appear upon the earth and take in his hands universal dominion.” It is a most interesting study to follow the Hebrew prophets in delineating so many centuries in advance the history of the Messias, and the principal features of that kingdom which is to embrace the earth under its sway. The time and place of his birth, the circumstances by which it is accompanied, his character, life, sufferings, and humiliations, his death and final triumph—all is described with astonishing precision. They openly speak of the object of the kingdom he is to establish, which is the regeneration of man, of his mind as well as of his heart, the destruction of idol worship, the adoration of the true God, and the reign of holiness; and this at a time when all was God except God himself, when Greece deified nature and Egypt changed gods into beasts, whilst Babylon, more corrupt, fabricated impure monsters which they adored, and Gaul, more ignorant, saw the Deity on the summits of mountains and in the depths of forests. It was in this age of darkness that Isaias sang the glory of the new Jerusalem, the church like to a mountain on which will be broken the chain of iniquity that bound all nations and the web that had been woven around them. The universal diffusion of the Messianic kingdom is also foretold by the prophets. There is nothing more clearly expressed in the prophecies and so much insisted upon as this: that the new alliance is not to be local and limited to one nation, but that it will be extended to all nations. We have already alluded to the prophecy of Abraham and to that of Jacob. Later David proclaims all nations of the earth to be the inheritance of Christ. Isaias contemplates from afar a new sign, the standard of the cross raised before the eyes of all nations; he sees them bringing their children in their arms—that is, those barbarian tribes that come to prostrate themselves at the foot of the cross and present their sons to the baptism of the church; he announces the conversion of the kings of the earth and their submission to the spouse of Christ; he follows the apostles carrying the good tidings to the farthest ends of the world. “Who are those,” he exclaims, “who fly like clouds? The far distant islands are in expectation, and ships are waiting to carry them. I shall choose from among my people men whom I shall send to the Gentiles that are beyond the seas, in Africa, in Lydia, in Italy, in Greece, to the islands afar off, to them that have not heard of me and have not seen my glory.” Again, the reign of the Messias is everywhere represented as having no end; it is to endure for ever. We shall only mention the prediction of the Messianic kingdom contained in the book of Daniel, which was familiar to the Jews, and one in which they trusted. After a description of the four kingdoms, the last of which the Roman, as iron, breaketh in pieces and subdueth all things, the writer says that in the days of these kings shall the God of heaven set up a kingdom which shall never be destroyed.

These doctrines were not to remain the exclusive appanage of the Hebrews. Divine Providence willed that they should be diffused among the nations, and moulded the destinies of the chosen people for the furtherance of this design. It is a remark of Ritter that the Supreme Wisdom has allotted to nations their place on the globe in view of their destination. It was by such a providential disposition that Palestine was singled out as the habitation of God’s chosen people. Assyria, Babylonia, and Persia on the east and north; Egypt and Ethiopia on the south; Greece and Rome on the west—all the great empires of antiquity will successively come in contact with it. It is there, at the confluence of human affairs, in the centre of ancient civilization, that the sacerdotal race is placed, called to spread everywhere the true religion, the knowledge of God and of Christ the Redeemer. From that central point it will be easy to send messengers of the eternal truth to the most flourishing cities, establish prosperous colonies in the important states by which it is surrounded, and thus accomplish its mission to be “a light for the Gentiles.”

The prodigies which, under Josue, Heaven had wrought in favor of the children of Jacob, had already fixed the attention of the other nations upon Israel, and had predisposed them to adore the God whom that people worshipped. Bossuet, speaking of those miracles, which were occasionally renewed, and of the effect they produced among the heathens, says that they undoubtedly brought about numerous conversions; so that the number of individuals who worshipped the true God among the Gentiles is perhaps much greater than is generally supposed. In the times of the Judges the frequent incursions of the neighboring tribes, their partial occupation of Judea, their repeated strifes with the Hebrews on the one hand, and on the other intervals of peace, commercial relations, the advantages offered to those who were willing to embrace the Jewish religion, contributed to propagate with that religion the expectation of a Messias. Under the Kings, the wars of Saul, the conquests of David reaching as far as the Euphrates, his domination over the country of the Moabites, of the Ammonites, the Philistines, spread among those nations the knowledge and fear of the true God. From the prosperous reign of Solomon to the glorious days of the Machabees, the alliances contracted with Egypt, Phœnicia, and the neighboring kingdoms, the great number of workmen whom those states placed at the disposal of Israel for the cultivation of the soil, the construction of its cities and fortresses—all contributes to the propagation of the sacred truth. The Israelites who repair to other countries for the sake of commerce speak of their traditions and leave after them the notion of their worship. Whilst the ships of Israel go and deposit on far distant shores its consoling hopes, travellers, attracted by the beauty of the country, the richness of its vegetation, the mildness of its climate come to visit the hospitable people by whom it is inhabited, and return initiated in the true faith. They recount to other nations the magnificence of the monarchs of Juda, the justice of their laws, the splendor of the solemnities of Jerusalem. Kings, legislators, philosophers come to the holy city from all parts; and Solomon, in the census he took of foreign proselytes, found that their number amounted to more than a hundred and fifty thousand.

But it is not enough that the name of the Lord should be known by the nations in the vicinity of Judea; the most distant tribes must be brought to adore him. To this effect Assyria, whose domination extends to the remotest regions of Asia, successively subjugates the kingdoms of Israel and of Juda, and disperses their inhabitants over the whole of its vast provinces. It is expressly forbidden to the captives of Israel to concentrate themselves on one point; for Providence intends that they should spread all over the East the light of truth and the earnest of salvation. Hala, Habor, Rages in Media, Ara on the river Gozan, are made the residence of the Jews of the ten tribes. They advance beyond the Tigris and the Euphrates, through Armenia as far as Colchis and Georgia, where they continue to dwell after the captivity, unwilling to abandon their new home. Numerous families fix their abode in Khaboul, in the most important cities of Chorasan and in Herat. Others established at first at the sources of the Indus, descending that river, reach India, and give rise to the tribe of the Afghans. Some even will cross the mountains of Central Asia, and will found establishments in Tartary, and chiefly in China, where later their descendants, raised to the first dignities of the empire, will teach the Chinese the Jewish religion. Some fragments of the books of Genesis and of Kings, passages of the prophets, written in the characters of that remote epoch, sufficiently indicate that those exiles transmitted to their children and propagated the revealed truth in that country. Confucius, the legislator of China, in his travels towards the west, derived from one of those colonies his ideas on the Supreme Being, whom he designates by the Hebrew name of Jehovah, scarcely altered, as Abel Rémusat tells us. At a later period the Persian reformer Zoroaster derived from the same source those flashes of truth which shine in the Zend-Avesta by the side of glimpses of primitive revelation. The Jews of the kingdom of Juda, grouped, on the contrary, in the centre of Chaldea, establish colonies at Sova, at Nahar, and in other places as far as the confines of the desert; and likewise at Teredon, at the confluence of the Tigris and the Euphrates; at Machusa, Annebar, Nisibis, and on the spot where later Bagdad shall rise. All these colonies, and many others, which after the restoration will still remain in those countries, will open schools to become centres of light to the heathens. That permanent contact with the Chaldeans shall allow the latter to recover a portion of the treasure of primitive truths which they had lost. Also do all agree in considering the Chaldeans as the men of antiquity the most conversant with theological science. Whilst the Jews of Israel are carrying their faith to the extremities of the vast empire, those of Juda, assisted by the translation of their sacred books into Chaldaic, diffuse it abundantly in the thickly-populated provinces of the centre. Assyria had fallen before the superior valor and military skill of the Persians. It was the time of the deliverance of the Jews. The most zealous among them availed themselves of the edict of Cyrus to return to Palestine and to rebuild the sacred places. But their destiny was not altered; they still went on fulfilling their sacred mission among the Gentiles. Under the Persian domination Hebrew princes tell the monarchs of Persia of the future divine Liberator, and these have sacrifices and prayers offered in the Temple at Jerusalem for the prosperity of their reign. Providence makes use of the high functions they exercise at the imperial court to lead those princes of Juda to Ecbatana, to Persepolis and Suza, that they might initiate the nobility of those important cities in the knowledge of the true God, to speak to them of the Messias whom the Magi shall from that time expect. Distinguished Jews are entrusted with the archives of Ecbatana. A great number of priests continue after the restoration to live among the Persians, and are disseminated all over the empire. They spread their traditions and their dogmas among the heathen populations. That sojourn of Jewish priests in the land of exile, after liberty had been restored to them, and when honors awaited them in their own country, evidently shows that it is the effect of a merciful design on the part of God, who devises means for those populations to receive the light of truth. Ochus, one of the last Persian monarchs, irritated against the children of Israel, sends a certain number of them in exile into Hyrcania and on to the shores of the Caspian Sea, and by this he unwittingly helps in spreading among those abandoned tribes the consoling promises of salvation; for those violent measures, as Hecatæus remarks in Josephus _Against Apion_, far from discouraging the Jews, serve to revive their patriotism, their attachment to the faith of their fathers, and their religious zeal.

If Asia, the land of great empires, was favored in a special manner, Africa was not forgotten. The Hebrews had long before initiated Egypt in the knowledge of the one true God and of a Redeemer whose birth in future ages had been revealed to it by Jacob in his last moments. This first initiation had produced its fruits; we know by the testimony of Holy Writ that when the Hebrews went out of Egypt a considerable number of Egyptians followed them in the desert. In the reign of Solomon a small Jewish colony followed the Queen of Saba to Abyssinia. According to Bruce, in his travels, not only do the kings of that country claim to descend from Solomon, but, furthermore, the annals of Abyssinia are full of details about the voyage which the Queen of Saba made to Judea. Ethiopia thus received the sacred books and the religion of the Israelites—a religion which they kept afterwards, as the Jewish Ethiopian treasurer of the Queen of Candace, whom St. Philip found reading Isaias and whom he converted to Christianity, seems to prove. At the time of the Assyrian wars and of the great captivity a number of Jews took refuge in Egypt. Some went to Abyssinia and other parts of Ethiopia, where they established powerful colonies by the side of those which already existed. At a later period Ptolemæus I. brought two hundred thousand Jews into Egypt, where they established in all directions colonies which soon became prosperous under the protection of his successors. Numerous schools for the propagation of sound doctrine; houses of prayer in cities; a Sanhedrim at Alexandria, the residence of learned Greeks; a temple near Bubaste, in which the ordinary sacrifices prescribed by the Mosaic law were offered—all contributed to make of Egypt a second native land for the Jews. The name of the Lord was publicly revered and the worship of the true God practised everywhere. The infidels had consequently full opportunity afforded them of knowing him and serving him; and Isaias affirms that, in fact, a great number embraced the true religion.

As the times approach for the coming of the Messias, the nation chosen to announce him to the world and to prepare his way multiplies its colonies and its schools. During the whole period of the Greek domination the Hebrews avail themselves of the protection accorded them by Alexander and his successors to extend in the east and west their beneficial influence, and spread their salutary doctrines, which shall predispose the Grecian mind to receive the light of the Gospel. We find them in Seleucia, at Ctesiphon, and at Chalcis, where St. Jerome subsequently repaired to take lessons in the Hebrew language; at Berea, where he met with Jews converted to Christianity. We find them at Antioch, where they shall soon suffer martyrdom for their faith; at Damascus, a city in which they are in continual intercourse with the Greeks who flock around the celebrated teachers of its schools; at Emesus, Nisibis, and Edessa. In the principal cities of Asia Minor: Ephesus, Smyrna, Pergamus, Sardis, Philadelphia, Laodicea possess Jewish colonies. Delos, Miletus, Halicarnassus, Iconium have their synagogues. At Philippi, in Macedonia, there are houses of prayer for the Israelites. Athens, Corinth, Salamis, Paphos count such a considerable number of Jews mixed with their populations that, as it is stated in the Acts of the Apostles, synagogues are to be found in those places. Now, synagogues were not only used for prayer but also for the interpretation of the sacred books, and consequently as public chairs from which the revelation and hope of a divine Redeemer were announced to the inhabitants. The prophet Abdias tells us that after the destruction of Jerusalem by the Chaldeans Jews had sought refuge in Sparta; and Arius, King of the Spartans, writes to the pontiff Onias that “it was found in writing concerning the Spartans and the Jews that they are brethren, and that they are of the stock of Abraham.”

During the period of the Roman domination Judea had colonies in all countries—in Parthia, among the Medes and Elamites, in Mesopotamia, Cappadocia, Pontus, Phrygia, Pamphylia, Egypt, Libya, Arabia, in the island of Crete, and at Rome. It is an opinion which found credit with several learned men that some Hebrews, at the time of the Assyrian invasions, came to Rome in the reign of Numa and suggested to him what is best in his laws; and, in fact, several of them seem to be modelled upon the Hebrew legislation. But it is certain that one hundred and forty years before Christ the Jews had erected public altars in Rome, and that a decree banished them from Italy; which is an indication that they must have been there in great numbers for a long time previous. In the days of the Machabees, when the Jewish nation, to use the expression of the Scriptures and of Cicero, was the friend of the Romans, the senate, at the solicitation of Jewish ambassadors, wrote letters in favor of the Jews of Lampsacus, Sparta, Delos, Myndos, Sicyonia; of those who inhabited Gortyna, Cnidis, Caria, Pamphylia, Lycia, Samos, Cos, Sidon, Rhodes, Avadon, the island of Cyprus, and Cyrene. No nation escaped the action of their zeal; and the Acts of the Apostles, enumerating the Hebrews assembled at Jerusalem on the occasion of the solemnity of Pentecost, tell us that “there were Jews, devout men, out of every nation under heaven.”

Such, then, was the mission of the Jews; they constitute the true church before Christ for the preaching of God’s future kingdom that shall have no end. We see them dispersed throughout the world; we meet them on all the highroads of humanity, confessing the only Lord of heaven and earth, and holding in their hands their sacred writings, showing to all that a peaceful Ruler would rise from the land of Juda and would restore all things. And when the times were accomplished, and the earth was to behold its Saviour, all nations were held in expectation of the mighty event.

We have here endeavored to give a brief sketch of the Jewish history. No one can deny that the very _raison d’être_ of the Hebrew nation was the hope of a Messias who was to restore all things and establish upon earth the kingdom of God. The prophets speak of him and of his glorious reign; they predict his universal dominion; it will have no end in time, and its boundaries will be those of the universe. The destiny of the Jews is unique. After a comparatively short period of splendor which the conquests of David and Solomon shed upon Palestine, they lose their political independence, and henceforth they shall be forced to mingle with the Gentiles, whose social habits they will adopt, but at the same time unflinchingly adhering to their own religious tenets. The result is also an historical fact: a Liberator of the human race is expected by all nations, _et erit expectatio gentium_. Is it possible for an unprejudiced mind, for one who does not read history in the light of preconceived systems, not to see in that well-connected whole a design of Providence which ordains means to the obtaining of a clearly-defined end? Historical atheism refuses to recognize any such design, as atheism, in the conception of nature, refuses to recognize an intelligent Creator. It gives us, instead of life, dry bones and ashes, barren and unmeaning facts in history, and in nature phenomena with no intelligible cause for their production, and tending to no assignable end. In every sphere of knowledge atheism does nothing else but spread darkness and desolation all around. But as one who is not wilfully blinded will always discern by a kind of rational instinct the action of an infinitely wise and omnipotent Being in the order displayed in the world, so will he admit the action of God in the direction of human events in which a divine intelligence is no less clearly manifested. The ever popular argument of St. Paul with its consequence, against those men that detain the truth of God in injustice, holds good in both cases: “That which is known of God is manifest in them; for God hath manifested it unto them. For the invisible things of him, from the creation of the world, are clearly seen, being understood by the things that are made: his eternal power also and divinity: so that they are inexcusable” (Rom. i. 18-20).

Footnote 75:

_Beginnings of Christianity._

THE LESSONS OF THE CAXTON CELEBRATION OF 1877.[76]

England’s first printer was a Catholic. He lived and died in communion with the Holy See. He established his press in England beneath the shadow and on the grounds of the Abbey of Westminster, protected and encouraged by its monks. He translated and printed books of Catholic piety, and seems especially given to devotions for a happy death. He made bequests to the church, and the Requiem was said at his death.

Among all incunabula Caxton’s issues rank among the scarcest. Why? The Reformation made war upon them, so that many have perished utterly; six are known only by some scanty fragment preserved by being used to form part of a book-cover; of thirty-two more only a single copy has been preserved to our day. How many have perished and left no trace whatever, no man can tell.

“Be it therefore enacted by the king, our sovereign lord, the lords spiritual and temporal, and the commons in this present parliament assembled, that all books called antiphoners, missals, grailes (graduals), processionals, manuals, legends, piès, portuasses (breviaries), primers in Latin and English,[77] couchers, journals (diurnals), ordinals, or other books or writings whatsoever, heretofore used for service of the church, written or printed, in the English or Latin tongue, other than such as shall be set forth by the king’s majesty, shall be by authority of his present act clearly and utterly abolished, extinguished and forbidden for ever to be used or kept in this realm, or elsewhere within any of the king’s dominions.

“And be it further enacted by the authority aforesaid that if any person or persons, of what estate, degree, or condition soever he, she, or they be, bodies politic or corporate, that now have, or hereafter shall have, in his, her, or their custody any the books or writings of the sorts aforesaid, or any images of stone, timber, alabaster, or earth, graven, carved, or painted, which heretofore have been taken out of any church or chapel, or yet stand in any church or chapel, and do not, before the last day of June next ensuing, deface and destroy or cause to be defaced and destroyed, the same images and every of them, and deliver or cause to be delivered all and every the same books to the mayor, bailiff, constable, or church wardens of the town where such books then shall be, to be by them delivered over openly, within three months next following after the said delivery, to the archbishop, bishop, chancellor, or commissary of the same diocese (to the intent the said archbishop, bishop, chancellor, or commissary, and every of them, cause them, immediately after, either to be openly burnt or otherwise defaced and destroyed), shall for every such book or books willingly retained ... forfeit for the first offence ten shillings, and for the second offence shall forfeit and lose four pounds, and for the third offence shall suffer imprisonment at the king’s will” (Statute 3 and 4 Edward VI. c. x.)

Neglect on the part of the archbishops and the others named to burn the books involved a penalty of forty pounds.

Thus Protestantism destroyed Caxtons. “A glance at the titles of the uniques will show that the books most liable to destruction, probably owing in part to their being much used, and in part to the destructiveness of religious sectarianism,”[78] says Blades, “are those directly or indirectly of an ecclesiastical character—such as ‘Horæ,’ ‘Psalters,’ ‘Meditacions,’ etc.”

Last year, 1877, being, it was believed, the fourth centenary of the first book printed by Caxton at Westminster, a Caxton celebration, proposed by Mr. Hodson, was carried out in London with no little pomp and display. Caxton imprints were brought together from many choice collections, with incunabula of all countries, and especially editions of the Bible, from Gutenberg’s to one printed for the occasion at Oxford.

The celebration was curious in the utter exclusion of any Catholic element, and in the machinery brought to bear to make the whole affair a glorification of the Reformation and of the stale prejudices against Catholicity. In the face of the books brought together and the lessons they told, this use of the first English printer, a Catholic, whose Catholic books the gentlemen of the Reformation had under severe penalties consigned to the flames, required in the managers no little assurance, or perhaps a well-founded knowledge of the voluntary blindness of the masses. They seem to have felt some sense of difficulty, or English exclusiveness never would have called in the Yankee adroitness of one of our countrymen rather inclined to play the buffoon in bibliography.

The English Catholic body seems to have felt some compassion for their Protestant fellow-countrymen in the strange attempt on which the latter were engaged. They did not seek to force themselves into the affair, nor greet them with merited ridicule. We do not know whether they acted under a sense of pity or were merely apathetic. Yet we wish they had celebrated the anniversary of Caxton’s death or deposition, or some day selected, by a solemn Mass of Requiem in the ancient church of St. Etheldreda, now happily restored to Catholic worship. The Holy See would perhaps have sanctioned _pro hac vice_ the use on that occasion of the Mass for the Dead in the ancient Sarum Missal, such as was used at the obsequies of the good printer, whose translation of the _Lives of the Fathers of the Desert_ was completed on the day of his death.[79] We do not know but that we should have applied to Parliament for permission to celebrate a Mass of Requiem for Caxton in Westminster Abbey church, such as was said at his death. The proposition would probably have struck some dumb from sheer amazement; but Parliament would either have granted it, and permitted the funeral service of 1491 to be repeated just as it was said after his death, or they would have refused the request of the Catholic body, and made their bigotry one of the memorabilia of the Caxton celebration.

No such step was taken; and the managers of the Caxton anniversary were left at full liberty to give all the false color they could, to combine, suppress, distort as they chose, in order to give the public an impression that printing was one of the boons conferred on mankind by the Reformation. This was actually done directly and indirectly; and as Kaulbach, the painter, in his great canvas of the heroes of the Reformation, introduces Gutenberg and Christopher Columbus, so these gentlemen in England used the good, pious Catholic Caxton as the central figure in their tableau of the apotheosis of Protestantism.

Caxton left no dubious evidence of his practical faith as a Catholic. His _Four Last Things_, in French, ends with an exhortation to good works, “by which we attain to eternal life.”[80] _The English Cordyale_, or _The Four Last Things_, ends: “Which Werke present I began the morn after the saide Purificacion of our blissid Lady, Whiche was the daye of Seint Blase, Bisshop and Martir. And fiinisshed on the even of thannunciacion of our said bilissid Lady fallyng on the wednesday the xxiiij daye of Marche. In the xix yeer of Kyng Edwarde the fourthe.” _The Festial_ opens: “The helpe and grace of almyghty god thrugh the beseechynge of his blessed moder saynt mary.” It ends thus: “By the helpe of his blessid moder mary and his holy spowsesse saynt brygytte and all sayntes. Amen. Caxton me fieri fecit.” Then there is “the lyf of the holy and blessed vyrgyn saynt Wenefryde ... reduced in to Englysshe by me, William Caxton.” “A short treatyce of the hyhest and most worthy sacramente of crystes blessid body and the merueylles therof” certainly sounds orthodox. And the picture of the Crucifixion, inscribed: “To them that before this ymage of pyte deuoutly saye v Pr nr v Aues & a Credo pyteuously beholdyng these ar of Xps passio ar granted xxxij M. vii. C. & lv yeres of pardon,” shows a belief in the power of the church to grant indulgences.

We know that the attempt has been made to persuade those eager to be deceived that Caxton must have had Lollard sympathies. Thus, the editor of the reprint of the _Fifteen Os_ says: “This collection is noticed by Dr. Thomas Fuller as being the first book of prayers tending to promote the Reformation.” And again: “It is more than probable that this is the first book of prayers in English issued by the followers of Wickliffe, and cannot but be interesting as having prepared the way for the great moral and spiritual changes that ended in the Reformation.” Now, the volume closes thus: “Thiese prayers tofore wreton ben enprited bi the comaūdementes of the moste hye & vertuous pryncesse our liege ladi Elizabeth, by the grace of god Quene of Englonde and of Fraūce & also of the right hye & most noble pryncesse Margarete, moder unto our soverayn lorde the kyng, &c. By their most humble subget and seruaūt, William Caxton.”

There is certainly no suspicion of Lollardism attaching to these ladies. Now let us examine the prayers. The title _Fifteen Os_ will not suggest to Catholics now any familiar devotion; but when we state that they are nothing more nor less than St. Bridget’s Prayers or Meditations on the Passion of our Lord, which have retained their place in our Catholic prayer-books to this day, they will utter at least fifteen “ohs” and be certainly hyely amused at the idea of their savoring of Wickliffe.

CAXTON.

“O Jhesu, endless swetnes of louyng soules. O Jhesu, gostly ioye passing & excedyng all gladnes and desires. O Jhesu, helth and tendre louer of al repentaūt sinners that likest to dwelle, as thou saydest thy selfe, with the children of men. For that was the cause why thou were incarnate and made man in the ende of the worlde. Haue mynde, blessed Jhesu, of all the sorrowes that thou sufferedest in thy māhode, drawing nyhe to thy blessed passion.”

GARDEN OF THE SOUL.

“O most sweet Lord Jesus Christ, eternal sweetness of those who love thee, joy above all desire, firm hope of the hopeless, solace of the sorrowful, and most merciful lover of all penitent sinners, who hast said thy delight is to be with the children of men, for the love of whom thou didst assume human nature in the fulness of time. Remember, most sweet Jesus, all those sharp sorrows which then pierced thy sacred soul from the first instant of thy incarnation until the time of thy solitary passion,” etc.

Among the prayers following those of St. Bridget is this:

“O blessid lady, moder of Jhesu and virgyne immaculate, that art wel of comforte and moder of mercy, singuler helpe to all that trust to the, be now, gracyous lady, medyatryce and meane unto thy blessid sone our sauyour Jhesu for me, that by thy intercessions I may opteyne my desires, ever to be your seruaunt in all humylite. And by the helpe and socour of al holy sayntes herafter in perpetuell ioye euer to liue with the. Amen.”

Evidently Caxton would have had no difficulty in submitting to Pope Pius IX.’s definition of the Immaculate Conception.

The next prayer is one “To the propre angell”—guardian angel, as we now say. Further on we find a prayer to which indulgences for the souls in purgatory are attached. These prayers certainly show no trace of Wickliffe’s doctrines. The little book is one that any Catholic would use now, and which no Protestant would or could use.

Protestantism can lay no claim to the worthy, upright, laborious, and learned Catholic merchant who introduced printing into England, and chose the precincts of her finest abbey for his labors. His surviving friends shared his faith, as witness this note in a very old hand on a copy of the _Fructus Temporum_:

“Of your charitee pray for the soul of Mayster Wyllyam Caxton, that in hys time was a man of moche ornate and moche renommed wysdome and connyng, and decessed ful crystenly the yere of our Lord MCCCCLXXXXJ.

“Moder of Merci, shyld him fro thorribul fynd, And bryng hym to lyff eternall that neuyr hath ynd.”[81]

On the 17th of February, 1877, a meeting was held in the Jerusalem Chamber of the old Catholic abbey, not far from the presumed printing-office occupied by Caxton in the Almonry. Dean Stanley presided, and preparations were made for the exhibition. The Stationers’ Company offered their hall, but it was deemed too small, and a request was made for the Western Galleries at South Kensington. These were granted, and every facility given to arrange and display properly the works collected. One great object was to bring together and exhibit to the public as many copies as possible of works from Caxton’s press as could be obtained for the brief period from the public and private libraries, with such other books, especially of early date, as would tend to show the progress of printing from its discovery. The appeal was generously answered. No less than one hundred and ninety copies of books printed by the good Catholic William Caxton were contributed to the exhibition—a greater number, probably, than have ever been seen together since the Reformers made war on them, and greater than are at all likely to be again collected. They represented one hundred and four distinct works.

Lord Spencer sent fifty-seven Caxtons, early Block Books, a Gutenberg Bible, a Mentz Psalter; the Duke of Devonshire eighteen Caxtons; the Earl of Jersey and the Bodleian Library each seven; Sion College six, and the University of Göttingen six; Queen Victoria sent four and a Mentz Psalter.

The books were arranged in classes: (_a_) William Caxton and the Development of the Art of Printing in England and Scotland. (_b_) The Development of the Art of Printing in other Countries. (_c_) The Comparative Development of the Art in England and Foreign Countries, illustrated by specimens of the Holy Scripture and Liturgies. (_d_) Specimens noticeable for Rarity or for Beauty and Excellence of Typography. (_e_) Specimens of Printing. (_f_) Printed Music. (_g_) Book Illustrations. (_h_) Portraits and Autographs of Distinguished Authors, etc. (_i_) Books relating to Printing. (_k_) Curiosities and Miscellanies. (_l_) Type and Printing Materials. (_m_) Stereotyping and Electrotyping. (_n_) Copper-plate Printing, Lithography, etc. (_o_) Paper and Paper-making.

The great effort of the exhibition seems to have been directed to Class C. Noble collectors and commoners, universities and libraries, the British and Foreign Bible Society, archbishops and bishops, all contributed, and it was this department above the others that was to invest Protestantism with a peculiar halo. Yet the case presented difficulties of no ordinary character. Men like Stevens rant about “priestly dross and gloss” and similar claptrap expressions to keep alive old myths, but it required enormous assurance to advance these myths in the face of the collection gathered at London in 1877. They may talk of monkish legends and fables, but Protestantism rests on legends and fables which men who know better still continue to circulate in defiance of bibliography and common sense.

In the present case they desired to present to the public a glowing picture. There is a foreground in every picture, and there is a background also; there are clear lights which bring out the chief figures into bold relief, and there are shadows where figures lie almost unnoticed. The artists here knew well what to throw into the background and the shade.

Fable the first was that the Catholic Church had ever been the enemy of the Bible, opposed to its circulation. How is it, then, that when printing was invented the first book printed was the Bible? The church must have made the Bible known, or the early printers, who were not priests or monks, would have known nothing of such a book, would not have known where to get copies to print from, would not have known that anybody would know enough about the work to buy it if they printed it. But the fact is that people knew about the Bible, manuscripts were easily obtained, and many wanted them who could not afford to buy them. The fact that the Bible was selected to print shows that there was no impediment to its circulation, that there existed a well-known demand for it, and a call for cheaper copies.

Stevens reluctantly gives us aid to demolish this fable of Catholic darkness as to the Bible: “The Bible was the first book printed.” “Biblical bibliography proves that during the first forty years, at least, the Bible exceeded in amount of printing all other books put together; nor were its quality, style, and variety a whit behind its quantity.” And be it remembered that these forty years do not cover the whole period from the invention of printing to the commencement of the Reformation.

Bibles preceded all the Latin and Greek classic authors and all vernacular works, not in one place but in almost every place where a printing-press was set up.

“In a word,” says Stevens, “up to the discovery of America in 1492 Columbus might have counted upon his fingers all the old classic authors (including Ptolemy and Strabo in their unbecoming Latin dress) who could throw any geographical light on the questions which the great discoverer was discussing with the theologians of Spain; while, covering the same period, the editions of the Bible alone, and the parts thereof, in many languages and countries, will sum up not far less than one thousand, and the most of these of the largest and costliest kind.”

This, it must be remembered, is no rash assertion, but the truth wrung from this writer by the fact that the collection exhibited before his eyes at least three hundred out of the thousand to which he refers; and this thousand—not thousand copies of the Bible, but thousand editions of the Bible, or parts such as New Testament, Psalms, etc.—includes only to 1492, thirty years before Luther issued his Bible. Yet the monstrous figment is kept up to this day that in those dark and benighted ages the people were kept in ignorance of the Bible, that the Catholic Church suppressed it and kept it hid away, and that it was only the “glorious Reformation” which brought it from its obscurity. Stevens, with all his assurance, must have blushed as he wrote the words: “The church managed to have small call for the Scriptures in the vulgar tongues which the people could read and comprehend.” He does not cite, and knew that he could not cite, any authority to show that the church did anything that could be construed into any such management. The Bible had come down in her keeping; she preserved it, diffused it, and handed it down from generation to generation, jealous of its purity and its traditional interpretation.

Next to the fable of the hostility of the church to the Bible, and connected with it, is the myth of Luther’s discovering an old copy of the Bible when he was a priest and a monk, that he thereupon set to work to translate it, and that he first gave the Scriptures to the people in the vernacular. It was a very pretty story, told down to our day by authors like D’Aubigné. The Caxton celebration, though it did not contain specimens of all the editions of the Scriptures printed before the Reformation, had enough to show how shamefully the Protestant public had been deceived and imposed upon by this fable.

Mr. Stevens’ list begins with the Gutenberg Bible, printed at Mentz between 1450 and 1455—for a copy of that magnificent work was there, lent by Earl Spencer, perfect, entire, with its six hundred and forty-one leaves, double column, “the earliest book known printed with movable metal type.” Then follows the Psalms, printed by Fust and Schöffer at Mentz in 1457, Queen Victoria lending a copy. Next comes the 1459 Psalter, the second, third, and fourth Latin Bibles, another Psalter, and then a complete Bible in German, printed, Mr. Stevens assumes, at Strassburg, by Mendelin, in 1466. Queen Victoria’s magnificent copy, richly illuminated in gold and colors, was there for all to admire, and beside it Earl Spencer’s, nearly as beautiful. Either by accident or design Caxton’s Psalter was not obtained, and this first known separate book of Holy Scripture issued in England between 1480 and 1483 was represented only by a fac-simile of a page of the copy in the British Museum. The various Books of Hours printed by Caxton were similarly unrepresented.[82] Then with other Latin editions came the second German Bible, also in 1466; the third, Augsburg, 1470; and so on through the list, fourth, fifth, sixth, to the twelfth German,[83] printed at Augspurg in 1490 by Henry Schonsperger; and two editions in Low German, Cologne, 1480, Lubec, 1491. There was also a German Psalter printed in 1492, described by Stevens as “a fine specimen of an early pocket edition of the Psalms in the language of the people.”

Thus the Caxton collection presented no less than sixteen Catholic Bibles and Psalters in German printed before Luther’s time; and as translations were not made on the spur of the moment, there must have been in existence many translations in manuscript, some of which never found their way into print at all. These sixteen volumes, publicly exhibited at once and together in London, are as many refutations of the Protestant fables and legends.

“Prior to the discovery of America,” says Stevens, “no less than twelve grand patriarchal editions of the entire Bible, being of several different translations, appeared from time to time in the German language; to which add the two editions by the Otmars of Augsburg, of 1507 and 1518, and we have the total number of no less than fourteen distinct large folio pre-Reformation or ante-Lutheran Bibles. No other language except the Latin can boast of anything like this number.”

The collection shows, too, that Bibles in the vernacular were not confined to Germany. It could show some in other languages:

628, Bible, Italian, 316, 331 folios. Venice, N. Jenson. 1471. 649, Bible, Italian. Venice, Bolognese, 1477. 652, New Testament, French. Lyons, Buyer, 1477. 653-4, Old Testament, Dutch. Delf, Zoen, 1477. 669, Psalms, Dutch, Delf. 1480. 688, Bible, Italian. Venice, 1487. 690, Bible, Bohemian. 1488. 706, Psalms, French (Polyglot). Paris, 1509. 725, Bible, French. Paris, Petit, 1520.

The language of Sir Thomas More leads us to believe that some one of the Catholic versions of the New Testament at least was printed; but if so, the copies were suppressed so completely that none has reached our times. The mere fact that no copy is now known does not prove that none ever existed, when we consider the wholesale destruction by law of all Catholic books of devotion.

These are not all the vernacular Bibles issued in that period, but, as they stood there in the South Kensington Loan Collection, they furnished an irrefragable proof that printing originated in Catholic times; that the church was the first to use and encourage it; that she multiplied editions of the Bible in Latin, the habitual language of the church, then the language of learning and science, as well as in German, Italian, Dutch, French, and Bohemian; she printed, too, as a copy here showed, the Bible, Pentateuch, and Psalms in Hebrew, the Bible and Psalter in Greek and Chaldee, and an Arabic Psalter. (See 682, 691, 706, 711, 718, 720, 721.) Catholic writers have frequently referred to these early-printed Bibles and portions of Scripture in the vernacular; but to cite Panzer or some other bibliographer is far different from referring to a copy of the book. Here in the Caxton collection the very volumes stood to speak for themselves, and the catalogue attests the fact that they were there, tells us who owns each copy, its condition and state. What as a Catholic argument seemed vague and hazy thus took solid form, and became too substantial to doubt.

Now, how does Mr. Stevens endeavor to elude the force of this array of solid proofs? It is absolutely comical to see to what straits he is put. The following platitude, false statement, and false deduction is about as curious as the Caxton celebration itself:

“As the discovery of America was the greatest of all discoveries, so the invention of the art of printing may be called the greatest of all inventions. But no sooner had Columbus reported his grand discovery through the press than the pope assumed the whole property in the unknown parts of the earth, and divided it (_sic_) all at once between the two little powers in the Peninsula, wholly disregarding the rights and titles of the other nations of Europe. The same little game of assumption has been tried, from time to time, with regard to this great invention, but the press has a protective power within itself which the church can smother only with ignorance and mental darkness.”

The figures are somewhat confused, and we cannot exactly picture to our minds the church, with the two pillows of ignorance and mental darkness which Mr. Stevens can doubtless supply from his well-furnished store, trying to smother a protective power. The smothering of the children in the Tower was nothing compared to it. As for the “little game of assumption,” we think the gentlemen of the Reformation have played it long and successfully. But we admit that we do not see what right and title the nations of Europe had in the unknown parts of the earth, or whence they derived any right and title. So far as we have read, no right or title was claimed except when based on discovery, and then it was in the known and not in the unknown. Spain and Portugal carried their rival claims to the Holy See as a recognized tribunal, and the line of demarkation in their attempts at exploration was a wise and peace-establishing provision. It did not operate, and was not intended, to exclude the subjects of the pope, France, Germany, Denmark, or England from exploring.

The whole question is foreign to the subject of printing—so foreign that none of the Columbus letters, or the bull of Alexander VI., was thought worth obtaining for the Caxton exhibition. We have looked carefully through the catalogue, and, if they are there, they have certainly escaped us.

The array of books presented here shows that Luther could not have received the education he really did in his monastery, making him conversant with Latin, Greek, and Hebrew, without being aware of the existence in print of many of the more than a thousand editions in all languages that had already issued from the press. It is not pretended that Luther obtained his knowledge of languages by a miraculous gift; he acquired them in the monastic schools, and his attainments are a proof of the extent of their curriculum.

One of the great objects of the exhibition was to show the earliest English Protestant editions. Tyndale’s New Testament, supposed to have been printed at Worms by Peter Schöffer in 1526, was represented by the very imperfect copy owned by the dean and chapter of St. Paul’s Cathedral, and by the Antwerp edition of 1534; by the London edition of 1536, which had also at the end the “Epystles taken out of the Olde Testament what are red in the church after the use of Salsburye upon certen dayes of the year.”

But the great pride of the exhibition was a series of Coverdale’s Bibles and Testaments, over which Mr. Stevens indulges in most rhapsodical eulogy. “Let no Englishman or American,” he exclaims, “view this (765) and the six following Bibles without first lifting his hat, for they are seven extraordinary copies of the Coverdale Bible, containing, with one important exception (the Marquis of Northampton’s copy), all the variations known of the most precious volume in our language.” We cannot altogether share his raptures over this Bible, “faithfully and truly translated out of Douche and Latyn into English.” Stevens sneers at the Rhemish Testament as “a secondary translation from the Vulgate,” but Coverdale’s, translated out of “Douche and Latyn” into English, elicits no such sneer. According to his theory, set forth at great length, this edition is due to “Jacob van Meteren, of Antwerp, printer and proprietor, and probably the translator, by whom Coverdale was employed to edit and see the work through the press,” and he gives Antwerp as the place of publication. The edition was bought by James Nicolson, of Southwark. Though Mr. Stevens elsewhere represents the English people at this time as hungering and famished for an English Bible, he admits “that the English printer and publisher seems to have had as much trouble in working off his books as Simmons had in selling Milton’s _Paradise Lost_, if we may judge by the number of new titles and preliminary leaves found in different copies.” It contains a long and fulsome dedication to Henry VIII. and his dearest just-wife, in some copies “Anne” (Boleyn), in others “Jane” (Seymour). The Bible bearing the name of Thomas Mathew as translator (London: Grafton & Whitchurch, 1537) he ascribes to the famous John Rogers, and maintains that it too was printed by Van Meteren at Antwerp.

The Latin-English Testament bearing Coverdale’s name (London 1538), which he repudiated on account of its errors, or perhaps the correction of some of his errors, and that really issued by him at Paris in the same year, were both in the exhibition, as well as that issued also in 1538 at London bearing the name of Johan Hollybushe as translator. These are very curious as being, we think, the only Latin-English Testaments ever issued, giving the Vulgate and a translation based upon it. No other has, to our knowledge, ever appeared in the lapse of more than three centuries since that year, 1538. As Caxton’s Psalter was perhaps the first book of the Vulgate printed in England, these Testaments of Nicolson were the last portion of the Vulgate printed there for more than two hundred and fifty years, when the edition printed for the exiled clergy of France made its appearance. Unfortunately we do not find a copy of that edition in the list of those included in the exhibition.[84]

The first Testament professing to be translated directly from the Greek is that numbered in the catalogue 864, issued by Gaultier, 1550; and the first Bible from the Hebrew and Greek is that printed at Geneva by Rowland Hall in 1560. This shows how the people in England clung to the Vulgate. On the Continent Luther had abandoned it for such Hebrew and Greek texts as he could find, and so led the way to the host of errors that prevail to this day; but in England the versions were all based on the Vulgate, occasionally represented as compared with the Greek. It was not, indeed, till 1611 that the Church of England, by the translation then issued, formally abandoned the Vulgate, as the Calvinists had previously done. Mr. Stevens’ sneer at the Rhemish Testament of 1583, as being a secondary translation, applies with equal force to nearly all the English Protestant editions then in the hands of the people. Now that the Greek and Hebrew texts have by the aid of the best manuscripts been restored to some degree of purity and accuracy, Protestant scholars are revising the translation of 1611, and the one remarkable fact appears constantly that every change made to bring them to correspond to correct texts brings them back to the early translations from the Vulgate.[85]

This fact of English adherence to the Vulgate shown in the collection of Bibles at the Caxton celebration goes far towards exploding another Protestant myth and legend; and that is that England welcomed the Reformation with open arms, that the whole nation went over to the new ideas, and that Catholicity was generally abandoned. This is inculcated in a thousand ways in all the histories and popular literature of the day, if not squarely asserted. The Caxton collection shows that for nearly a century the people of England clung to the old Latin Vulgate as a standard, and that translations from it alone were read officially in the churches. And to this day the Book of Common Prayer is based on the Vulgate. Although Henry VIII. broke off from Rome, he knew the temper of the people. The English nation was in a manner bereft of its wonted leaders. The civil wars of the Roses had swept away most of the old nobility, and had brought to the surface the worst, most unscrupulous and grasping adventurers. What this class was who clustered around the spendthrift Henry VIII. we can easily see by a study of our times, after our experience of civil war. They were men to whom nothing was sacred; men determined to grasp and hold rank and wealth at any cost to the state or conscience. The people, bereft of their old leaders, of the time-honored noble families, could not effectively resist the set of new men. To these the church offered a splendid field for plunder. The ill-concerted insurrections against them were put down with merciless severity. Yet the attachment of the people to the old faith remained. Every step of Henry VIII. was gradual. In his reign the Mass and other offices of the church were maintained. Even in the reign of his boy son the unscrupulous men who coined a new faith and worship did not venture to go too far from the old forms. Like the Chinese emperor, they sought to destroy all trace of Catholic worship by committing to the flame every book in England that could keep it alive. What havoc they made we can learn and imagine from a view of the Caxton collection. Mary’s reign was too short to undo the mischief, and Elizabeth threw her whole influence into the scale against the church, and, against her own convictions, upheld the Anglican establishment as organized in her brother’s name, and finally gave it form and power; but even she did not dare to bring it to the standard of the French, Swiss, Dutch, and Scotch Protestants. The Church of England, in obedience to the old Catholic instincts of even those who submitted to force, retained much of the old form, and non-jurors, Puseyites, Tractarians, Ritualists are simply natural products of this old element.

Yet, with all the power of Henry, Somerset, Elizabeth, the mass of the English people had not become Protestant or ceased to be Catholic. One of Harper’s Half-Hour Series is not likely to over-state the Catholic side; yet Dr. Guernsey, in his _Spanish Armada_, says:

“At the middle of the reign of Elizabeth the population of England numbered something less than five millions. Of these, according to the estimate of Rushton, one-third were Protestants and two-thirds Catholics. Lingard, with less probability, thinks that about one-half were Catholic. The Italian Cardinal Bentivoglio reckoned the zealous Catholics at only one-thirtieth part of the nation, while those who would without the least scruple have become Catholics, if the Catholic religion should be established by law, were at least four-fifths of the whole; and Macaulay thinks this statement very near the truth. We think a more accurate apportionment would be that one-fourth of the population were decided Protestants, another fourth decided Catholics, while the remaining half—the majority of them with a leaning to the old faith—were quite content with whatever form of religion should be ordained by the civil authorities for the time being.”

If this was the state of England in the middle of Elizabeth’s reign, after all connection with Rome had been broken off for two generations, all Catholic books committed to the flames, the Mass and the priesthood outlawed, how impossible to believe that the English people went as a body into the Reformation! If only one-fourth were then decided Protestants, how many were Protestants when Coverdale’s Bible was issued?

If England became Protestant, it was simply because the English people were dragooned into it by penal laws steadily and persistently applied. The decided Protestants from choice were few and their descendants are comparatively few. The mass of English Protestants are the descendants of cowards who yielded up their faith and their convictions to save property, liberty, or life. The poorest Irish Catholic has a noble ancestry of men who suffered confiscation, imprisonment, hunting like wild beasts, death itself, rather than abandon the faith they sincerely believed, and it is certainly not for the sons of poltroons to despise them.

The Caxton collection thus, by showing the adherence to the Vulgate till a Presbyterian king came to the throne, shows how reluctantly England accepted Protestantism, and dispels many of the fine theories with which Mr. Stevens mystifies the subject.

The collection had some editions of special interest to us Catholics, yet it lacked many which we would expect to find in so pretentious a series of books. The Gutenberg Bible, that glory of the church, we have already noted. Few of our readers were or could well be present at the London exhibition, but when the Lenox Library opens in New York they will be able to see a fine copy of this first of printed books—proof that in Catholic times, when the church was undisputed mistress of Europe, the first work deemed entitled to the honor of being reproduced by the new invention was the Bible. A Catholic can point to it, and say: “That is the first book ever printed; it is our Catholic Bible, printed by the Catholic men who invented the art of printing.”

The Caxton collection contained also the first edition issued in the city of Rome in 1471, as well as the wonderful Polyglot of the great Cardinal Ximenes, and the Polyglot Psalter of Bishop Giustiniani with the first sketch of the life of Columbus. The Bible issued as a standard by Pope Sixtus V. in 1590 is represented by Mr. Stevens, most strangely, as “the first complete Latin edition published by papal authority.” He does not tell us in what respect the previous Latin Bibles were incomplete, or explain how none of them had any papal authority. This Sistine edition was contributed by Earl Spencer, as well as a copy of the edition issued under Pope Clement VIII., 1592, and the edition of the Septuagint from the Codex Vaticanus, issued at Rome in 1586. The Rhemish New Testament, 1582, and the Old Testament printed at Douay in 1609-10, were also there, but Mr. Stevens is clearly in error in saying: “It is a remarkable circumstance that, though these volumes bear the dates of 1609 and 1610 they had not reached the hands of the translators of the 1611 version when their long preface was written. There is distinct allusion to this work, as if to disclaim any knowledge of it.” Yet there is intrinsic evidence that they availed themselves of it before they put their own to press. Readings both in the Old and New Testament which had been preserved through the series of Protestant translations were abandoned in the King James Bible, and Douay renderings substantially, if not literally, adopted.

The King James Bible, of course, figures in the collection. But the question as to which is the _editio princeps_, the standard for those who bow down to that version, is a knotty one. There is a “Great He Bible” and a “Great She Bible”—two issues of the same year 1611 distinct through every leaf. Catholics will wonder at this distinction of sex in Bibles, and it may be well to state that in the endeavor to determine which of the two was the one originally issued by the translators, scholars found a discrepancy in Ruth iii. 15, one reading: “He measured six measures of barley, and laid it on her, and He went into the city,” while the other reads, “She went into the city”; and as each of these, although varying from each other in many places, was taken as a standard for subsequent editions, these Protestant Bibles are all He and She Bibles to those who wish to know from which of the two 1611 editions they sprang. Mr. Stevens decides that the He Bible, evidently incorrect in its rendering, was the original one.

He sets at rest another point in regard to this King James Bible, and that is the myth or fable of calling it “The Authorized Version.” He says: “We do not find any authority for calling it the _Authorized Version_, the words ‘appointed to be read in churches’ meaning not authorized, but, as explained in the preliminary matter, simply how the Scriptures were pointed out or ‘appointed’ for public reading.” In other words, to make the Bible go down with the people of England, who still clung to many old Catholic ideas, the epistles and gospels for the Sundays and many of the holidays of the year, as read from time immemorial in the Mass, were indicated or appointed in this Bible. This makes the King James Bible, whether a “Great He Bible” or a “Great She Bible,” a document to prove how slow the English people were to go over to the Reformers, and how they clung to what little they could grasp of their old Catholic faith and devotion. Mr. Stevens does not like it for this very reason, and wants the title _purified_ by leaving out “appointed to be read in churches”; but leaving it out now will not destroy the force of the phrase as it stands on both the He and She Bible of 1611. He claims the King James as the Bible of all English Protestant churches. It has become so; but it was not so originally. He is historically wrong when he says: “It never was any more the Bible of the Church (_i.e._, of England) than of the Puritans.” It certainly was. Unfortunately there was no copy in this Caxton celebration of “The Souldier’s Pocket Bible: Printed at London by G. B. and R. W. for G. C., 1643,” or we could refer him to that constant companion of Cromwell’s soldiers to show that the Puritans stuck to the Geneva Bible as late as the time of the Commonwealth, and left the King James and the Bishop’s Bibles to the malignants. He knows the early writings of his own New England divines too well not to be aware that their sermons and tracts quote the Geneva and not the King James. The incorrect editions of the Geneva, and the appointment of king’s printers in the reign of Charles II. with the exclusive right of printing Bibles, stopped the issue of any but the King James, and it thus superseded the Geneva, and people took it as a matter of necessity, not of choice or preference. It is simply absurd to make it appear that the King James version was at once accepted and adopted generally.

The collection did very little in showing the various modifications of the Douay Bible. After the edition of 1635 there was scarcely anything in the Caxton exhibition—no copy of Nary’s New Testament, which is certainly remarkable enough. The first edition of the Protestant Bible printed in Ireland dates only from 1714, and certainly a Catholic Testament printed, in spite of penal laws and persecution, in 1719, only five years later, ought to have found a place there. There was no copy of Witham’s New Testament or of Challoner’s first Testament, or of the first edition of his Bible. Nor does Geddes appear. America is not at all represented. Not a copy of Eliot’s Indian Bible, or of Sauer’s German Bible, or the Congress Bible, or the first Catholic Bible of 1790; the Bay Psalm Book stands almost alone.

The Bibles sought for on account of curious renderings or strange blunders were pretty well represented, such as Matthews’ Bug Bible: “Thou shalt not nede to be afraid for any bugges by nyghte,” Ps. xci. 5. The second Genevan, 1562: “Blessed are the place-makers,” Matt. v. 9. Bishop’s Bible, 1568: “Is there no tryacle in Gilead?” Jerem. viii. 22. The Wicked Bible, London, 1631: “Thou shalt commit adultery.” Cambridge Bible, 1638: “Whom _ye_ may appoint,” Acts vi. 3, for _we_. The Vinegar Bible, 1717: “The Parable of the Vinegar.” Oxford Bible, 1807: “Purge your conscience from _good_ works,” instead of “_dead_,” Heb. ix. 14. Oxford Bible, 1810: “Hate not ... his own _wife_,” for life, Luke xiv. 26. Still these are of no value except as cautions against typographical blunders. But among the curious Bibles and Testaments we were surprised to see no copy of the now rare negro English Testament, published in London in 1829, _Da Njoe Testament va wi Masra en Helpiman Jesus Christus_. The Rev. Sydney Smith immortalized it, and _Notes and Queries_ in 1864 devoted some space to it. Renderings like these from a copy before us: St. Matthew, vi. 7, “En effi oeni beggi, oene no meki soso takkitakki, leki dem Heiden, bikasi dem membre, effi dem meki foeloe takkitakki, Gado so harki dem,” or vi. 11, “Gi wi tideh da jamjam va wi,”[86] are certainly as curious as anything exhibited.

An ingenious gentleman like Mr. Stevens might perhaps have deduced from it a proof that Caxton was a follower of Wickliffe, or that the Catholic Church showed no respect for the Word of God.

A catalogue of books such as we have taken up seems to afford little scope for any but dry bibliographical notes, but the Caxton celebration has its lessons that can be gleaned even from a catalogue, and if our readers have followed us we think that they will admit that the attempt to make Caxton other than a pious Catholic was a delusion; and the exclusion of the Catholic element, and the attempt to make Caxton a fulcrum for the exaltation of Protestantism, a failure.[87] As Catholics we may be grateful for the unintentional evidence the collection afforded of the fact that the Catholic Church protected and preserved the Bible, made men esteem and desire it, gave it to the newly-invented art of printing as the first work to issue, fostered the publication of the original texts, the authentic Vulgate, and of translations in the vernacular; as well as incidentally of proof that the Luther romance was a figment, and proof that the Reformation was forced on the English people, that they clung to the Bible, liturgy, and dogmas of the Catholic Church with the utmost tenacity, and that they lacked only the courage of Ireland and Poland to have maintained their country Catholic.

Footnote 76:

_Caxton Celebration_, 1877. Catalogue of the Loan Collection of Antiquities, Curiosities, and Appliances connected with the art of Printing, South Kensington. Edited by George Bullen, Esq., F.S.A., Keeper of the Printed Books, British Museum. London, Trübner; xix.-472 pp.

_The Bibles in the Caxton Exhibition. MDCCCLXXVII._; or, A Bibliographical Description of nearly one thousand representative Bibles in various languages chronologically from the first Bible printed by Gutenberg in 1450-1456 to the last Bible printed at the Oxford University Press the 30th June, 1877.... By Henry Stevens G.M.B., F.S.A., M.A., etc. London: H. Stevens. 1877. 8vo, pp. 151.

Footnote 77:

Office of the Blessed Virgin, with other prayers.

Footnote 78:

The clown appears early in “What you Will.” It has become the fashion to call our Catholic institutions, schools, etc., _sectarian_, because apparently the _sects_ are bitterly opposed to them; and institutions in which the Protestant sects have complete control and enforce their views are called _non-sectarian_. No one would imagine that “religious sectarianism” here is a euphemism for “Protestant intolerance.”

Footnote 79:

We have always indulged the hope that the use of the Sarum Missal on some patronal feast will be permitted in the primatial church of England, as the Ambrosian and Mozarabic are in Italy and Spain, to show conclusively that we are the identical body who used that liturgy before the Reformation.

Footnote 80:

While writing we read the following from Blades’ _Life of Caxton_ to a Catholic girl in her teens: “No. 57. Death-Bed Prayers. A Folio Broadside:

“From the language of these prayers it is evident that they were intended for use by the death-bed. They were probably printed in this portable form for priests and others to carry about with them. Although short, their interest is great, and the reader may not be displeased to read them in the following more modern dress than that of the original:

“‘O glorious Jesu! O meekest Jesu! O most sweetest Jesu! I pray thee that I may have true confession, contrition, and satisfaction ere I die; and that I may see and receive thy holy body, God and man, Saviour of all mankind. Christ Jesu without sin; and that thou wilt, my Lord God, forgive me all my sins, for thy glorious wounds and Passion; and that I may end my life in the true faith of all holy church.’”

“What a stupid man!” exclaimed my young hearer. “That is not any prayer for a priest to say by a dying person; it’s a prayer for a happy death, and is it not a beautiful one?’” She was certainly right, and a Catholic child could teach many of these people.

Footnote 81:

To the same purport is this colophon on Bartholomæus’ _De Proprietatibus Rerum_, issued by Wynken de Worde about 1495:

“And also of your charyte call to remembraunce The soule of William Caxton, first prynter of this boke, In laten tongue at Coleyn, hymself to auance That every wel disposyd man may theron loke.”

Footnote 82:

Stevens admits that there was no necessity for actually doing the printing of Bibles in England. “The educated of England, however, were not ignorant of the Scriptures, for Coburger, of Nuremberg, and probably other Continental printers, had established warehouses in London for the sale of Latin Bibles as early as 1480, and perhaps earlier.”

Footnote 83:

The Paulist Library in New York might have sent a fine copy of the ninth edition, printed in 1482, the very year Luther was born.

Footnote 84:

We have never seen the Latin Bible printed by Norton at London, in 1680, but think that the text of the Vulgate was not followed.

Footnote 85:

The natural history and topography of the 1611 Bible are ludicrously incorrect, because they abandoned the Vulgate and translated at random. Yet the Vulgate was translated from the Septuagint, and revised in the Holy Land by St. Jerome with the aid of Jewish scholars who knew the geography and natural history of the country. The Septuagint was made in Egypt, while Hebrew was still the language of the nation, by men thoroughly acquainted with their native country. Was it not sheer madness for gentlemen in England in the seventeenth century, with a mere smattering of Hebrew, to think that they could render geographical and zoölogical terms more accurately? Is not their presumption the real matter to be sneered at?

Footnote 86:

Written according to Dutch rather than English. This is very odd. _Beggi_ is _pray_; _takkitakki_ is much _talkee_ (say); _jamjam_ is _yam_ (bread). “Give we to-day the yams for we!”

Footnote 87:

Like Caxton, a Catholic, the writer has, like Caxton, written, translated, edited, printed, and published, and has had for years behind his chair in his dining-room an engraving of Caxton examining his first proof-sheet. His interest in Caxton is, therefore, almost personal.

MALCOLM, KING OF SCOTLAND, TO HIS WIFE, ST. MARGARET.

I.

God speed thee, sweet, in all thy tasks of love, The daily round of thy heart’s majesty— Thy dear lips opened unto clemency— My Margaret, my pearl all price above; My little kingdom, where as king I reign O’er lands so fair I might with gladness give All earthly state in these alone to live Where nothing base doth holy ground profane. My queen, my Atheling, true noble one, That wearest on thy Saxon brow a grace Wherein all loyal hearts can true love trace To this north land the misty hills do crown. My rose-lipped daisy, lighting Scotland’s sod With happy faces lifted up to God.

II.

God speed thee, sweet; my heart so singeth e’er, As grows more dear among our poor thy fame With every day. O Lady, true of name, Giver of bread to all beneath thy care, My royal-hearted queen and flawless pearl, How shall my sin-stained prayers for thee avail, That dost least fault with innocent tears bewail? Meek daisy, whose white petals do unfurl From soul wherein all golden visions shine! So near to God thou seem’st, and pray’st so well, The book I kiss whereon thy pure eyes dwell, So grows my prayer the words that have been thine, So surely grows it sweeter in His ear, Tuned to the music of thy singing clear.

III.

May that brave saint, sweet wife, whose name is thine, Whose virgin feet unharmed on dragons fell, Keep thee in grace with Him thou lov’st so well Till that far day when shall thy beauty shine With that light glorified her features wear. Blessed light! fair even now encircling thee When, bowed thy soul in fond humility, Thou kneelest, of thy God possessed, at prayer. Ah! love, with Christ, our Lord, forget not me Who tread this tangled pathway here below With eyes more dim than thine and feet more slow; So, when in life eternal we are met, I still may wear my pearl, my Margaret!

HAVE WE A NOVELIST?

Scarcely fifty years have elapsed since Sydney Smith contemptuously asked: “Who reads an American book?” John Bull was delighted at this sneering query of the witty Dean of St. Paul’s. It was so agreeable an _exposé_ of the literary poverty of a formidable rival. It was so very consoling to find a weak point in the young giant who had twice beaten him in war. Could Sydney Smith rise to-day from his grave in Kensal Green he would witness a marvellous change. The time has passed when he might triumphantly ask: “Who reads an American book?” The time has passed when John Bull might gloat over the poverty of American literature. We have a literature—a noble literature—of which any nation might be proud. We may confidently reverse the celebrated query of the wittiest of English divines, and ask: “Who does _not_ read an American book?” Who does not read the histories of Prescott? Who does not read the charming writings of Irving? Who does not read the wonderful tales of Hawthorne, the poems of Longfellow, of Bryant, of Poe?

Our literary temple, like Aladdin’s palace, is glorious; but, like Aladdin’s palace, it is also incomplete. While our literature is full and splendid in poetry, in history, and in science, it has been strangely wanting in what Prescott calls “ornamental literature”: the romance. The deficiency is more particularly remarkable when we consider the magnificent field which this country offers to the novelist. Our government, our institutions, our society, our national manners, the vice and extravagance of our great cities, our political corruption, the enterprising spirit of our people, the rapid change of fortune in our commercial cities, where the born beggar often dies a millionaire, life at our watering-places—all present interesting and inexhaustible subjects for the romance-writer. No country in the world affords such strong and striking contrasts of character as the United States. Here we have the gay and mercurial Frenchman, the practical and plodding German, the generous and improvident Irishman, the reserved Englishman, the proud Spaniard, and last, but by no means least, the eager, calculating American, with his brain of fire and his heart of ice.

Certainly there is no lack of materials; the workers alone are wanting; the harvest is abundant, but the laborers are few. We want a Thackeray to expose the heartless extravagance of our best society; a Dickens to turn our hearts in generous sympathy towards the poor and suffering; a Bulwer to polish the manners of our people, and illustrate the noble truth that knowledge is power, money only its handmaiden. Within a dozen years this trio of novelists has passed away, and they have left no successors. Except a few chapters in Thackeray’s _Virginians_, and some absurdly nonsensical scenes in Dickens’ _Martin Chuzzlewit_, the works of the great English novelists are entirely foreign: the characters, manners, scenes—all foreign to us. But they are read here with as much pleasure as in England. The Americans are a nation of readers—men, women, and children, all read. The majority of our men read newspapers almost exclusively. Seven-eighths of the novel-reading of this country is done by women. The statistics of any popular library will show that three novels a week form the average of these fair readers.

With so great and constant a demand for novels, why have we no novelist among us?—a great novelist, a national novelist, an essentially American novelist, as Bulwer and Thackeray are essentially English. As there can be no effect without a cause, there must be a cause for this deficiency in our literature. There are two: _American publishers_ and _American readers_. While an English magazine scarcely ever publishes an article by an American writer, there is not a great English novelist of the last quarter of a century who has not written for one or other of the American magazines. Dickens, Bulwer, Thackeray, Wilkie Collins, Charles Reade, George Eliot, Trollope, Miss Muloch, etc., etc., have written more or less for our periodicals. Literature, like love, must be encouraged or it languishes and dies. In addition to the want of encouragement given to American novelists by our publishers is the fact that American novel-readers affect to despise American novelists. The novel-reading ladies who frequent circulating libraries, demanding with one voice “something new,” who prefer Miss Braddon to George Eliot, and Mrs. Henry Wood to Thackeray, say they “cannot read American novels.” And yet three of the most popular novels of the last three years have been American, viz.: _Infelice_, _One Summer_, and _A Question of Honor_. We have seen an American lady take up _The American_, by Mr. Henry James, Jr., and throw it down, saying, “The name is enough.” We have seen ladies decline one of the charming stories of Mr. Aldrich or Mr. Howells, and carry off in triumph the last production of Mary Cecil Hay or the voluptuous “Ouida”! If Americans refuse to read American novels, who will read them?

The indiscriminate and almost universal novel-reading now practised is a striking and alarming feature of American life, when we consider the tone and character of so many of the modern novels. Judged by them, divorces, elopements, intrigues, and other crimes against society are the normal attendants of modern civilization. They play a conspicuous part in most of the “popular novels” of the day. Yet such books are eagerly devoured by young girls, whose minds are keenly susceptible to their dangerous influence. An insidious poison is thus infused which often fatally corrupts the youthful imagination. Bad books are the devil’s own instruments for the ruin of souls. As it is impossible to deny the fact that novels form the staple reading of a majority of the world, it is important that they should be not only pure but above suspicion.

The Catholic press cannot too strongly condemn the scope and influence of the novel of to-day. While Scott and Miss Edgeworth are neglected, the vile trash of Rhoda Broughton and Mrs. Forrester is eagerly sought. The good old habit of reading history, travels, biography, essays, etc., is almost entirely abandoned. “We want something new and exciting,” is the general cry; “history and biography are too deep.” And so they go on from week to week, from month to month, and from year to year, reading nothing but novels, and filling their minds with nonsense, if nothing worse. While we condemn indiscriminate novel-reading, we do not condemn novels indiscriminately. There are a few that can be read without detriment either to morals or religion, and these, we are sorry to say, are the novels that modern readers pronounce “flat.”

During the century of our national existence we have had three genuine American novelists: Charles Brockden Brown, James Fenimore Cooper, and William Gilmore Simms. The first of this trio possessed great natural gifts and enjoyed a liberal education. The singular advantages which nature so lavishly bestowed upon Brockden Brown prevented him from being a popular novelist. He was a pure idealist. He lived in a world of his own. His beautiful and fertile imagination created beings which never could exist in this world, and these he made the heroes and heroines of his strange stories. They may please the intellectual few, but they possess no interest for the uncultivated many. If Brown’s talents had been properly directed, if he could have kept his soaring imagination fixed on the earth, and been satisfied with describing men and things as they really exist, his would have been a lasting fame. But, as it is, he is not now read by one in ten thousand, nay, in ten times ten thousand. Cooper is second to Brown in point of time and superior to him in point of popularity. He threw a charm, a grace, and an interest around the life and character of the American Indians which appear inconsistent in the light of recent experience. In his sea-stories he succeeds where the greatest novelist signally failed. Cooper enjoyed a high reputation during life, but his novels now rank with the writings of Mayne Reid, and are almost exclusively read by boys. Simms’ stories of the Revolution and the border life in the South that succeeded the struggle for independence are excellent in their way. His Revolutionary romances afford glimpses of generous devotion to patriotism and an ardent zeal in the cause of liberty which Americans might read with profit at the present day.

But those novelists belong to the past—the dead and buried past. We want the present time described—the living, breathing, busy present. There never was an age, there never was a country, that afforded such scope for the novelist as this age and country. Our cities are swarming with an eager, reckless, enterprising population, presenting an infinite variety of characters, each occupied with his own particular pursuits of ambition, pleasure, or wealth. Take New York as the representative city of America. There are to be found the best and the worst features of our civilization; the most unbounded wealth and the most squalid poverty; the most exquisite culture and refinement and the most degraded and abandoned of the human race. Is not our society as vain, frivolous, false as that English society which Thackeray satirized so unmercifully? Have we no Vanity Fair, no heartless Becky Sharps, no selfish George Osbornes, no wicked old Steynes, no disreputable Rawdon Crawleys?

Our country is the last of nations in point of time, but the first in all material prosperity. Like Minerva, it sprang into existence fully equipped for a career unparalleled in the annals of the world. Other nations have taken a thousand years to reach the position which the United States took at one bound. We have more than realized the dream of Plato. But let us not imitate the philosopher of Greece, and banish poetry and pure fiction from _our_ republic. Let us not hang the sword of Damocles over the imagination, but let it be purified. Let us not employ the scissors of Atropos to cut the threads of fictitious narrative, but let it be purged of its present loose and dangerous tendency. Sir Walter Scott declared novels to be “a luxury contrived for the amusement of polished life, and the gratification of that half-love of literature which pervades all ranks in an advanced stage of society, and are read much more for amusement than with the least hope of deriving instruction from them”; yet _Ivanhoe_ throws more light upon the personal character of Richard Cœur de Lion, _Kenilworth_ informs us more particularly about the court of Elizabeth, the _Fortunes of Nigel_ gives us a better insight into the private life of King James, than we derive from Hume. By his poems and novels Scott threw a perpetual charm over the bleak hills of Scotland; he made its ruined abbeys as interesting as the ruined castles of Germany; he made its lakes the favorite resort of thousands of summer tourists. Author of the most celebrated novels that were ever written, Scott was unjust to the children of his mind when he spoke slightingly of novels. It should be remembered that he also spoke unfavorably of the literary profession—a profession by which he made a million dollars and an immortal name.

When the author of _Waverley_ spoke disparagingly of novels that kind of literary composition was almost in its infancy, certainly in its childhood. Richardson, Fielding, Smollett, and Goldsmith were the only great names in that department of English literature. It was almost an uncultivated field, but the reaper was at hand, whose harvest should be abundant, whose reward great. The lordly halls of Abbotsford still stand, the magnificent result of novel-writing. For every novel written during the time of Scott there are at least one hundred written now. The novels published during the last fifty years are far more numerous than all the novels that had previously existed in the world. A hundred years since pamphlets were written to promote the success of a political measure, to show that “taxation” was “no tyranny,” to overthrow a minister, etc. Now, when Disraeli wants to convince the country of his political sagacity, he writes a novel; when Dickens wanted to show up a crying injustice to the poor he wrote a novel; when Thackeray wanted to expose the shams of English society he wrote a novel. The age of pamphlets is gone, the age of novels has succeeded. Statesmen write novels, soldiers write novels, clergymen, lawyers, doctors—all professions, all classes and both sexes, write novels, and still the novel-reading Olivers “ask for more.” Any person who visits a fashionable circulating library upon a Saturday afternoon will see how great is the demand for _new_ novels.

Books which were, in the last century, read in mixed assemblages of young ladies and gentlemen could not now be read by old ladies in the privacy of their closets. Apropos of which is a story out of Lockhart’s _Scott_: “A grand-aunt of mine,” said Sir Walter, “was very fond of reading, and enjoyed it to the last of her long life. One day she asked me, when we happened to be alone together, whether I had ever seen Mrs. Behn’s novels. I confessed the charge. Whether I could get her a sight of them? I said, with some hesitation, I believed I could; but that I did not think she would like either the manners or the language, which approached too near that of Charles II.’s time to be quite proper reading. ‘Nevertheless,’ said the good old lady, ‘I remember them being so much admired, and being so much interested in them myself, that I wish to look at them again.’ To hear was to obey. So I sent Mrs. Aphra Behn, curiously sealed up, with ‘private and confidential’ on the packet, to my gay old grand-aunt. The next time I saw her afterwards she gave me back Aphra, properly wrapped up, with nearly these words: ‘Take back your bonny Mrs. Behn; and, if you will take my advice, put her in the fire, for I found it impossible to get through the very first novel. But is it not,’ said she, ‘a very odd thing that I, an old woman of eighty and upwards, sitting alone, feel myself ashamed to read a book which, sixty years ago, I have heard read aloud for the amusement of large circles, consisting of the first and most creditable society of London?’”

Although a vast improvement has taken place in the tone of novels generally, yet there are many still written which should not be read, and many are read which should not be written. It is a striking and lamentable fact that the worst novels of the day are written and read by women. The miss scarcely in her teens reads books which her grandmother would be ashamed to read. As the pampered palate of the epicure can only enjoy food highly seasoned, so the vitiated minds of modern readers can only enjoy highly seasoned novels; mysterious murders, mad marriages, runaway matches, terrible secrets, awful mysteries, hidden perils, etc., are required to stimulate their jaded taste. As a person who feeds only on dainties will soon have the dyspepsia, so a person who reads only highly-seasoned novels will have a sort of mental dyspepsia. Scenes are described, circumstances are mentioned, conversations retailed, vices introduced into modern novels which would cause any man to be banished from decent society who should so far forget himself as to allude to them. Yet such things are read without blushing by young ladies, such books are discussed by ladies and gentlemen without shame. If our young ladies are to read nothing but novels, in the name of modesty let not their literary food be corrupt and corrupting; let not their virgin minds be filled with foul images; let not their Christian souls be soiled with even a thought of vice.

Queen Anne could not enjoy her breakfast unless the _Spectator_ was by her plate. Were Addison alive now and writing the _Spectator_, we doubt whether Queen Victoria would have it with her morning meal. Times change, and kings as well as commons must keep pace with their age. Gibbon’s vanity was gratified that his history was in every lady’s boudoir and discussed in every fashionable drawing-room in London. Were Gibbon writing in this present year of grace, we do not think the _Decline and Fall_ would deprive the last novel of its “pride of place” in my lady’s boudoir. About twenty-two years ago Macaulay received that famous £20,000 check from the Messrs. Longman for a volume of his _History of England_, of which more than twenty-six thousand five hundred copies were sold in ten weeks. Macaulay’s History was even more popular than Gibbon’s. He said: “I shall not be satisfied unless I produce something which shall for a few days supersede the last fashionable novel on the tables of young ladies.” “For a few days” Macaulay’s history did “supersede the last fashionable novel,” but we think we are safe in saying that it will have fewer readers this year than a new novel by “Christian Reid” or Mrs. Alexander. Take the average girl of the period, question her about her reading, and what is the result? She averages six novels a week—three hundred a year. Certainly much in point of quantity, but how about the quality? Has she read the _Spectator_, the _Vicar of Wakefield_, Macaulay’s _Essays_? No. They would be as tiresome to her as the compliments of an old beau—as old-fashioned as last year’s bonnet.

Mme. Roland when a girl slept with a volume of Plutarch’s _Lives_ under her pillow. Our girls, who are more interested in contemporary society than in the lives of illustrious Greeks and Romans, put the last novel under their pillow, that they may continue the first thing in the morning the entrancing story of _Theo_, which “tired nature” compelled them to relinquish at midnight. We trust they may never be called upon to display the lofty heroism of Mme. Roland—that their only tears may be those shed over the woes of imaginary heroines, their only sorrows as fictitious as those in the novels they love so well.

Being an unquestionable fact that the reading millions of this last quarter of the nineteenth century devote themselves to novels more than to any other class of literature, novels may be made the means of great and universal good. We all know how rapturously the third tier applauds lofty moral sentiments; how enthusiastically the “gods” of the gallery sympathize with virtue in distress; how the protector of innocence is cheered and the villain hooted. Let this natural feeling of the human heart be turned to account in novels. We have all laughed over that inimitable scene in _The Rivals_ between Lydia Languish and Lucy, her maid, who has been sent to the circulating library for some _late novels_. Do not some of Lydia’s favorites suggest the names of popular novels that are in daily request at _our_ fashionable circulating libraries?—the _Reward of Constancy_, the _Fatal Connection_, the _Mysteries of a Heart_, the _Delicate Distress_, the _Tears of Sensibility_. Have we not the _Fatal Marriage_, the _Empty Heart_, a _Woman’s Heart_, the _Curse of Gold_, the _Mysterious Engagement_, a _Clandestine Marriage_, etc.? Judging from the books they read, our girls must believe with Mrs. Malaprop that “thought does not become a young woman.”

A popular modern novel, one which nine out of every ten readers pronounce “so nice,” “so interesting,” “perfectly lovely,” is “made up” something after this manner: A young girl, one half of whose character entirely contradicts the other half, engages herself to some worthy but commonplace young man, who is more familiar with figures in his ledger than with figures of rhetoric, who is more apt at writing business letters than love letters, who is better acquainted with market quotations than poetical quotations, who knows more about the Corn Exchange than about _Lucille_—in short, a man who takes a practical, common-sense view of life. The love of this romantic girl and this practical young man is not very ardent. In the meantime there appears upon the scene a dark, mysterious, gloomy, _blasé_ man of the world, believing in nothing, hoping for nothing, and who looks upon existence as a curse. He is as handsome as an angel, cynical as a fiend, sceptical as a modern philosopher. His “noble” brow is often disfigured by a scowl, his “chiselled” mouth is often marred by a sneer. In a word, he is a sort of fashionable Lara. This scowling, sneering, cynical gentleman has had an interesting history: he was the hero of an unfortunate love-affair. His heart is a burnt-out volcano. In his early youth he had loved—madly, wildly loved—a woman who was married to a brute. He tells this woman his love. She listens to his story, laments that she is not free, and bursts into tears. He takes her in his arms, swearing that she is the one idolized love of his heart. At length she says they must part, but bids him await her summons. He leaves her, goes abroad, and tries to forget his sorrows in the sparkling Lethe of dissipation. In vain. The sad form of his loved one is the skeleton at every feast, and changes every ball into a funeral. At last his long-expected summons comes: the being he loves more than ten thousand lives writes him to come to her at once; that her husband has struck her, she is sick, perhaps dying. He flies to revenge her wrongs. He finds her _dead_. Thus was his love lost, his hopes crushed, his life wrecked. Lara tells his story to our romantic girl one lovely June evening. They are seated on a moonlit piazza. The perfume of many flowers fills the air. The sound of a distant river is heard. It is a night and a scene meet for love. In tones, tender, sad, but sweet, he tells her his heart has long been ashes; that he never thought the fires of love could again be kindled there, but she has taught him that there is peace, happiness, love for even him. Will she raise this dead heart to life? She murmurs, softly but passionately, “I love you, Arthur.” This is a rather mild and innocent specimen of the food that modern novel-readers feed on. The object of fiction should be to represent life as it is—to “hold the mirror up to nature.”

Just one hundred years since all London went wild over a new novel by a nameless writer. The new novel was _Evelina_, the nameless writer was Miss Burney. The characters in the book were commonplace, the scenes uninteresting, the story unexciting, but it showed, what no other novel of the time showed, that a book could be lively without being licentious, readable without being immoral. Nothing more clearly proves the poverty of the fictitious literature of the last quarter of the eighteenth century than that such a statesman as Burke should sit up all night to read such a book as _Evelina_. Nothing better proves how prejudice can sway a strong mind than that Dr. Johnson should pronounce Miss Burney superior to Fielding. But it was extraordinary for a young lady to write a book one hundred years ago. It was still more extraordinary for a young lady to write a novel that could be read with pleasure. Hence the _furore_ that it created and the interest that its author excited. Miss Burney did not (as too many of our lady writers do), upon the strength of one successful book, rush a half-dozen inferior novels upon the world. She waited more than four years before she published her next work, _Cecilia_. For _Evelina_ she received £20, for _Cecilia_ £2,000. We have mentioned Miss Burney, because we consider her as an excellent example for the imitation of modern novelists. She was willing to wait four years after publishing an unprecedentedly successful book before giving another to the world. But, when that other work did appear, it was placed by general consent among the few classical novels in the English language. Nowadays it is the fashion for a popular writer to deluge circulating libraries with rubbish which, in a few weeks, finds its way to the junk-shop. Those who write for posterity write slowly, correct carefully, and publish seldom.

When we remember that this is peculiarly the age of the novel, that more novels are now published in New York in one year than existed in the whole world one hundred years ago, that the demand is still greater than the supply, that we have long since broken the apron-strings that bound us to our literary mother, England, in every other department of letters, we feel convinced that, at no distant day, our novelist will come. But he must be true to his mission, and give a faithful representation of American life and manners, not a “counterfeit presentment.” He must not sacrifice virtue and honor to present popularity, he must not pander to the vicious tastes of a demoralized society, but, like Addison, he must purify the public taste by elevating it to his own high ideal. Such a writer would not violate the sanctities of domestic love or forget the obligations of social duty. He might be witty, but he would never be wanton; he might be lively, but he would never be licentious. Such a writer would be a benefactor to his country and to the world.

ANGLICAN DEVELOPMENT.

Development implies a germ. It is the growth of such qualities or characteristics as were inherent in the original principle. If the principle was bad the development will be bad—if, indeed, there be development at all. Perhaps it will be truer to say that bad principles do not develop; they rather generate fresh stages of decay. Corruption is the law of bad principles, as development is the law of good principles. The “survival of the fittest” is certainly true in the moral law, even if it be not certainly true in the material. Six thousand years of human history have proved that divine principles “survive”; and their survival has been their development, in respect to the sphere of their empire. The principles themselves do not grow, but the world grows, and with it divine government. Dr. Newman, in his work on developments, has drawn this distinction very luminously. The church grows, and its influence extends, and its machinery is in constant operation; yet its developments are not developments of its principles so much as of its qualities and capacities. They are also developments of its power. What the church was on the day of Pentecost she is to-day; it is her body which is grown, not her spirit. Divine principles are immutable; but because the world always changes the church must change too—not in her principles but in her action.

The converse of the development of Catholicism is seen in the development of Anglicanism. Whereas the church is more powerful in the proportion of antagonism, Anglicanism grows weaker and weaker. Whereas the church opposes dogma to heresy, Anglicanism suggests wider religious liberty. Whereas the church cuts off every withered branch, Anglicanism grafts the sticks on to its trunk. Thus the development of Anglicanism is in the direction of corruption; of the gravitation of new errors towards the parent one; of the union in one society of every element of dissolution, with a view to spasmodic vitality. The older Anglicanism grows the more decay it engrafts, trying hard to look vigorous with life by the process of galvanizing death. This is its general principle. But, particularly, the modes of its experiment are as instructive and as lamentable as is its principle. Let us take a late example. Nearly five thousand Anglicans have just petitioned their queen against the permitting confession in the Church of England. Their motives may be left to their own consciences, though they do allege, by way of seeming to be in earnest, that “confession is subversive of the principles of morality, social order, and of civil and religious liberty.” Among the petitioners are more than three thousand clergymen; but there are also a vast number of signatories who are set down as “Anglicans not classified.” Now, in what way are we to regard this grave petition as a development of the principles of Anglicanism? Be it remembered that confession, as practised by the Ritualists, was in itself a development of Tractarianism; that Tractarianism was a development of the reaction which followed on the decay of Evangelicalism; that Evangelicalism was a development of the reaction which followed on the decay of Dry-Churchism; and that Dry-Churchism was the development of that Erastianism which the house of Hanover firmly rooted in the state church. So that the huge gulf between confession and Georgeism has to be bridged over by successive revolutions, each perfectly natural in its reaction, yet each naturally leading to fresh change. Here we see the distinction between the development of church vitality and the development of heretical restlessness. As we have said, church principles cannot change; it is the action only of the church which becomes enlarged, Catholic principles not admitting of development save in the sense of extension of empire. But Anglican principles can be turned upside down, or can be turned inside out, a score of times. There is no more affinity between ritualism and Dry-Churchism than there was between Evangelicalism and Erastianism. There is no more concord between Dr. Pusey and Canon Ryle than there was between Bishop Butler and John Wesley. Not more opposite was Mr. Simeon to Canon Liddon than was Archbishop Whately to Lady Huntingdon. These Anglicans represent different churches. And yet they all belong to the same church. What, then, is the development of Anglican principles?

Obviously there is not development at all. The word cannot be used in a Christian sense. There is reaction, revolution, novel apostolate; there is not true Christian development. We may say of the great French Revolution that it was a development of (some of) the principles of Voltaire; or that D’Alembert and Diderot, with the Encyclopædists generally, planted seeds which sprang up into the guillotine. Yet the very point of such development was that it sprang not from principle but from the assertion that principle was not divine. And so in Anglicanism: though the assertion was quite distinct, there was no little affinity in the results. The theory of Anglicanism was that the Catholic Church was not divine, but that Church-of-Englandism had pretensions to be so; or rather, that the divine principles of the Catholic Church were purified to perfection in Church-of-Englandism. But a corollary of this theory was that the (divine) Catholic Church had no more authority than had “Reformers”—an assumption which was fatal, in argument and in fact, to the immutability of principles. Accordingly we find that mutability has been the law of the whole system of Anglican developments; in other words, that those developments have been as utterly contradictory as they have been numerous beyond computation. Is this a Christian or a Catholic development, or a development of even a philosophic kind? It is, on the contrary, proof positive that Anglican principles are not divine, for if they were divine they could not change. It is not discipline which has changed, nor external observance, nor the relations of the church to the state; such changes would be comparatively unimportant; it is Christian doctrine, Christian sacraments, priestly powers, and all that constitutes the idea of a church. It is not that new doctrines have been added to old doctrines; it is that old doctrines have been excised. A perfectly brand-new theology has supplanted a defunct system; and this not only once but fifty times. So that we have to deny most positively that there has been “Catholic” development in that institution which Queen Elizabeth founded; and we have to affirm that reaction and revolution have proved that institution to be human. It has been argued—and it is still argued in ritualistic organs—that ritualism must be a Catholic development; for its spirit is in the direction of Catholic truth, and its labor is to restore Catholic practice. The answer is that such reaction is not Catholic; it is the aspiration of heresy towards the church. We do not touch the delicate question—which belongs rather to spiritual science—the operation of divine grace outside the church; this question does not enter into our argument; we are speaking only of the distinctions between the development of true theories, and reaction and revolution from false. Development in the Catholic Church has meant expansion of empire, of inherent capacities of adaptation, of definition in proportion of need, and of anathema in proportion of desert; it has never meant the least change of principle. Development in Anglicanism—if we must still use the word—has meant new religions shooting up out of old, with a chaos of old and new together, and with no means of arguing from precedent to sequence what Anglicanism may become this day twenty years. This is certainly not Christian development. It may imply human energy, with restlessness of will and a constant eagerness to keep moving for life’s sake; but as to calling it supernatural development, the very suggestion appears profane. Those three thousand clergymen, with “Anglicans not classified,” who have just petitioned their queen against confession, have asserted three things, each of which is absolutely fatal to the assumption of Christian development. They have said that their sole head is the state; and this is pure paganism and impiety. They have said that they abhor a divine sacrament; and this is anti-Catholic, anti-Christian. But they have said, too, that, in the Church of England, there is to be both liberty of opinion and the forbidding of a Christian practice to the laity; and in saying this they have both cut short development and cut short its root and its principle. Development can only mean one of two things: either the extension of the empire of one principle, or the extension of the rights of religious liberty. That it does not mean the first in the Church of England we think that we have sufficiently shown; and that it does not mean the second these memorialists against liberty have taken their best pains to demonstrate. What development, then, is left to the Church of England? Obviously there can be none, save the increase of wrangling and the natural effort to crush one another’s liberty.

Yet there is one new development—to use the word conventionally, and not in its scientific meaning—which has proved perhaps more shocking and more thoroughly unchristian than any which has ever gone before. That development is modern Broad-Churchism. It is distinct from its antecedent in the Georgian era, being necessitated by totally different issues. It is a compound of three things, all kindred in kind and all mutually assisting one another: repugnance to sacerdotal pretension; indifference about dogmatic truth; and a fondness for scientific infidelity. This last is the worst of the three, but it is in most men the parent of the other two. It is an element of Broad-Churchism which had positively no existence until after the full development of Tractarianism. Curiously enough, the return to the supernatural, and the rejection of whatever is not natural, have been almost twin movements in the Church of England. Ritualism having failed to hold the intellects of shrewd men, there were only two courses left open: the one was to, logically, become Catholics, the other to deny the supernatural. The birth of a new school of so-called scientists, which school has sought to question revelation, took place at the very crisis when Anglicans were hesitating whether they ought to become Catholics or not. It furnished the exact pretext desired. If there was doubt about the evidence for revelation, it was useless to adopt all its consequences. Yet it was felt that it would not do to throw overboard Christianity, as at least the most admirable of ethic systems; so the moral part of Christianity was retained, while the dogmatic part was put on one side. Hence a Broad-Churchism which, while being really quite sceptical, covered itself with the mantle of Christian morals. “I deeply regret,” said an ecclesiastic of this school, when he came to the last hours of his life, “that I ever preached anything but morals.” This was paganism, virtuous paganism, but it passed current for respectable Broad-Churchism. What it meant, and what Broad-Churchism now means in almost every one of its adherents, was scepticism in regard to the Incarnation, but a natural admiration for natural virtues. Dean Stanley is one of the doctors of this school, and preaches rationalism in Westminster Abbey. “Christian rationalism” is that last new abortion which has been born of the failure of previous systems. It had no existence in England until twenty years ago; that is, it was not formulated into a system. In these days it is openly taught. In the magazines there constantly appear brilliant articles which are directed against the Christian revelation, while yet advocating the beauty of Christian sentiments, of Christian ethics and philosophy. It is pure rationalism, under the cloak of respectability. “We would not shock your pious prejudices,” these novel theorists seem to say, “by telling you that Christianity is false; on the contrary, we believe that there was a Christ, but he was not the Son of God, he did not rise from the dead, he was only a most admirable doctor. Therefore hold fast to his philosophy, which was amiable in the extreme, and exquisitely adapted to social wants; and, if you like, remain an Anglican or a Dissenter, or even please your fancies with ritualism. You cannot do better than remain a Christian. The Christian system is full of beauty. It is not divine; it was not revealed; it has not one shred of the supernatural; but so useful a system has never before been developed; indeed, it includes the best philosophies. Therefore we advise you to stick to your Christianity, as you would stick to your domestic canons of harmony.” This kind of counsel has been given in the _Fortnightly_ and in answer to recent Catholic publications. Its authors are obviously proud of their discovery. “Christian rationalism” will just suit a leisure age, which is too intellectual yet too indifferent to be Christian.

A recent writer has called modern Broad-Churchism “a fortuitous concourse of indifferentisms.” So it is in its acceptance by the majority. But there is a very large section which goes far beyond indifference, and which aggressively attacks Christianity. Whately has the credit of having started the principle that intellectual inquiry is above faith. The first duty of man is to be intellectual; and he must never stand still in his inquiries. When convinced that he has found out the truth, he must proceed to inquire still more earnestly; always despising the very issues of those inquiries which he places below inquiries themselves. Euclid, when it says Q. E. D., ought to have made Q. E. D. an hypothesis. Reasoning is not intended to conduct to truth, but should be pursued as in itself the chief good. Argument is above demonstration, and search is far superior to discovery. This is the theory of many modernists. But it has only lately raised its votaries into a school. Mr. Kingsley, when he said, “I am nothing if not a priest,” had no notion of eliminating Christianity. Even the Oxford essayists and reviewers shrank from this. Dr. Arnold, who wished to remove the Athanasian Creed, did not wish to remove Christianity. Bishop Butler, whom some call the founder of Broad-Churchism, certainly never dreamed of rank scepticism. The theory of Frederic Dennison Maurice, that revelation may be given differently to different centuries, did not exclude revelation. There was always, until quite lately, a clinging fast to the fond truth that Christianity was a divine dispensation. The last generation were quite sure of this. But their grandchildren, if they happen to live in England, may be brought up to adopt the new religion. They may proclaim frankly that Christianity is a myth, or that pagan virtue is the best Christianity. To such a depth has Anglican “development” now sunk. Fathers fear not to talk cold-blooded scepticism before their little ones gathered round their knees, and to poison their young natures with that most dreadful of inclinations—the doubting the pure instincts of their own souls. Sons of clergymen teach their sons that Christianity may be true, just as a particular political theory may be so; but that to ally Christian faith with the honor of God is a sign of feeble intellect or enthusiasm. Many thousands of English children, sons of educated “Anglicans,” now prattle their scepticism over their toys.

One hideous consequence of this growth of English rationalism—and Broad-Churchism is practically rationalism—is that it has lowered the standard of personal aspiration by removing the certainties of objects. Protestantism had much of the sentiment of Catholicity, though it had little of its dogma or discipline; but Broad-Churchism is absolutely without sentiment, save such as is common to pagans. What the children of Cicero may have been the children of Broad-Churchmen may be. The divine instinct of faith is reasoned down. Indeed, Cicero or Terence, Plato or Sophocles, had a much higher object than the Broad-Churchman; for they professed that to know would be the chief good, whereas Broad-Churchmen pronounce knowing the chief evil. It matters not by what name we call these men, whether free-thinkers, rationalists, sceptics, their aspiration is to be content with not knowing, instead of regarding knowing as the chief good. “I think,” said an English gentleman a few weeks ago, who had graduated at Oxford, and who has six children, and whose father was a distinguished ecclesiastic, “that the best way is to try to live honorably, and not occupy one’s mind with inquiry.” Thus he and his six children have gone back two thousand years in intellectual—that is, eternal—aspiration, _minus_ this advantage which the ancients had over them: that the ancients wished to know what was true. Now, it is manifest that the death of aspiration is the death of the finest qualities of the human mind; and this is specially seen in the rising generation of English young men and young women. Where doubt takes the place of conviction, and cold content of an animating faith; where natural longings are the sole governing principles, and all that is beyond the grave is dark cloud; where the illumination of the intellect by the full knowledge of God—which is alone possible within the Catholic Church—is deferred to the petty quibblings of speculation, it must follow that a lower type of men and women must succeed to our profound Catholic ancestors. There is no need to refer here to Christian morals; they are the exercise of obedience to particular laws. Nor is there any need to speak of mere worldliness, which is often incidental, circumstantial. Nor, again, need we allude to the immense varieties of natural temperament which bias people’s lives, people’s loves. Let all questions of perfection or imperfection be set aside; they are not the immediate points we are considering. Human nature is human nature in every one, be he a Catholic or a free-thinker; and the extent to which human nature may be brought under control is a distinct question from “Anglican development.” The sole point which we are now arguing is the intellectual consequences of the theory and practice of pure Anglicanism, and the conclusion we arrive at is that, intellectually speaking, Anglicanism degrades the human mind. The development of Anglicanism is deterioration. This is its intellectual development. But when we speak of the intellect we are not speaking of talent, of any natural gift, or of industry. We are speaking of intellectual aspiration; for the true dignity of intellect is its object. To separate the intellect from its object, the dignity of the end from the means, is impossible for any really earnest mind, as, indeed, it is rationally impossible. If, then, the object of an intellect be to _not_ believe, to eliminate the supernatural out of the world, or to narrow the compass of aspirations, it follows that the greater is the ignorance, the greater is the dignity, of the human mind. This theory has been advocated by Mr. Spencer. “Our highest wisdom and our highest duty,” says this scientist, “is to regard that through which all things exist as the unknowable.” So that not only to know nothing, but to wish to know nothing, of the will of our Creator in regard to us is the highest aspiration of the trained intellect, whether professedly Christian or pagan. Now, (popular) Broad-Churchism does not go so far as this, for it would not be “Christian” to do so. Broad-Churchism affects to be Christian, though it includes within its pale many sceptics. Yet practically the assertion that opposite truths are the same truths, or that no truth is a truth save to its votary, is the assertion that there has not been a revelation, or that if there has been it cannot be understood. Regard it as we will, there is no escaping from the conclusion that Broad-Churchism is inimical to Christianity. It is inimical to divine faith, to divine love; to the interior exercise of Christian virtues; to the perfecting those graces of character which are formed on the pattern of a divine Lord. In short, it is fatal to sanctity. Instability of Christian faith and stability of Christian life are mutually opposed to one another. The Broad-Churchman may be an excellent man, but he cannot be supernaturally a Christian. Christianity is the divine life of man, and it presupposes many postulates and axioms. And since divine faith in the whole range of divine truth is the first requisite of the intellectual Christian, it follows that a Christian who is intellectually not Christian cannot spiritually advance to perfection. Thus intellectually and spiritually the Broad-Churchman is at fault in regard to the Christian life. And this deterioration is the prevalent “development” of the later stages of Anglican change. Broad-Churchism is the profession of most Anglicans. And in one degree or another it is the ruin of aspiration, and therefore of the intellectual Anglican. But young people, whose intellects are undeveloped, are of necessity chiefly nourished by their affections; and unhappily the enfeebling of their faith is the enfeebling the objects of those affections. Thus parents ruin children by enfeebling the objects, and with them the affections which need objects. Intellectually and spiritually, sensitively and instinctively, Broad-Churchism is the ruin of children. And that huge waste of object, of affection, of sentiment, which the disease of Broad-Churchism necessitates, stints the growth, both religious and natural, of the majority of the rising generation. This is the last Anglican development. And it threatens to breed a race of pagans. There is the profession, of course, of some sort of Christian life—for ethically every Englishman must be Christian—but the Christianity is a natural sentiment, it is not a supernatural life. And must we not call this the intellectual degradation of the heirs of two thousand years of truth? The spasmodic attempts of the Ritualist sect to revive certain fragments of Catholic truth, or the earnest aspirations of warm-hearted puritans to love all that they know how to believe, are both admirable efforts, though not true successes; and they are the efforts of a comparatively small number. Nationally England is Broad-Church, and the majority of Broad-Churchmen are sceptical. What stage of development can come next? If in Westminster Abbey “Christian rationalism” is triumphant, what will become triumphant in country parishes? And if the feeble reasonings of Dean Stanley, his serene platitudes or pretty sentiments, are pabulum sufficient for the well educated, what descent into weakness, into indifference or impiety, may we not look for among the poorer classes? Scepticism among the poor means simple grossness, unrelieved by the scholarliness of the rich, and uncomforted by even the ease of this life. Yet there is an immense spread of scepticism among the poor. There is even blatant hostility to all religion. Broad-Churchism is the parent of this evil. The final harvest has not yet been reaped. Yet it seems certain that in the next quarter of a century we must either see the English multitude become Catholics, or we shall see them go down into a state of irreligion which will be simply paganism _minus_ its gods.

SAINT FRANCIS OF ASSISI. A SKETCH FROM THE PARADISO OF DANTE.

Between Tupino’s wave and that which sends Its flood from blest Ubaldo’s chosen seat, A fertile mount an airy coast extends, Wherefrom Perugia feels both cold and heat Through Porta Sole, and behind it weep Gualdo and Nòcera their grievous yoke. There, on that side of it where most the steep In its declivity is sharply broke, Unto the world another Sun was born, Like this, our daily planet, whose glad face Beams forth from Ganges, bringing Europe’s morn. Therefore let no man speaking of that place Ascèsi say—too briefly by that name Describing it; but let him say the East! If he would properly enforce its claim.[88] Not much his light had from its dawn increased, When he began throughout his land to inspire Some comfort from a purity so great; Since yet a youth he fought with his own sire For sake of her against whom Pleasure’s gate Men bar, of _her_ face as of death afraid: And so before his Father, and the Court Spiritual, with her a marriage made, And grew in love the more they did consort. She, slighted widow! reft of her first spouse, More than eleven hundred years remained Despised, obscure—no lover paid his vows To her till this one her affection gained; It naught availed (to move men in their choice) To read how Cæsar found her undismayed With poor Amyclas, hearing his dread voice; Nor aught availed the courage she displayed, And the fierce constancy which so sufficed, That while below heart-broken Mary prayed Her lofty spirit climbed the cross with Christ. But, lest my sense I too obscurely screen, Take for these lovers of my large discourse Francis and Poverty, for them I mean. Their concord and glad looks, the gentle force Of love and wonder, their demeanor sweet, Were cause that holy thoughts did much increase; Bernard first bared his venerable feet To run behind him, after so great peace, And in his running felt himself too slow: O unknown riches! O thou good most true! After the spouse whose bride enchanteth so Egidius bares his feet, Silvester too.

Footnote 88:

Dante does not overestimate the importance of this little town of middle Italy to a religious mind. Every Christian must be piously impressed by the subjoined inscription over the gate of Assisi which greets a traveller coming from Rome.

These words are believed to have been the dying benediction of St. Francis as he looked out from his pallet over the roofs of the mountain city which has become through him a place of pilgrimage:

Benedicta tu civitas a Domino: Quia in te multi servi Altissimi habitabunt: Et a te multi animi salvabuntur: Et de te multi eligentur in regna æterna.

Blessed be thou, O city! by the Lord! For in thee many servants there shall dwell Of the Most High; and many souls, restored Through thee to grace, shall be redeemed from hell; And many shall be called to their reward, In everlasting kingdoms, ... from a cell.

THE SOCIALIST IDEA.[89]

A moderate degree of attention bestowed on the signs of the times apparent in society, and a consideration of the social convulsions which among ourselves seem only to end that they may begin again, will make it impossible not to perceive, within the bosom of this society, some permanent, chronic evil, seated at its very core, and ready to bring to the surface the seething elements from below by a series of eruptions recurring at shorter and shorter intervals. This social evil, which for nearly a century has subjected us to periodical revolutions, as certain diseases subject a patient to periodical fits or crises; this evil, whose many roots reach back to causes more or less remote and more or less appreciable; this evil, which marches through the world of to-day like the hurricane that sweeps over cities and plains, and which we see uprooting principles in its passage, corrupting morals, and undermining society—for society is directly and particularly threatened by its stormy progress; this social evil—I give it the name it gives itself—is socialism: socialism—that is, a body of doctrines, passions, and plots that attack and would fain uproot the actual social system, or, if you prefer this definition, armed, passionate, and doctrinal aggression against society; socialism, which forty years ago the mass of earnest thinkers scarcely thought it worth while to take into account, so hidden was it then in the depths of mere theorizing, and so dimly perceived by a few thoughtful men, who saw it half covered by the veil of utopianism; socialism, which practical men of that time, in their Olympic repose, deemed too self-condemned by its obvious extravagance to be capable of doing harm; socialism, which even now still finds a few self-styled conservatives so blinded as to join hands and conspire politically with it for the furtherance of their own plans; socialism, which, emancipated from the region of dreams and speculations, and realized for a moment on the burning stage of contemporary history, has shown us its hideous form by the light of incendiary fires, and still points out to us, by the light of a threatening present, the possibility of a frightful future.

Let us begin at the beginning, and ask ourselves the question, What is Socialism? I hasten, at the outset of a subject which touches on such delicate ground, to state that I intend taking my stand above politics or party spirit. I fight only under two flags, that of society and that of Christianity. Even in the harshest strictures I may make I shall attack things, not men—things which we are bound to oppose, not men, whom we are bound to love.

To come to a full understanding of contemporary socialism it is necessary to look at it under a triple aspect—as an idea, as a passion, and as an action; as an idea which gains ground, a passion which kindles itself, an action which organizes itself more and more under our eyes; as an idea which gains ground by every channel controlled by the contemporary press; as a passion which is enkindled by every phase of contemporary realities; as an action which organizes itself and conspires by every lever known to contemporary revolutionism—that is, in three words, the socialist _idea_, the socialist _passion_, the socialist _action_. It is these that we must fathom and examine, if we would understand what socialism is and means. I shall be satisfied if I succeed in developing this time what is socialism as an idea, and what is the scope of this idea; in what does the socialist idea consist, and what are its immediate consequences.

It is necessary to grasp the nature of the parent idea which nursed socialism in its bosom, and has brought it forth as it appears to-day. Such a movement in the world of reality would be inexplicable without a corresponding, anterior movement in the world of thought. Ideas, in the social system, are as germs in the animal and vegetable systems, and germs in a very practical sense, for they are the seed of things that come to light later on, and grow according to the kind of soil and the degree of heat with which they come in contact. Socialism, as a whole, though intelligible as the result of causes not belonging to the world of ideas, is, however, the product of an idea which has grown and thriven long before it came to the surface. I do not mean by this the body of ideas which has helped to create it, but its own parent idea, that which, if I may say so, constitutes the socialist _credo_. It is true that, if we consider socialism in what appears its only living and real aspect, we are brought face to face with something quite alien to the world of ideas. What we see is not unlike a lion or a tiger obeying its instincts and roaring in the desert for its prey. We have no longer to face a doctrinal socialism with pretensions to a plausible theory, but a brutal socialism claiming no right save that of might; not a dreamy socialism such as forty years ago still carried away generous enthusiasts, but an aggressive socialism hurrying by force to the fulfilment of its programme; not a contemplative socialism parading through the world of ideas a Platonic love for humankind, but a destructive socialism eager to carry through the ruins of the world of realities the bloody banner of its brotherhood. What we see before us might be more fitly called the socialism of torch and dagger than the socialism of ideas and doctrines.

Still, it cannot be denied that socialism heralded itself above all as an idea which was to make the mightiest revolution in the midst of humanity that the world had ever seen. What was this idea, and what, in this era of social revolution, were its starting-point, its path, and its goal? I have long attentively followed the course of this new planet, and marked in the changing sky of our social world its chief appearances. I saw it rise as in the dawn of a bright morning, then grow amid the clouds of a thousand systems more or less important or obscure, then at last reach its zenith, and throw over our modern society the baneful light in which we see it arrayed at present.

At first the socialist idea gave itself out as the idea of social _reform_; later on in its progressive movement it became the idea of social _transformation_; and now that it has fully developed itself, it stands forth as the idea of social _destruction_. If we follow up the stream of theories which distinguished the beginning of this century and the end of the last, we shall find that the parent idea of socialism first embodied the longing for _social reform_, and tended to restore _universal harmony_ to the new world. To listen to our pretended prophets and Messiahs, one would be led to believe that the great law of universal harmony in the social world had been lost amid conflicting human interests, and needed to be restored or re-enacted; while the systems of philosophy of that period insisted that within the near future a regeneration of human nature and a social reform would take place such as the world had never seen or history chronicled—a greater reform, indeed, than that accomplished by the divine Reformer in behalf of poor humanity. These philosophical systems, full of a dreamy poetry, were nothing but humanitarian idyls, delightful pastorals, pointing in the future, through a tinted medium, to a rose-colored humanity smiling under blue skies and an unclouded sun—a humanity free from all the contradictions and antagonisms of the past, and, like the planets, or better even than they, revolving round its centre in the undisturbed and beatific equilibrium of _universal harmony_. Harmony was everywhere in these fair dreams and easy utopias: there was the harmony of all minds in truth, the harmony of all hearts in love, the harmony of will in liberty, the harmony of passions in pleasure, the harmony of interests in community, the harmony of labor in organization, the harmony of men in brotherhood, the harmony of families in the state, and, finally, the harmony of all peoples and nations in the unity of a government that should rule all alike. The _omniarch_, or universal monarch, of this universal society appeared in the distance, in the centre of the human world, as the moderator and ruler of this gigantic harmony of brotherly nations. In a word, there was nothing but harmony, everywhere and in all things, harmony easy and spontaneous, springing up from, and flourishing naturally in, the regular play of all human forces, replaced as they would be, so said this new language, in their normal motion around their harmonious centre. This alluring theory, sung by all the bards of the social philosophy, or rather poetry, of that time, marched triumphantly along its flower-strewn path, escorted by all the errors and negations of which it was the result and the essence, and proclaiming to the gaping world: “I am the revelation of the new world. I am Social Reform.”

It is worth noticing that while the working of so many unhealthy doctrines gave birth, as to its natural product, to this growing socialist idea, so the new world of men seemed to grow towards it by every breath it emitted, to call for it and drink it in by the diseased organs of its own unhealthy body. The idea of reform is always and will always be captivating to humanity, because there is in humanity always something to be reformed; but at that time the state of the popular mind, by enhancing its _prestige_, was preparing for this notion a greater influence over the rising and future generations than it had ever won in foregoing ages.

Humanity was then bleeding from the pitiless wounds made by the doctrines of the eighteenth century. Men’s souls, especially in the lower strata of society, cruelly felt the void created by the Voltairian creed of individualism. These generations, cut adrift from Christianity, felt themselves smothered by the monster of human selfishness. Humanity, literally disinherited of the love of God, was dying of the selfishness of Voltaire. From the heart of this diseased society came a despairing cry for love, brotherhood, association. Then started up innovators on all sides to turn this great need of the human soul to their own account. They proclaimed _universal association through universal love_; and as Newton had reconciled by the discovery of gravitation the forces of earth and air, so they pretended to build on the attraction of love a permanent harmony between human nature and society. Such was the first appearance on our stage of this comparatively new element, socialism—_i.e._, the general and yet undetermined formula of social _reform_. Its claims, thus put forward in public, with a popularity they had never reached before, startled many men, even those thinkers who had scarcely suspected the existence of such ideas. It was, however, no new notion, and had lain undeveloped in society certainly as far back as the beginning of this century. It glimmered forth among the fogs of socialist metaphysics wherein Fourier and Saint-Simon groped after their ideal of universal reform; it grew under the pens of writers in reviews and newspapers celebrated in their day—rash innovators who carelessly questioned every basis of human society, and propounded theories whose fulfilment involved nothing less than a radical change of the organic conditions of society, in the magical name and under the shield of social reform.

The world of ideas had never witnessed such a confusion of mind, such an upsetting of fixed landmarks, such a perversion of language. An intellectual orgy gravely took its seat in the social world under the name and disguise of science; absurdities dubbed themselves philosophies, folly called itself _reform_; indeed, the passage of these eccentric theories and these grotesque utopias was one of the great surprises that attended my curious and truth-seeking youth. They were a source of pure stupefaction to me. The socialist idea hitherto had been almost confined to the exclusive domain of philosophical abstractions and social ideology. After long wandering through the twilight of various conflicting systems, it emerged from these doubtful regions, where only a few innovators perceived its presence, and came down to the level of the people, stirred as the latter were by new aspirations and hopes. From henceforward the socialist idea, the idea of social _reform_, was not only a theory broached by philanthropists, discussed by scientists and philosophers, and taught by intellectual apostles from tribune and printing-office, but it became a living, acting reality, a watchword of the laboring classes, a personal question among workmen. Once there, ripening as ideas do quickly in the fervid soul of the people, and pushing on towards its development, it strode forward apace, its evolution only waiting an opportunity to perfect itself abundantly. The people, little used to the hair-splitting of socialist metaphysicians, soon saw either that all this talk meant nothing or that it meant a fundamental transformation of actual social life, and consequently the road to, or, as it was grandiloquently called, the new birth of, a state of comfort and power hitherto unknown. Each one made the dazzling formula, “Society must be reformed,” cover his own special grievances or aspirations, his pet theories, his individual hopes and dreams. It soon became patent to all that even the apostles of the new idea meant not only that the new world should be a _reformed_ one, in the common acceptation of the word, but a radically reformed—that is, a _transformed_—world. The fathers of the socialist idea had already become aware that the present organization of society presented insurmountable obstacles to the realization of their favorite law of harmony as applied to their theory of a future society; they felt that the organic conditions of society as it is were invincibly opposed to their idea, which, in order to triumph in the end, must become not only a _reform_, nay, not only a _transformation_, but such a transformation as should change from the very roots all existing vital conditions of society. To _reform_ was not enough; they determined to _transform_. One idea had thus quickly displaced or succeeded the other. Stripped of the wordy disguises in which it still affected to wrap itself, it was simply a theoretical denial of society, such as society has been since men have lived together; a radical change of the social mechanism adopted in principle and in practice by all nations and acknowledged in all ages; a triumphal progress of revolution—indeed, social revolution itself.

Up to that period men who worked on the passions of the masses to compass their own ambitious ends had contented themselves with handling political problems, stirring up political revolutions. The game played by leaders of riots or leaders of parties consisted in changing a monarchy for a republic, a republic for an empire, an empire for a monarchy, and one species of monarchy for another; but this was child’s play to the growing power and genius of socialism. Social revolution, as set forth by the socialist idea, had far other ends in view; it did not care to stir the surface only of things, but to undermine, or, as we say now, _revolutionize_, their foundations. This is the difference between socialism, or social revolution, and political revolutionism, properly so-called; the former seeks to disembowel society itself. Common—that is, purely political—revolutionism only affects the surface of society; it strides over the ruins of governments shattered by the popular arm; it overturns a throne, then another; drives out one dynasty, then a second; creates a republic, then another; improvises a constitution; plays, if I may use the expression, among the dust of institutions, whether demolished thrones, torn constitutions, broken governments or legislatures; it grows excited and drunk with enthusiasm and ambition in the midst of these shifting scenes of the political world, on whose stage actors, now hissed, now applauded, by no rule but the arbitrary passion of the multitude, play ever-varying parts—parts barren and ephemeral, and the common result of which is to wear out those who play them, to sicken them of men and things, to make them drop from the stage stripped of their _prestige_, and too often covered with popular derision, as despairing actors are wont to fly from the theatre where they have hopelessly “broken down.” It was thus that between the tides of opinion and action political revolution pursued its course, leaving ruin and bloodshed in its track.

But after the flood of these monarchies and republics, these constitutions and governments, these kings and emperors, these presidents and dictators, these ministers and lawgivers; after all these sledgehammer blows of force, these _coups d’état_, or these sensational changes on a stage where revolution had long since decreed that no government, no constitution, no statesman should ever remain permanently; behind what we may call _the political phenomenon_, one thing remained firm—namely, _society_. It was always fundamentally the same, and stood on a substantial, unalterable basis, above which, but not reaching it nor attempting to injure it, flowed the tide of political revolution; it had mechanisms more or less different in appearance in each century, but the same vital permanent conditions; it kept its necessary balance between authority and liberty, between progress and stability; it guarded its three treasures, which to destroy is to kill society—_i.e._, the family, religion, and property.

This is the secret that explains why, after so many ruins heaped up and so many battles won, the genius of revolution could not rest content. It soon perceived that in spite of its gigantic efforts, and even after the immensity of its triumphs, it had only achieved a surface work. Its dreams of governments more or less constitutional and representative, more or less monarchical or republican, had collapsed with the ruins of these governments, thrown down by its own hand; it felt the emptiness and disappointment of these political revolutions, whose commonest result was an increase of wretchedness and a decrease of peace. Then it said to itself: I will go further; I will dig below the very foundations of this society, which I find everlastingly the same, with its old vices, its incurable abuses, and its obstinately recurring tyrannies. I will reach its heart, the very source of its life, the very core of its being. There I shall discover the true vital principle of human society, and, whether it will or no, I will force it to take part in outer actions, and take its place among the realities of history. I will not only _reform_ but _transform_ this rotten and disorganized society.

Thus the idea of transformation quickly superseded that of _reform_; but even a _transformation_ of the conditions of social life, in the ordinary acceptation of the term, would not have contented the thoroughgoingness of the socialist idea. No doubt it was better than reform, for it was a fuller development of the socialist principle, but it did not constitute a perfect development, it was not the ultimatum of the idea. Transformation was not enough in the eyes of radical socialism, or, if you like the term better, socialist radicalism; _destruction_ was better, and, to speak plainly, its conception of the former was equivalent to the latter. Socialism had dissected the body of society, examined and analyzed it in all directions, and then pronounced its verdict in these words, brimful of supreme contempt: “_Rottenness_! Let the corpse perish, and the true social body, moulded by our hands, spring from its remains.” Socialism had examined and probed the still standing building of our past and present social polity, and had said: “It is evident to all that the building is bad; better rebuild it, from cellar to attic. The human abode is not stable; to buttress it is useless; let us destroy it. This is no longer the time to reform, or even transform; nothing short of destruction is of any avail. Let the old social Babylon crumble and decay, and from her fruitful ruins, if needful even watered with blood, let the new Jerusalem of society come forth. Social reform was the dream of our fathers; social transformation is but another dream, a generous fallacy, but still a fallacy, attempting impossibilities and ending in nothingness. A ruin cannot be reformed nor a crumbling shed transformed; we see only a building to pull down and a building to put up. What I will do is this: I will use the popular arm to _destroy_, and on the ruins of the past I will erect the edifice of the future.”

The socialist idea, in its logical march irresistible as fate, had reached its inevitable goal. It began by deciding to _reform_, then it said, “I will _transform_,” and finally it announced boldly, “I will destroy, shatter, and demolish.” The beginning was reform with its alluring utopias of social unity and harmony; the middle stage was _transformation_, with specious promises of improvement and hopes of a renewed social youth; the ending is destruction, with open threats of anarchy and social annihilation. It is impossible to cherish illusions any longer on this subject: the reformers glided into transformers and the transformers coolly turned destroyers, not in haste and passion, but in cold blood, theoretically, we might almost say dogmatically; for radical destruction, or the uprooting of the existing social order, is the foremost doctrine of the _syllabus_ of the socialist idea, which is itself the most perfect outcome of the revolutionary idea.

Living socialism—that is, socialism personified in its real representatives—no longer makes any mystery as to this, and cannot pretend to feel itself injured or calumniated if we reproduce and lay bare its own formulas. It is its own voice that cries aloud over the world: “Society as it is must perish, and from its ruins a new social system shall and must spring forth.” The first prophets and teachers of the socialist idea had hoped that the idea in itself, and for its own sake, would be accepted at once, and that humanity would spontaneously open its heart to it, as it does its eyes to the rays of the sun. The disciples have far outrun the programme of their masters; they no longer mention the ideal revolution, and if the ideal alone, preached by word of mouth, should not be strong enough to fulfil the programme at any given time, they mean to back it with the strong hand, and force it by violence to become a fact and hasten towards its definitive triumph. Social destruction is at present the latest phase of the socialist idea, which boldly comes forward, programme in hand, and bids us accept it and help to build up its rule as an inevitable necessity. It summons living society publicly and contemptuously to its bar, and bids it be ready to be demolished and afterwards re-established according to the fancy of this evil spirit, powerful indeed to destroy, but helpless to create.

Thus it is that this doctrine—if it can be called a doctrine—so philanthropic at the outset, so peaceful, so brotherly; this doctrine, which announced itself as a new gospel of peace, freedom, and brotherhood, has come to speak sternly of war, of massacre, of destruction; has sworn that no matter what opposition it raises and what blood it costs, the socialist idea _shall_ triumph, and has decided that if it be necessary to reach the throne at which it aims over ruins and over corpses, it will stride over ruins and over corpses! Let the human sacrifices seal, if need be, the bloody covenant of the new social order.

It will scarcely be believed that this work of social destruction has been compared to the work of Christ, the reformer and transformer of society. It is so, however; and this new era which is before us has actually been likened to the social transformation, or rather restoration, achieved by Christianity—as if anything could be more flagrantly antagonistic to the great transformation worked by the Christian idea than this pretended transformation dreamed of and sung by the prophets of the socialist idea; as if a revolution brought about by force and violence could ever be compared to a restoration accomplished through love and self-sacrifice!

You reformers and innovators, do you forget that Jesus Christ attacked nothing by force and destroyed nothing by violence; that in his divine wisdom he was content to sow truth in men’s souls and love in their hearts as the husbandman casts seed into the furrow; and that truth and love have done their work among humankind as germs in the earth, as the blood in our veins, as electricity throughout nature—that is, in mysterious silence, with a strength full of gentleness and patience, yet with unerring certainty? You forget that if Christ cursed the unjust rich man—that is, wealth abusing its privileges, wealth without love, compassion, or sympathy for others—yet he never dreamt of leading the poor against the rich, but simply placed between the two the powerful but sweet link of charity. You forget that if he delivered captives from their bonds and slaves from their chains, he never incited master or slave to wage fratricidal war on each other, and that it was only as his teaching sank into the heart of the master that the fetters of the slave set free through love dropped of themselves, as ripe fruit drops from the tree in its good time and season. You forget that if the divine Reformer came to found a new society, it was by a new creation, and not through destruction; that he came to rehabilitate even bodily society while he created the true kingdom of souls; and that, far from breathing into it the spirit of social hatred and jealousy, he came to restore, or rather found within it, the rule of love and social self-denial. The very goal which the socialist idea has reached by identifying itself with the idea of social destruction is itself the best proof of the irreconcilable antagonism between socialism and Christianity.

I do not say that each individual in the ranks of contemporary socialism defines and adopts this programme of destruction so clearly and so resolutely as I have stated. Under all standards there are many men who neither see nor understand where the chiefs whose orders they obey are leading them—honest, upright men, duped by villains; passionate lovers of good, while strayed and lost in the great army of evil. I fully admit these exceptions, possible, nay, probable, everywhere; and, indeed, why deny their existence? Nevertheless, the mainspring of socialist action in our day lies in the idea of destruction, and the problem which contemporary socialism no longer seeks to veil is simply this: “_What are the speediest means for completely demolishing the old structure of society, which is already bursting asunder in all its parts; and when down, what is to be done to rebuild from its ruins the edifice of the new social order?_” Yes, such is the problem whose solution socialism boasts of finding, even though it be through rivers of blood and mountains of corpses; and yet this social body, rotten as it is said to be, still rests on strong foundations as old as humanity itself.

Property is its material foundation, the family its human foundation, and religion its divine foundation; and therefore the logical march of the socialist idea drives it, like fate, to clamor not only for the reform and transformation but for the ruin and destruction of these three things on which rests the whole of society, religion, family, and property. I do not hesitate to declare it, in spite of the vehement denials of men still unaccountably blinded to facts: the real scope of the socialist idea when pursued to its logical conclusion is the radical transformation or the utter uprooting of these stable and ancient institutions, as old as human society itself—_property_, _family_, and _religion_—and thereby the fall of our whole social system, as of a building on its shattered foundations and its broken supports. There are many theoretical socialists who do not dare to exhibit their theory in terms whose brutality seems to exceed even the grotesqueness of the idea they embody, and many who still cling to a few illusions and have a regard for decency. Such as these protest against what they call our calumnies and exaggerations. Destroy? they exclaim; we do not wish to destroy, we only long to transform. There was a time when, with mistaken faith in the honesty of purpose I loved to find or imagine everywhere, I, and you perchance, were deceived by this specious excuse, these alluring formulas; but to-day it is impossible to mistake the sense of this former mystery; it has too disastrously been revealed to us.

The socialist idea directly attacks the principle of _property_—that is, individual possession of one’s fields, house, capital, or patrimony, so happily called the _domain_; property—that is, in the common order of things, the fruit of individual labor or of the labor and self-denial of one’s forefathers; property—that is, the pledge of man’s independence, and the sign of his kingship in his own home, small as it may be; property, which in all nations and ages has been sheltered under the triple shield of nature, justice, and religion; property, the material basis of society—indeed, its necessary condition and the link by which the family is bound to its native soil as the tree by its roots; property, always and everywhere looked upon as sacred and inviolable among nations who have claimed the honors of civilization; property, which all societies have acknowledged even while appearing to deny its rights, violating them by force; property, in a word, which is a thing so familiar to us that the least infraction of its laws would cause us a remorse only to be allayed by reparation. Such is the nature of property; and shall we believe the teaching of this new jurisprudence, the propagators of these new laws, who maintain that there is no question of destroying but only of reforming, or at most transforming, the nature of property?

In what does this miraculous, proposed transformation consist? The expedient is very simple—namely, to strip the mass of owners in order to constitute one sole and supreme owner; for it is obvious, after all, that some one must still possess the earth. This legal spoliation, no doubt, will be a work of time, but it will be sure. And who is the new owner to be, in whom the right of universal property shall be vested, and on whose shoulders will be flung the burden of universal wealth? The state, forsooth; the god-state, the “state” which may be an honest man to-day, but to-morrow may be a rogue; the god-state, whom infatuated philosophers are constantly working to aggrandize, to make all-powerful, and for which they strive night and day to win more worshippers. This is to be the one owner and possessor of all; the state shall have all, organize and work all, distribute and apportion all, be the centre, the fountain head, and the goal of all; while in this universal domain where the state controls all, this huge arsenal where the state produces, executes, or orders all, society shall become a human hive, vast as the earth itself, but in which every individual shall be reduced, as a terse writer has put it, to the size and functions of a bee. This is the masterpiece elaborated by the socialist idea—the dream of universal property, which is likewise a dream of universal levelling, universal stuntedness. Individual responsibility or initiative is swept away; human kingship and free-will disappear; domestic society is left without a material basis, and even public society without a foundation; the right of all is practically the right of none, and the result is universal slavery to universal despotism. Such is the miracle of this transformation of property, so glibly promised by the socialist theory to future generations; and though all who fight under the banner of legal spoliation do not carry thus far their social ideal, and do not look forward to such absolute communism, all are on the road to it by the very fact of vesting in their god-state the right of increasing and decreasing, making or unmaking, individual property under the name of taxes on the rich and rates for the poor. What astonishes me above all in this respect is to see in certain men, the most interested personally in the upholding of the conservative principle of property, a certain pandering to, or half-support of, this eminently anti-social idea.

The same socialism which attacks the immemorial constitution of property attacks likewise the immemorial constitution of the family. The socialist idea attacks specially in the family, together with the principle of property, the three things which are its pride, its strength, and its stability—namely, _unity_, _indissolubility_, and _inheritance_, which, it is needless to say, uphold its permanence and perpetuity. First of all, it attacks unity, and unity in trinity: one man, one woman, and one whole family springing from both; one life produced by two sources fused into one—a unity which, in the family as everywhere else, is the essential condition of harmony, order, beauty, and happiness. This unity does not please the socialist. An advocate of free morals and free love, he prefers polygamy, as allowed by the Koran and practised by Moslems, to the conjugal unity enjoined by the Gospel and sanctioned by the teaching and practice of Christendom. Socialism attacks the indissolubility—that is, the permanence—of the marriage tie. Such an indissolubility before God and before the state is in its eyes only the civil and religious endorsement of slavery, the legal and theological confiscation of liberty. The apostles of free love are unable to understand the principle which binds two human beings to each other for ever and under no matter what circumstances. What revolution allows to society socialism would fain make accessible to the family—that is, perpetual change and unlimited option concerning divorce and separation. Socialism claims unblushingly, in the name of nature and progress, the revolutionary right of a husband to send away his wife, and a wife to leave her husband, as easily as a nation disposes of its sovereigns and its governments—a right equivalent to a permanent revolution in the family and the state, and bearing as its fruit the abolition of inheritance. Inheritance means the tradition of a _patrimony_; it is the pledge of the stability and perpetuity of domestic or home society; bereft of it, the family, without moorings in the past or hopes in the future, becomes, like the individual, an ephemeral phenomenon, gone in a breath and holding to nothing but the present hour. This right of inheritance has its place in God’s plan and man’s laws; it represents to coming generations the labors, the benefits, the sacrifices of their forefathers; it extends the influence of the latter over their descendants. But socialism does not shrink from questioning it in theory and attacking it in practice. How, it asks, should the will of a dying man be able to transmit beyond his grave a domain to his posterity? Down with a privilege which gives man, when he is a corpse, a posthumous omnipotence in contradiction with the very condition of the dead, and injurious to the freedom of action of the living! Socialism thus saps every conservative family principle, and the spirit it instils into the human mind is destructive to the foundations of home society, in order that it may prepare a clearer path to the eventual destruction of public society.

It is scarcely necessary to follow the socialist idea throughout its destructive march in order to realize the havoc it makes of domestic society; a glance at its practice is enough. Look at the homes and hearths where this idea has seated itself and taken practical possession. What homes, great God! and what morals; they might astonish even a heathen. The acknowledged reign of license and disorder, sanctioned by a so-called doctrine, and careless of any outward badge of respectability, whether civil or religious; a boasting display of a foulness for which the very faculty of blushing is lost, for the socialist idea, breathing its poison over these hearths, has extinguished the lamp of domestic virtue, and tossed into the mire not only the ideal of Christian perfection but that of moral blamelessness. No wonder that men preaching such doctrine and practising such morals should be eager to transform the family; they do it, indeed, in a strange and appalling manner by turning the sanctuary of honor and virtue into a sink of corruption and vice.

Furthermore, I maintain that they would turn the home, the school of faith and religion, into a school of unbelief and impiety; for socialism, which detests the family and property, hates religion still worse, because it is the chief bulwark of property and the family. It hates religion as such—not only this or that religion, but the very principle of communication between God and man, and the main object of the socialist idea is to transform—that is, _destroy_—this element in mankind. The _fiat_ has gone forth, the watchword is given, “No more religion in humanity”; and the ideal of progress, as pointed out to the world by the socialist, is simply the suppression of all religion, which he dubs with the unpopular names of fanaticism, superstition, clericalism. The cry is not only no more property, no more family, no more homestead, no more hearth; but the frantic cry takes up other matters and echoes to the ends of the world a more sweeping denunciation: No more religion, no more altars, no more priests, no more churches, no more ritual, no more oblation, no more ceremonies, no more religious festivals. The like has never before been seen in history; it could not have been even conceived. This public attempt to drive out all religion from humanity in the name of progress is an absolutely unparalleled phenomenon, not only within but beyond Christianity. It is a monster in human history, the deformity of the nineteenth century. Our age will appear before history with this shameful inscription on its forehead, which will sufficiently brand it in the opinion of after ages: “I, the nineteenth century, have proclaimed by the voice of a million of atheists, as the law and condition of all progress, the abolition of all religion.”

And yet you will find religion attending the birth of every new society; you will meet it at the source of every growing society, and will perceive it shining and triumphing when that society has reached its utmost greatness and perfection, for a great heathen writer has truly called it the motive force of all things: _Omnia religione moventur_. Religion is to the world of men what sap is to the plant, blood to the animal, electricity to the system of nature—an indispensable condition of life, of motion, of fruitfulness. Who would dare undertake to drive from the earth and uproot from the soul of man this divine link between God and human nature, this boundary of human life, this vivifying force which permeates all, fertilizes all, directs and controls all?

Why, I ask these frantic demolishers, why not pluck electricity from nature, sap from the plant, and blood from our veins? For it is true that it were easier for the tree to live without sap, the plant without root, the body without blood, than it is for the human soul to exist without religion—religion, that need of something divine, that longing after something durable, that step towards the infinite; religion, that natural breath of the soul, as the air is of the body, that attraction heavenwards which corresponds to the physical attraction earthwards of our body! A mysterious but very sensible force draws us towards our physical centre of gravity, but a force still more mysterious, more sensible, and, above all, more powerful draws us towards our heavenly, our spiritual centre; and while we are physically bound by a chain as strong as life to the stage of our earthly existence, yet spiritually we soar by as irresistible an impulse towards the place of spirits, the eternal and the infinite.

The flagrant antagonism between the socialist idea and the religious idea is easily explained. Socialism knows by instinct that in religion, and especially in Christianity, _the_ religion above all others, exists the divine foundation of the world; that as long as this foundation is not shaken the social polity can never be thoroughly destroyed; that religion, even stripped of direct and, as it were, official influence in the political and social order, is still the last bulwark that interposes between socialism and its avowed object; in a word, that _there_ rests the supreme force, the insurmountable obstacle to the new ideas, there the truth that repudiates the new errors, there the holiness that repudiates the new corruption, there the authority that repudiates the new anarchy, there the divine Might which says to the idea of devastation what God the Creator says to the ocean: “So far shalt thou go, and no further”—“_huc usque venies_.”

To sum up, there is a disastrous idea prowling through the modern world—the _socialist idea_. This idea, which at first was only that of social _reform_, and later became that of social _transformation_, has developed at present into that of social destruction.

And whereas every social structure rests on three foundations, property, the family, and religion, so the socialist idea more or less directly attacks these three foundations. The socialist idea, or socialism looked upon as a theory, pushes its anti-social aggression up to this climax; it stands there in radical and fearful opposition, threatening all that is most vital and most fundamental in society.

Therefore we are bound to resist it face to face, everywhere and always, and do battle against the socialist idea—that is, the idea of destruction, disaster, and ruin. I impress upon you the necessity of, and claim your help in, a doctrinal resistance to this idea, a defence of all it attacks, an assertion of all it denies; a sturdy repetition of the _credo_ of universal affirmation, and not only a repetition, but a publication, a triumphant challenge, to the socialist idea which embodies in itself a universal negation.

Footnote 89:

From the French of Père Félix, published as an article in the _Revue Catholique des Institutions et du Droit_ (April number, 1878). The article is a reproduction of one lecture out of a series, on the subject of socialism, given at Grenoble, and shortly to be published entire by Jouby-Roger, Rue des Grands Augustins, Paris.

A ROMAUNT OF THE ROSE.

A fairer light than ever since has shone Fell on that garden where Queen Eve’s sweet bower Was hid in roses and the jasmine flower, Curtained with eglantine, and overrun With morning-glories glowing in the sun Late into noon, unheeding of the hour When now they close: these were our mother’s dower; She lived and loved amid all flowers, save one. There was no red rose in the garden wide Of all her world, until its mistress went From out its gates with roses in her hand, Spoil of past joys; then, like a new-made bride, She blushed in shame, and that first blush has lent The rose its color over all our land.

HELEN LEE. A ROMANCE OF OLD MARYLAND.

“I maintain it is a glory for the Catholics of Maryland that, in this age of religious strife, our colony has been made a home for the persecuted, and that we are the first to proclaim the equal rights of all who profess to be Christians.”

These words were spoken by a young man named William Berkeley, who formed one of a group of five persons seated under the shade of an oak-tree one summer afternoon in the year 1636. His companions were Sir Charles Evelyn, who was of about his own age; an old gentleman, Sir Henry Lee; his daughter, a maiden of three-and-twenty; and, lastly, a way-worn traveller, whose sad, wan face and unkempt locks told that he had suffered much and been long in reaching a place of safety and repose.

“Yea, Mr. Berkeley, this colony hath set a glorious example,” answered the last-mentioned individual. “And I wish my worthy friend Roger Williams had accompanied me hither, instead of halting where he did on Narraganset Bay; for he hath a rigorous climate to contend with. Oh! how cold it was last winter, how bitter cold, as we journeyed through the wilderness. And, moreover, the Puritans of Massachusetts, not content with having exiled him once for his religious opinions, may claim jurisdiction over the haven where he is now resting, and drive him still further away.”

“Well, ours is indeed a charming country,” spoke Helen Lee. “It is now two years since we landed from the _Ark_ and the _Dove_, and we have all enjoyed uninterrupted good health, while our numbers, which at first were only two hundred, are now much increased. Oh! St. Mary’s is a blessed spot.”

“And we shall very soon have our church finished,” observed the young baronet, who sat between Helen and her father. “The big wigwam which the Indians kindly gave us wherein to celebrate holy Mass is become a great deal too small and many are obliged to kneel outside.”

After a little further conversation, and after again praising the climate and people of Maryland, Roger Williams’ friend arose; then, having thanked Sir Henry for his hospitality—the latter had entertained him at dinner—he silently waved his hand to the others and bent his steps towards the town.

“I am glad that stranger has found his way here,” said Berkeley almost as soon as his back was turned; “and to-morrow I will try to get him employment.”

“I entertained the fellow at my table; I could not have done less,” growled Sir Henry, knitting his brow. “But I hope I have seen the last of him.”

At this remark Helen turned towards Berkeley, making him a sign with her finger, which unfortunately he did not perceive. She knew her parent’s hasty temper, his bitter feelings against Dissenters, and feared lest they might engage in a dispute over the question of religious toleration.

“The true glory of our charter,” went on Berkeley, “consists in—”

“’Tis precisely its weak point,” interrupted Sir Henry, who knew well what he was about to say. “Ay, this religious freedom which you so much admire will one day prove our ruin. Only let enough Puritans and fellows like him who has just quitted us settle here, and then you and I and Lord Baltimore, in fact every Catholic and Anglican, will be hurried out of the colony.”

“I do not believe it,” said Berkeley.

“But I do; and it shows what little sense you have,” continued Sir Henry, now quite red in the face.

We need not give the rest of the discussion between them, which waxed louder and hotter, until finally, at something the old gentleman said, Berkeley got up, made a silent bow to Helen, and walked away. In a moment Evelyn followed him.

“What! go back and make peace with Sir Henry?” exclaimed Berkeley, as the other took his arm—“after calling me low-born, and saying that was the reason I sympathized with common folk and Puritans? No, no, I cannot.”

To any one of a less generous nature than Evelyn this might have been a welcome announcement, for both he and Berkeley were suitors for Helen’s hand. But Evelyn did not let this fact for a moment lessen his desire to restore harmony between his rival and Helen’s father. “Look,” he said, “how pained his daughter is! She is weeping. Do return and be friends for her sake.”

“You are a noble fellow to speak thus,” answered Berkeley. “But I cannot; for, besides calling me what he did, he bade me henceforth hold aloof from him, and I will obey. As for Helen, she is too good, too meek, too patient; she is a martyr.”

After they had walked together a short distance, Evelyn, finding that his efforts to persuade Berkeley to retrace his steps were vain, let him go his way, and during the rest of the afternoon he had Helen all to himself.

These two had been friends from childhood, and their natures were much alike. Both were dreamers. Well-nigh as far back as their memories went they had built castles in the air; and after they had been strolling hand-in-hand, as they oftentimes used to do, amid the pleasant groves of Evelinton Park, Yorkshire, the boy would always bid his gentle comrade good-by with a kiss; then little Helen would betake herself to her father’s mansion, which was next to that of Sir Charles Evelyn’s, and pass the time until she was put to bed thinking about the pretty boy, who had made so many vows to be with her all through her life; and she closed her eyes with his words ringing in her ears: “If a giant comes to attack you, Helen, or a dragon, I will defend you; I will kill the horrid beast or wicked man.” And often in sleep she witnessed a desperate fight, wherein her knight, after many wounds received in her defence, always came off victorious.

Happy indeed were those days of childhood. And when in the course of time Helen grew to be a woman and Charles a man, it was wonderful how little they had changed, how like children still they were. Indeed, the only new thing which Helen observed in him was that he did not kiss her any more as he used; while the youth occasionally saw a flush steal over her cheek as she listened to some innocent speech of his—innocent yet full of rapture—wherein he said there might be maidens in heaven who were like herself, but only in heaven. And so they continued to be much in each other’s company; and when at length Helen’s father fell into debt—for old blood is spendthrift blood—and determined to cross the sea with the hope of retrieving his credit and decayed fortune in the New World, Evelyn would not stay behind.

Sir Henry Lee, let us here remark, was a cavalier of the truest stamp; chivalrous, devoted heart and soul to his king, utterly careless of money. “And never was there a queen like Queen Henrietta Maria,”[90] he would say. Her being a Catholic mattered not a jot; for, although he himself belonged to the Church of England, he had married a Catholic wife and allowed his daughter to be brought up a Catholic. The only people he hated were Presbyterians, and his beau ideal of the devil was John Knox.

As soon as Sir Henry had resolved to join the company of Lord Baltimore he sent for a surveyor to make a map of his encumbered estate, which he could no longer afford to hold; and the surveyor’s name was William Berkeley. While the latter was engaged on this work Lady Lee would often go and talk with him; and among the last words which this excellent woman spoke to her daughter before she died were these: “Helen, you are now of an age to marry. Yonder is a man who would be of great help in mending our shattered fortune. William Berkeley is a Catholic, and he tells me that he too intends to go with Lord Baltimore. As for his having no title, think none the less of him for that; he hath a pedigree—’tis even said he comes down from Robin Hood. Child, you might do worse than wed that honest, able yeoman.” And the girl treasured up these words; and now this summer evening, while Evelyn is alone with her in Sir Henry Lee’s new home in Maryland, trying to console her for the harsh language which the old gentleman had used towards Berkeley, her mother’s advice came back upon Helen’s memory with very great force, and she asked herself: “What should we do if Mr. Berkeley were henceforth to hold aloof from us?” For he was a worker, not a dreamer. He gave Sir Henry good counsel which might in time be listened to; and if a day of urgent need ever came, he would be a useful friend. Whereas since they had been at St. Mary’s what had the gentle Evelyn done to better his condition? And his father, like her own, was overwhelmed with debt: old blood is spendthrift blood. True, his morals were correct; he was the very soul of honor, well educated, and of distinguished mien and manners. But as time wore on Helen felt more and more convinced that there was something wanting in Evelyn’s character, and, were she to give him her hand, was it not only too probable that they would grow poorer and poorer? “For, alas!” she would sigh, “I am too much of a dreamer myself, and we cannot live on dreams.”

Moreover, Helen believed that Evelyn’s love for her partook too much of a religious devotion; what he had told her years before he kept telling her still—she was his angel; and Helen shrank from taking a step which might undeceive him: “For I fear if I became his wife I should cease to be his angel.”

The room, where they now sat conversing together was the one known as the queen’s room; for, besides the portraits of the family, it contained a picture of Queen Henrietta Maria by Van Dyck. Nothing in the world did Sir Henry treasure more than this work of art by the great master, unless, perhaps, his own daughter. Yet even this priceless gem he might ere long be obliged to part with, as he had already parted with his old wine, in order to pay off fresh debts.

“In a day or two,” spoke Evelyn, “I will make another effort to reconcile your father to Berkeley. I do hope I shall succeed.”

“I pray that you may,” answered Helen.

Then, as he toyed with one of her rich chestnut curls, “Helen,” he added, “I am going to paint a grand picture—St. George delivering St. Margaret from the Dragon—and I want you to sit for my model of St. Margaret. Will you?”

“I fear I am not worthy of such an honor,” replied Helen. “Poor me! What am I?”

“You are the inspiration of my life,” pursued Evelyn. “Yes, the little I have accomplished is all owing to you. But for you I should never have touched a brush.”

“Well, well, I’ll be St. Margaret; but who is to be St. George?”

“Myself. And now, when may I begin?”

“To-morrow, if you like.”

“To-morrow? Good!”

With this Evelyn withdrew, leaving Helen meditating on his words: “You are the inspiration of my life”; and she said to herself: “Alas! would that I had known how to inspire you better, good, kind Evelyn, my earliest friend. But all I have taught you to do is to play artist; and you would starve on the proceeds of your brush.”

Then presently her thoughts turned to her other lover, the strong, active, practical Berkeley, who never fell into rhapsodies over her eyes—her eyes, deep as the sea, blue as the sky, bright as the stars—as Evelyn did, nor said that his prayers were little worth unless she were kneeling near him.

Berkeley showed his feelings in a plain, healthy way by a hearty squeeze of the hand, and by now and again begging her to mend his buckskin gloves. “Because no girl in St. Mary’s can sew like you, Helen.” And, as might be expected, the young surveyor was bettering his condition every year, and had always something to give away to those who were not so well off as himself. Helen knew, too, how he had bestirred himself to find a purchaser for her father’s wine, and it was through him she had disposed of several jewels—precious heirlooms from her mother. In fact, Berkeley seemed able to do everything; and few people in St. Mary’s began anything important without first consulting him. Then Helen recalled one of the old fairy tales which Evelyn had told her when they were children, and wished that she were a fairy. “For then,” she said, “I would quickly wave my magic wand over Evelyn’s head and change him into Berkeley, and so make everything smooth, and my poor heart would be at peace.”

She was beginning, moreover, to agree with Berkeley that it was not wise to undertake to build a castle; a simple log-house would be much better. Already her father was involved in fresh trouble on account of this folly. Yet, even after selling his wine, and she her jewels, there was still money owing; and only one tower was finished.

Evelyn, on the contrary, had praised the undertaking, and told Sir Henry that as soon as the edifice was completed he would make a fine painting of it. Thus from musing over days gone by—the happy days in England, when her dear, prudent mother was living, who always had urged economy—and the sad present, tears came to Helen’s eyes, while the chamber grew darker and darker, until she could no longer distinguish Queen Henrietta Maria’s face looking down upon her from the wall. By and by she groped her way to her harpsichord, and began to play a mournful tune which was in harmony with the shadows and her own thoughts.

“Well, really, child!” exclaimed Sir Henry, entering presently with a light, “as if this abode were not cheerless enough with only you and me to inhabit it, you must needs give me melancholy music.”

Quick Helen changed the air and struck up something full of life and gladness, “A Carol to the Sun” ’twas called; and when he asked where she had got this delightful music—for it was new to him—and she answered, “From Evelyn,” her father seemed much pleased. “But, child,” he said, “why do you hesitate so long about accepting Sir Charles? Is it because Berkeley is courting you too? Why, one has a title and is of gentle blood; the other is a plebeian, and I hope will make his visits less frequent in future. I spoke sharply to Berkeley to-day—did I not?—and if he comes again I’ll speak more sharply still.”

Seeing that Helen made no response, Sir Henry continued: “Why, the fellow actually had the impudence to advise me not to go on with this castle, which I intend to make the finest structure in the colony. But Evelyn has better taste; blood tells in everything, and he agrees with me that Lord Baltimore will be highly gratified when it is finished, and will write to the king about it.”

“Well, there is indeed a magnificent view from the top of the tower,” observed Helen timidly. Then, plucking up a little courage, “But, father,” she added, “think of the money it will cost; think of the future.”

“A view! A magnificent view!” cried Sir Henry. “God-a-Mercy! is that all you have to say in praise of this tower? A magnificent view! Would you have the portrait of our gracious queen hanging in a log-cabin? And that suit of armor which your ancestor wore at Agincourt, which bears upon it the dents of a battle-axe—would you wish to see it in a log-cabin? Child, you are not worthy of your name.” Then, after a pause, during which he strode excitedly back and forth, Sir Henry continued: “As for money, I never trouble my head about money. But when you bid me think of the future—well, I have indeed bitter thoughts when I allow my mind to dwell on the future.”

This was true enough. Helen’s father was no longer young. Helen had not yet chosen a husband; would he live to see a male descendant of his house? “Oh! it wrings my heart,” he murmured half aloud—and his daughter heard the lament—“it wrings my heart to think of the old stock dying out.” After giving vent to his sorrow even by tears, the old gentleman bade Helen commence the usual evening reading. And let us here observe that the only book he cared for was _Don Quixote_, which Helen read to him in the original; for he had been in Spain and had taught her Spanish. Accordingly, she opened the volume—’twas the third time she had gone through it—and began to read in a loud, clear voice, while Sir Henry sat with his back towards her and his eyes resting on the ancient suit of armor, whence they never strayed, except for a moment to glance at the portrait of the queen.

Helen had found _Don Quixote_ quite entertaining the first time she had perused it; but now the interest was all gone, and only the dread of offending her father kept her from often pausing and nodding her head. But this she durst not do; and so on and on she read through five chapters, without so much as lifting her eyes off the page, after which Sir Henry told her to put the volume aside, then withdrew in what for him was a very genial humor.

The night which closed this summer day was a restless one for Helen Lee. She lay awake several hours listening to a whip-poor-will perched on a tree by her window. She got thinking about her father, whom, despite his acerbity of temper, she dearly loved; she thought of the rash way he was squandering his means, and said to herself: “Dear mother was right: in order to save ourselves from utter ruin we should live as economically as possible. But, alas! he will not do it, and we may be forced ere long to sell our new home here, as we did our old home in England.” And when at length she fell asleep, these mournful thoughts followed her in a dream.

The next morning Helen repaired to Evelyn’s abode, which stood on the outskirts of the town, and found him all ready to begin the painting of which he had spoken the day before.

“You look a little pale, Helen,” he said as she entered his studio. “You are always as blooming as a rose. Are you not well?”

The girl did not answer, and presently her countenance brightened, for by nature she was of a cheery disposition, ever hoping for the best, even when the sky looked darkest; and, besides, it was never difficult for the companion of her earliest years to interest her.

“Look,” continued Evelyn, “look at that oriole singing on the elm-tree yonder; his mate is hidden in the deep pear-shaped nest, with a tiny door on the side, which you see dangling from the end of the limb. Well, I have given that beautiful bird a new name; I have christened it the Baltimore bird, because we find in its golden plumage, mixed with deep black, the colors of Lord Baltimore’s arms. And his lordship was highly pleased yesterday when he heard the new name.”

“What a fanciful boy you are!” answered Helen, smiling.

“And, Helen,” he went on, “I am composing a new song for your harpsichord. You see you have inspired me to become a poet as well as an artist.”

“I sometimes fear that I have caused you to dwell too much in Cloud-land,” said Helen. Then, a little abruptly, “Evelyn,” she added, “did you ever cut down a tree?”

Ere the young baronet could make reply Berkeley, with an axe strapped across his shoulders, galloped up to the open window of the studio.

“Good morning! good-morning!” cried the surveyor. “Why, Helen, I am lucky to catch you here; I was going as nigh the tower as I durst venture, in order to bid you good-by.”

“Good-by! What mean you?” exclaimed Helen, betraying in her voice and looks the anxiety she felt.

“I am going forty miles up the Potomac, in order to lay out a new settlement,” answered Berkeley; “for our colony is growing, you know, and I am kept pretty busy.” Then, bending down from the saddle and taking her hand, “Helen,” he added, “please tell Sir Henry how sorry I am that I showed so much temper yesterday. I ought to have held my tongue, or not spoken out so openly, for I might have known that we should not agree. Tell him I ask his pardon.”

Helen gazed up in Berkeley’s face a moment, then her eyes dropped and she murmured: “Yes, I will tell him.”

“But of course,” pursued her lover, “I do not change my opinion. I still firmly believe that the example of religious toleration which Maryland has set will in time be followed by the other colonies; and who knows what a century may bring forth? Why, I believe the day is coming when all North America will be occupied by English-speaking commonwealths, where there will be no religious wars as in Europe; Catholics and Protestants will dwell in harmony together, and then it will be said: ‘Maryland began it. God bless Maryland!’”

“You have quite won me over to your way of thinking,” interposed Evelyn. “A man may be tolerant of the views of others without being himself indifferent.”

“Why, Roger Williams’ friend, whom we saw yesterday,” spoke Helen, “was drawn hither by our very toleration. Yes, we have outstripped the Puritans in common sense, and who knows but this poor exile may end by embracing the true faith?”

“But now, to change the subject,” went on Berkeley, who saw a fresh canvas spread out and a crayon in his friendly rival’s hand, “are you about to begin a new picture?”

“Yes,” said Evelyn; “a picture of St. George rescuing St. Margaret from the Dragon, and Helen is to sit for St. Margaret.”

“Indeed!” Here Berkeley meditated a moment in silence. The fact is, he feared lest he might be absent from St. Mary’s three or four months—perhaps longer: would it not, therefore, be wise, if he wished to secure Helen for his bride, to ask her forthwith to plight him her troth? Had he not already deferred it long enough? He could now afford to marry; and if he still put off the weighty question, might not Evelyn during his absence become the chosen one? “Why wait,” he asked himself, “until I have made friends with Sir Henry? He never would look with a favoring eye on our union, for I have no title; I am plain William Berkeley. Yet Helen is of age, she is not a slave, I love her dearly; and if she loves me enough to accept me, why, in God’s name, let us be married.”

Then aloud he said: “Evelyn, before I go I must pass a few minutes in your studio, just to see you commence the picture.”

“Yes, do; and let me call a servant to take your horse to the stable,” said Evelyn.

“Thanks. I’ll take him there myself,” answered Berkeley, who was now determined not to set out for the wilderness without knowing his fate.

“How well he rides!” observed the artist. “What a soldierly bearing he has!”

Then, gazing earnestly in Helen’s face, he added:

“Berkeley would make a capital St. George. Would he not? Shall I put him in the painting instead of myself?”

At this question Helen’s cheek crimsoned, and without making any response she awaited Berkeley’s return; while Evelyn murmured to himself: “Alas! alas! I see I should do well enough for a picture; but he would be her real St. George.”

In a few minutes Berkeley reappeared, and as he entered the room he seemed to read Helen’s thoughts at a glance; for the first words he uttered were:

“Evelyn, may I enquire who is to sit for St. George?”

Here Evelyn turned to Helen, upon whom Berkeley’s eyes were fastened, saying: “Dear Helen, please answer for me.”

This was a cruel moment for the girl—most cruel! What a throng of memories rushed upon her!—memories of far-off, sunny days, when she and the pretty boy used to saunter and dream hand-in-hand together along the shady paths that lay between her native home and his. And now all these memories became so many voices pleading powerfully in Evelyn’s behalf; he had loved her from the beginning, and she had only met Berkeley when she was grown up to womanhood.

But when she thought of the latter, she remembered her dead mother and what she had said of him—of his inner worth, his talents, his energy. Then, too, since Helen had been in Maryland, Berkeley had shown in many ways that he was attached to her; and, moreover, he was a man in the truest sense of the word—a man on whom she and her heedless father might lean and find support. His every waking hour was devoted to some useful employment. Far and wide he was known as an able, active, daring man; and at this very moment he stood before her all equipped to plunge into the trackless forest to pioneer the way for another settlement. His views, too, of the future had won Helen’s heart; she believed, as he did, that in America the church was destined to spread and to glean a more golden harvest than in old, worn-out Europe. And so, after a painful inward struggle, which revealed itself not faintly in her countenance, Helen’s response came, and, turning with tearful eyes to Berkeley, she said:

“William, do you be my St. George.”

“For life, Helen?”

“Yes, for life.”

At these words of doom poor Evelyn, who had felt what was coming, averted his face and stared on the vacant wall. Then, presently, bidding them remain a short while in his studio, that he would not be gone long, the heart-broken man hurriedly quitted the house.

The church whither he went was close by; and there at the foot of the altar he flung himself, bowed down his head, and tried hard to breathe a prayer. But he had never suffered before as he was suffering now, and it was not easy for him to be resigned, to have a Christian spirit, to say, “God’s will be done.” For a moment even a rebellious, devil-sent word quivered on his lips; and thus did he kneel dumbstricken before the altar, until by and by—brought to him, perhaps, by his guardian angel—came a sweet, holy calm; the storm passed away, and, spreading forth his arms, he gazed upon the ever-burning lamp which told of the Blessed Presence of his Saviour truly near him. And as he gazed upon it Evelyn took a high resolve; the words of the Psalmist came to him: “When my heart was in anguish, thou hast exalted me on a rock. Thou hast conducted me; for thou hast been my hope.... In thy tabernacle I shall dwell for ever.”[91]

Then straightway followed a flood of joy; like a bright, sunshiny wave it flowed over his soul. In his rapture he sang aloud the _Gloria_, the _Magnificat_, the _Te Deum Laudamus_. After which, rising up off his knees, he went back to his friends, who were wonder-stricken at the change that had come over him in the brief space since he had left them. Evelyn’s whole countenance beamed with a fire that was in striking contrast with his former listless self; and in a voice wherein was no tone of sadness he addressed Berkeley, saying: “Now to work! Let me quick begin St. George; I will draw rapidly, and in a couple of hours you shall be free to depart.”

Accordingly the picture was commenced, nor had the artist’s crayon ever touched the canvas so deftly before; indeed, so swiftly did he work that by the time the Angelus bell told them it was noon the rough sketch was finished.

Nor did the parting betwixt Berkeley and Evelyn bear the least trace of coldness; they seemed like two brothers, and Helen like an affectionate sister between them.

“And now,” spoke Evelyn, when the other was gone, and as he and Helen turned towards the tower—“now I’ll go see your father, and try my best to appease his anger against your betrothed.”

“Oh! how kind, how good you are,” answered Helen, who would fain have said more; but how could she? What language could express her gratitude to Evelyn for being so forgiving? And she inwardly owned that, whatever his weak points were, he was a rare, high-minded man—a man the like of whom this world had few indeed.

“Sister,” pursued Evelyn, in the tender accents she knew so well, “I am only too happy to serve you; and you know it is now more important than ever to soften Sir Henry’s heart towards Berkeley.”

“Yes,” said Helen, “otherwise I foresee great trouble in store for me.”

“But if I do not succeed, why, then you must speak to him yourself,” added Evelyn.

A half-hour later the young baronet and Helen’s father were closeted in the queen’s room, engaged in earnest talk.

“Well, I have known many good Papists in the course of my life,” spoke the old gentleman, “but upon my word you are the best one of all. Why, you ought rather to rejoice to have Berkeley hold aloof; yet here you are pleading his cause.”

“Berkeley is a most honorable, excellent fellow,” rejoined Evelyn, “and—”

“Oh! there you go again,” interrupted Sir Henry. “Your charity gets the better of your common sense. Why, what is he if you strip him of all disguises—what is he but the son of a forester, who, having turned surveyor, is no doubt earning money? But does that make him a gentleman—a fit one to be your rival for my daughter’s hand?” Then, after pausing and wiping his brow, Helen’s father continued: “No, indeed! And I would be really thankful, Sir Charles, if you would prevent him from ever coming again within a mile of my castle.”

“How might I accomplish that?” inquired Evelyn, inwardly smiling.

“How? Why, by asking Helen’s hand. From her cradle she has known you, and you her; she cannot help but love you if she has any heart at all—and she has a heart; oh! yes, a warm, loving heart.”

“Sir Henry,” replied Evelyn, with a faint tremor in his voice, “Helen can never be more than a dear friend, a sister, to me; I intend to become a priest.”

“What! a priest?” cried Sir Henry, utterly amazed. “A priest! O Evelyn! Evelyn!” Then, dropping his forehead in his hands, he began to sigh and wail. “I counted upon you,” he said in accents of unfeigned grief. “I counted upon you. But now, alas! all my bright hopes are vanished—all! all!” Then presently, clenching the hilt of his rapier—the old cavalier always carried a rapier—“But Berkeley shall not have her,” he thundered, working himself up to a violent passion. “No! by heaven, he sha’n’t! Never! never! I swear by—”

Leaving Sir Henry storming and invoking anything but blessings on poor Berkeley’s head, Evelyn withdrew to seek Helen, whom he found waiting outside the door. The girl trembled when she learnt the result of his interview with her father, and scarcely had courage to enter the latter’s presence. Urged, however, by Evelyn, she overcame her timidity and passed into the room; then, in as firm a voice as she could command, she told Sir Henry that Berkeley had requested her to beg his pardon for having angered him. Helen told him, too, that the surveyor was gone off forty or fifty miles from St. Mary’s; and concluded by reminding her father of the high opinion which her mother had entertained of the young man, of his industry, honor, manly courage.

“And dear mother was not given to praising people unless they were really good and worthy of praise. So, father, I implore you, do not harbor any ill-feeling against William Berkeley. Indeed, I am quite sure my mother would have agreed with him.”

Here Helen paused to hear her father’s answer; if he relented—and she hoped that he might, for, despite the rage he was in, he had listened without interrupting—if he relented, she intended immediately to reveal her engagement. But if he did not relent—what then? With heart violently beating she watched him; his hand was still upon his sword, and after waiting a good minute, as if to see whether she had aught else to say, Sir Henry replied:

“You tell me Berkeley has quitted St. Mary’s for a while; well, I hope he will remain away. As for what Lady Lee may have thought of him—alas! your mother held certain very unseemly opinions, which more befitted Wat Tyler’s wench than a nobleman’s spouse. Why, she once even denied to my face the divine right of kings; and she was obstinate—most obstinate. But, nevertheless, I little doubt that the Almighty hath already granted her forgiveness. O child! although I am not a Papist, I own there is much consolation in your doctrine of purgatory; it is a most consoling doctrine.”

Knowing that to stay and argue with her father in his present mood would only make the matter worse, Helen was about to withdraw when she was startled by a loud groan which escaped him:

“Evelyn a priest! a priest! a priest!” ejaculated the old knight.

“What! is he going to become a priest?” exclaimed Helen, turning back from the door. “Oh! then he has chosen wisely. Father, do not deplore it. Let us say rather, ‘God be praised!’”

“Then you did not know this? It is news to you?” inquired Sir Henry, eyeing her closely.

“Upon my honor I knew it not,” replied Helen, trembling, for she feared lest he might follow up his question by another, which she would dread to answer.

“Well, now leave me,” continued her father, waving her off. “Leave me alone a space. Go! I am heart-sick.”

For well-nigh a week Sir Henry remained inconsolable; even Don Quixote’s adventures failed to entertain him, nor his daughter’s cheeriest music and blithest songs move him to mirth. The workmen, too, whom he was fond of superintending and thus whiling away some hours each day, did not come any more to labor at the castle walls; for Sir Henry’s funds were running low and he had not wherewithal to pay their wages.

His favorite haunt was a small island christened the Island of Tranquil Delight. It was named after a pretty isle in a lovely stream which flowed hard by Sir Henry’s old home in England. But in several respects the two islands differed greatly: one was shaded by the wide-spreading branches of an oak—an oak planted in the days of William the Conqueror—and at the foot of this venerable tree lay the ruins of what once had been a hermit’s cell. The other island had a persimmon-tree growing in the middle of it, and every time Sir Henry approached this retired corner of his domain he espied an opossum waddling off; and the name of both tree and animal sounded exceedingly vulgar to his ears. But, as we have remarked, this was his favorite spot. Here he loved to come and listen to the murmuring brook, to see the trout jump up, and watch some beautiful lilies, the bulbs of which he had brought over from his native land.

One day Helen determined to go down to the Island of Tranquil Delight and make another attempt to soften her father’s heart towards her future husband. “And then,” she said to herself, “I’ll tell him that I am William’s betrothed; and oh! what a weight will be lifted off my heart.”

Accordingly, she repaired thither. But Sir Henry quickly checked her, saying: “Why, child, one might think from the interest you take in Berkeley that you were fast in love with him. Good God! child, I hope not. I—”

What else he might have spoken we cannot tell, for just at this critical moment who should be seen advancing towards them but one of Sir Henry’s oldest and best friends, a boon companion of his youth, who had just arrived from England; and in the hearty greeting and long talk that followed all thought of Berkeley was happily driven out of the old gentleman’s mind.

We may imagine what a Godsend this proved to be for Helen. And, moreover, her father’s friend was invited to make the castle his home as long as he remained at St. Mary’s, so that his visit afforded the girl not a little spare time; for Sir Henry did not oblige her to read to him a couple of hours daily nor sing and play for him on the harpsichord. Indeed, he took his watchful eye off her movements entirely; neither asked whither she was going when she went out, nor where she had been when she returned home; and language can but faintly express the blessings which Helen breathed on her father’s guest for thus unwittingly procuring her so much liberty.

Every day she spent some time in Evelyn’s company, whose newborn energy gave her as much wonder as delight. Nothing he had ever painted before was so instinct with life, showed such marks of genius, as the painting he was now engaged upon. And seeing her there so often, and hearing them converse together so familiarly, caused more than one gossip to say: “There will be a wedding ere long at the Tower.”

But Sir Charles did something else besides ply his crayon and brush: he was up every morning as early as the oriole whose nest hung close by his window, studying and otherwise preparing himself for his new life; and the stars were long twinkling in the heavens when he retired to rest at night. And if sometimes in the still hours a vision of what might have been passed before him—a vision of home, of a hearthstone of his own, of wife and children gathered around him—the sweet vision vanished, nor left a pang behind, as soon as he opened his eyes and murmured a prayer.

Thus passed away August, September, October, and Sir Henry began to hope that Evelyn had got over his folly—for such he called the notion of becoming a priest; and this hope, together with the companionship of his friend (who Helen prayed might never go away, and who had brought over from London a pipe of Canary, which he insisted on sharing with his host), caused Sir Henry’s spirits to revive greatly; and one morning he kissed Helen, and said in what for him was a very mild voice: “Child, when will you bring me the glad tidings I am yearning to hear?”

Whereupon she smiled, rubbed her cheek against his grizzly beard, and without answering thought to herself: “The fantastic plan which came last night in a dream will succeed; I feel sure it will. And though I shall have to brave your wrath once more, in the end, father, you will forgive me.”

And now was ushered in the loveliest season of the year—Indian Summer. Of an early morning on one of these lovely days Helen mounted a pillion behind Evelyn, and, accompanied by her waiting-woman, set out for St. Joseph’s, which was the name Berkeley had given to the new settlement, and where report said he was become the chief man. Her father made no objection to her taking this trip, for he knew there was a widow lady, with whom Helen had been once exceedingly intimate, who was now living at St. Joseph’s, and it was quite natural that the girl should wish to visit her.

Moreover, good Father McElroy—formerly Helen’s confessor—was living there too; so that the old gentleman, as guileless as he was proud, did not suspect the real object of this journey, for he had not heard Helen breathe Berkeley’s name in several months.

As for Helen daring to wed him, nay, even to plight Berkeley her troth—this Sir Henry could have sworn that his meek, obedient child never would do.

Accordingly, as we have said, Helen departed for St. Joseph’s, her father wishing her “God speed! and come back soon,” and she waving her hand to him until the forest hid him from view. Then Sir Henry turned to his old comrade, saying: “’Tis well I have you with me, Dick, otherwise this castle would be horribly dull now”; on which the other answered: “Depend upon it, Harry, there’s a match brewing ’tween Miss Helen and Sir Charles. Ay, I can tell by the sparkle of a lassie’s eye when she’s in love; nor is there any thought of priesthood in Evelyn. And at the wedding feast we’ll drain dry my cask of Canary and set the whole town in a roar.”

“May the Lord hasten that day!” returned Sir Henry. “Oh! I long with a longing words cannot express to see a grandchild ere I die.”

TO BE CONCLUDED NEXT MONTH.

Footnote 90:

Queen of Charles I., and in whose honor the colony was called Maryland.

Footnote 91:

Ps. lx. 3-5.

THE FUTURE OF FAITH.

“Looking, then, at the Church of Rome from a strictly logical stand-point, it is hard to see how, if we believe in free will and morality in the face of these modern discoveries, which, as far as they go, show us all life as nothing but a vast machine—it is hard to see how we can consider the Church of Rome as logically in any way wounded, or crippled, or in a condition, should occasion offer, to be less active than she was in the days of her most undisputed ascendency. I conceive of her as a ship that seems now unable to go upon any voyage, or to carry men anywhere, but that this is not because, as was said not long since, that her ‘hull was riddled by logic,’ or that she is dismasted or has lost her sails, but merely because she has no wind to fill them. In other words, with regard to supernatural religion, and Catholicism as its one form that still survives unshattered, I conceive that the imagination of the world has been to a great measure paralyzed; but that it may be seen eventually that it never was in any way convinced; and that nothing is wanting to revive the Roman Church into stronger life than ever but a craving amongst men for the certainty, the guidance, and the consolation that she alone offers them.

“The only question is whether such an outburst of feeling is in any way probable. It is possible that the world may be outgrowing such a craving as that I speak of; or that it may find some new way of appeasing it.”

Such is the conclusion of an article on “The Future of Faith,” by W. H. Mallock, in the London _Contemporary Review_, March, 1878. It goes without saying that the writer is not a Catholic; his very phraseology sufficiently shows this. His testimony, therefore, to the truth, the strength, and the stability of the Catholic Church is the more important as being that of an outsider. He is a man, judging by such of his writings as we have seen, who in a time of intellectual doubt and questioning, almost of despair, is searching honestly and earnestly for some truth on which to rest, if truth there be. He examines all things, shirks nothing, shrinks from nothing. He is not terrified by phrases; he is not to be put off with jargon, scientific or otherwise. If a man descants to him on “the great Unknown and Unknowable,” he listens with calm politeness, and then asks quietly, What _is_ the great Unknown or the great Unknowable? And so with any other term and real or alleged fact. He sifts and sifts until he gets at the bottom. If the bottom is emptiness he says so; if he finds something there he says so. He acknowledges established facts, whether or not those facts go against his natural inclinations, or his preconceived theories, or the prejudices that in the course of a lifetime grow up around even the broadest and most honest minds; for pure intelligence is a rare quality indeed in man. The testimony, then, of a man like Mr. Mallock, a man who in every line he writes shows a keen intelligence, a mind formed by careful study and stored with knowledge, a rare culture, and a thorough honesty of purpose—the testimony, we say, of such a man is of real value on any subject of which he treats, and worthy of all respect.

The article which we purpose examining, and presenting in great part to our readers, seems to us to be almost the closing link in a long chain of reasoning. It is closely connected with other writings by the same author, and, though complete and independent in itself, thanks to the writer’s skill and logical strength, it ought really to be read with them in order to grasp its full force and significance as intended by the author himself. It should be read in connection with _The New Republic; or, Culture, Faith, and Philosophy in an English Country House_ (Scribner, Armstrong & Co., 1878); “Is Life Worth Living?” (the _Nineteenth Century_, September, 1877, and January, 1878); to which may be added “Positivism on an Island” (the _Contemporary Review_, April, 1878). All of these bear one upon another. In them the most brilliant and refined satire alternates with, may be said rather to lighten, illustrate, and render fascinating, the most eager and earnest and searching inquiry into the very foundations of all that constitutes human society, especially in its modern and unchristian form. Mr. Mallock does not laugh simply for the laugh’s sake. Indeed, there is a deep mournfulness in his satire, notwithstanding its brilliancy—an undertone of sadness that causes one to doubt sometimes whether it is a laugh or a wail that we hear. It seems to us that the highest satire should always leave this doubt on the mind—the satire that is only bitter with the healthy bitterness of truth cleverly presented. However, we will not discuss that matter now; and with the mere mention of Mr. Mallock’s other writings, and the recommendation of them as affording reading that is at once very pleasant while it is healthy and strong, we turn to the more immediate subject of our article.

The future of faith is of course a question that deeply concerns all the world, more especially in these days, perhaps, when faith in its honest old meaning is dying according to some, dead according to others, an effete and pitiable superstition according to very many more. Delightful and quaint and chivalrous old Kenelm Digby would seem half inclined to restrict the _Ages of Faith_ to days when Christian knights went forth to battle for the Holy Sepulchre, when there was in all Christendom but one Christian faith held by all, and when Europe was forming and emerging out of paganism and barbarism under the beneficent hand of the Catholic Church. Those old days have passed away, and with them, according to many modern and enlightened thinkers, has passed the old faith. Christendom itself has passed away, too. Those were the days of the infancy of Christian nations, and an infantine belief akin to, where it was not wholly, superstition befitted them, according to what claims to be modern enlightenment. One religion was very natural then, and did much good, perhaps, in softening and checking barbarism and saving the very life of Europe. But as the infants grew into youth, and the youth developed into manhood, it was only natural that they should cut aloose from their leading-strings, tire of the mother who had watched so tenderly over their birth and growth and development, and discover that she was a shrewish old termagant, who wanted to keep them in leading-strings all their lives. So they cut their leading-strings and emancipated themselves, and believed as they liked and did as they liked, and left their mother to live or die as she might. Mother-like she refused to die; she lived for them. Though grown to man’s estate, they were still her children. Though they would disown her, she was still their mother. And her eyes went out wistfully after them; her heart yearned always for their return; her prayers went up unceasingly to heaven for them. Will the “Ages of Faith” ever come back, the old unity, the old simplicity? Is such a thing as the old faith ever dreamed of in this faithless age? Is there a desire anywhere among men for Christian unity, or is the tendency not rather the other way, towards still greater disintegration, until the very name of faith be banished from the world, and all mankind shall have attained to the supreme scientific beatitude of placid disbelief in a God whom they cannot see with their earthly eyes, touch with their earthly hands, set under their microscopes, examine and analyze and measure and weigh? This is really the question to which Mr. Mallock applies himself.

To those who note the signs of the times there is observable a strong centripetal as well as an equally strong, and perhaps more pronounced, centrifugal moral force working among men to-day. The centre from which the one party seeks to fly, and to which the other party seeks to turn, is Rome, the centre of Catholic unity. Take the Anglican Church as an instance. More than once in its history of three centuries has there been an attempt among some of its members to turn backwards to Rome. Never was that attempt more open and avowed than it is to-day, and, on the other hand, never was that attempt more bitterly resented by an opposing and more numerous party in the same church than it is to-day. There were at one time, under Alexander I., strong hopes of Russia becoming reconciled to the mother church. The sudden death of the emperor effectually quenched those hopes for the time being. The very large and ever-increasing number of conversions to the Catholic faith within the last half-century, of men of every form of belief or of no belief, very many of whom have been conspicuous for their learning and ability, some of them for their genius, is another indication of the real existence and strength of what we have termed this centripetal moral force. We only note these facts now, without stopping to inquire into their cause. But whether we be right or wrong in our belief that there is a strong and growing tendency towards reunion in Christendom, there is no denying that outside of the Catholic Church there never did exist so open and pronounced a feeling of religious unrest and disquietude as exists to-day among all bodies of professed Christians. What they have of religion, and what their fathers professed, no longer satisfies them. What were once held to be indisputable articles of faith are so no longer. Deep mistrust of the old ways, disbelief in the old tenets, have set in, and men who wish to be Christians find themselves without any fixed ground of faith. Thus infidelity is reaping a rich harvest, for the reason that Christianity in the minds of non-Catholics was identified with Protestantism in its various forms. But Protestantism now is found insufficient and wanting. It has fallen to pieces under the attacks of its own children, who to-day find themselves without a faith, and without any positive moral guide save such fragments of the truth as are still left to them, and to which the best of them adhere as a matter of necessity without exactly knowing why. They feel that Christianity is right, is the best; but they have not quite made up their minds as to what Christianity is or where it is. In fact, they shrink from the painful inquiry, and naturally enough; for the very fact of such an inquiry is an admission that there is something _very_ wrong in their system, and that the wrong is an old growth.

This general feeling of unrest and disquietude shows itself in a thousand ways, and in no way more conspicuously than in the literature of the day, even in its lighter forms. What newspaper is without its “theologian”? We keep a theologian, say the newspapers, as the lady of the _nouveaux riches_ said: “We keep a poet.” In days when religion is by many advanced minds supposed to be altogether out of date we find no subject of more general and entrancing interest than religion. The first question asked when a respectable rascal is exposed is, To what church did he belong? And so seemingly advantageous is religion, at least in a social point of view, that it generally turns out, especially, we are sorry to confess, in our own country, that the rascal was “a leading member of the church” and “in good standing.” We know to our cost what the school of “Christian statesmen” means. Even these degrading and disgraceful spectacles show that Christianity cannot be so very dead when its profession is found to be so very profitable a moral investment and so strong a guarantee of good character and sound morals. The evidence is that, whatever may be said, people still cling to it as something sacred and above suspicion, and their sense is undoubtedly right, however often and however sadly they may find themselves mistaken. It is not yet a reproach to a man that he is a professed Christian. On the contrary, it is the greatest stigma, as it ought to be, on his character when he falls. If he avowedly believed in nothing, in no moral law, men could easily understand why he should refuse to be bound by any moral law. But when he professes to be a follower of Christ and betrays his trust, even the infidel is shocked and turns with special loathing from the hypocrite.

Emerson, who is avowedly no Christian, in these his late days—and, let us hope, his best—can find no subjects so interesting as morals, religion, ethics; and his tendency, allowing for his early training, his acquired habit of mind and expression, is unquestionably in the right direction. Some of Carlyle’s latest and noblest utterances are Christian in spite of himself. At least he can find nothing in the world, which he long ago consigned, to the devil, of such real worth as Christian faith. Bulwer Lytton’s last and, to our thinking, his best story presents a noble Catholic youth as the very _beau ideal_ of excellence, and excellent because of his Catholicity. Thackeray sighed long ago for what to him seemed a hopeless reunion with Rome. George Eliot’s stories are a perpetual wail of despair for lack of fixed belief and a moral right which she cannot see. Others, the scientific minds more especially, are fiercer and bitterly attack anything that recognizes the supernatural. James Anthony Froude, while confessing that Protestantism as a whole has gone to the devil and allowed Protestants to go wholesale the same way, is startled at a “revival of Romanism.” We are only taking these few and varied instances as characteristic of the multitude of non-Catholics to-day who would fain believe in something and take refuge from the awful blank of infidelity. The magazines are full of them and of many like them. Mr. Disraeli moves England with a religious novel; and his political rival, Mr. Gladstone, has only lately deserted Rome to take up the Turk. Indeed, he seems to take even a more passionate interest in his theological than in his political discussions; and, _facilis descensus_, our own Secretary of the Navy shows his supreme fitness for his position by writing a remarkably bad and stupid book—remarkably bad and stupid even for him—against Rome.

We have not lost sight of our subject nor parted company with Mr. Mallock. All that has been said has only been intended to show how general is the interest to-day among all classes of minds in religious discussion. This of itself is an assurance that there is something to discuss; that there are disputed questions abroad which interest all men alike; and that these questions are not settled. And that is the point to which we wish to call special attention. Outside of the Catholic Church there is no body to-day claiming to be Christian which is fixed and steadfast in its belief; and this is only another way of saying that there is no belief which wholly commends itself to its professed followers, save the Catholic. Mr. Mallock does not write for Catholics. They are, as he acknowledges, and as all acknowledge, at least firm and steadfast. There is no shaking them. They may be wrong, utterly wrong, but at least men can see exactly what they believe and why they believe. Are they right in their belief, or are others right? Is there any such thing as faith in this world to-day, and is there any reasonable hope of its holding its ground and approving itself to the intelligence of mankind? These are the questions which Mr. Mallock puts in the calmest of tempers and with the thorough honesty of purpose we have already noticed.

In discussing “the future of faith” Mr. Mallock naturally turns his attention to those who profess to have and to hold Christian faith. The prospects of faith in the present order of the world he does not find very encouraging. What is called modern thought is against it; modern tone is against it—“a tone of confident and supercilious animosity that is gradually dying into triumph.” “It is true,” says Mr. Mallock, “that this leaven in its full bitterness is to be found only in a narrow circle; but flavors of it, more or less diluted, meet us far and wide. Indeed, it is difficult to find any place where they are not traceable.” This is undoubtedly true; it is equally true that “there is doubtless much definite religion left around us, and many firm believers. But the modern tone has its influence even on these. Religion must be changed in some ways by the neighborhood of irreligion.” This he explains by showing the amicable social relations that exist between religious and irreligious people in these days.

“They are united by habits, by blood, and by friendship; and they are each accustomed to ignore or to excuse what they hold to be the errors of the other. In a state of things like this it is plain that the convictions of believers can neither have the fierce intensity found in a minority under persecution, nor the placid confidence that belongs to an overwhelming majority. They can neither hate the unbelievers, for they daily live in amity with them; nor despise altogether their judgment, for the most eminent thinkers of the day belong to them. The believers are forced into a sort of compromise, which is a new feature in their history. They see that the age is against them; and they are obliged to make excuses for their enemy.”

Mr. Mallock, it will be seen, does not here characterize his “believers.” We are not prepared to agree altogether with what he says in this. At the very least the influence resulting from a social truce between believers and unbelievers need not tell entirely on the side of unbelief. There is no reason why believers should not be as steadfast in a drawing-room as in a church or on a battle-field, and politeness to an opponent does not of necessity imply a concession of weakness. Religious fervor is by no means incompatible with civility; but doubtless Mr. Mallock has in view more particularly Protestant believers, though he would not seem to restrict himself to them, judging from the following passage:

“If the modern tone has thus affected even those who ye most opposed to it, what must not its effect be upon those who have, in part of their own free will, adopted it? And these form to-day a great mass of our educated public. A large number of these still call themselves Protestants; and were the matter to be treated lightly, they might afford countless studies for the humorist. The state to which they have reduced their religion is indeed a curious one. With a facile eclecticism that is based on no principle, and that changes from year to year, or more probably from mood to mood, they pick and choose their doctrines, saying: ‘I keep this and I reject this,’ in some such manner as the following: ‘Of course the Apostles’ Creed is true, and of course the Athanasian Creed is false. And then, after all, suppose neither is true, the meaning of the thing is the real heart of the matter.’ Such is the Protestant language of to-day. Nor is it the language of foolish or of ignorant people; it is the language of countless clever men who have much to do, and of countless clever women who have nothing to do.”

The author proceeds to test the actual value on a person’s life of such a faith as this—a faith that has nothing really fixed in it, and that varies with the mood of the holder. There come the great trials of life, when those who sorrow or those who suffer or are sorely tempted require all their fortitude, must trample on themselves and on their own feelings and natural instincts, or yield to despair and give way to wrong.

“A great sorrow comes, or a great temptation comes. At once the tone of to-day grows more pronounced, and a new set of arguments suggest themselves with singular readiness: ‘God is not good, or he would never have robbed me of so good a husband’; or, ‘God is not good, or he would never have let me marry such a bad one’; and then follows, as a corollary to these propositions, ‘God is nothing if not good, and therefore there is no God at all.’ Or the syllogism, especially in the feminine mind, takes not uncommonly some such form as this: ‘If there was a God he would put me into hell for being in love with so-and-so; but I am certain in my own mind that I do not deserve hell; therefore I am certain in my own mind that there can be no God to put me there.’”

The aptness and force with which Mr. Mallock brings the application of these vague speculations about religion and these loose principles of belief home to daily life is characteristic of the man. He is not content with wandering in the clouds. He brings everything down to solid earth, and tests and weighs it there. He does not ask, How will this appear to the philosopher? but How will this affect the lives of men and women? Religion is not for the philosophers only, but for every man born into this world. A recent trial in Brooklyn gives peculiar point to his remarks on this head. “In former times,” says Mr. Mallock, “when such thoughts occurred to men, the whole weight of the world’s opinion always was ready to condemn them as vain and wicked. But now the case is just reversed. However foolish may be the actual conduct of such reasoning, the opinion of the enlightened world is ready to corroborate the conclusion.”

He goes on to take another circle, “a probably far larger one.” This is made up of men who are in suspense altogether. “They see much to revere and to regret in Christianity, but they make no pretence of believing in its details. They do not even think them worth arguing against.” And, lastly, “there are the extreme destroyers, who would break altogether with the past; and who, though probably wishing to retain some of the emotions that were once directed to God and to heaven, would give them an entirely different object in the shape of humanity, and would never suffer them to wander from the earth’s surface.”

“Such are the various parties that the world of thought now shows to us,” says Mr. Mallock—a small body who cling heart and soul to the past; a small body that would utterly break with the past; and between them “a vast and varied crowd, tinged in various proportions with the colors of each extreme. And amongst them all there is a continual arguing, and anxiety, and perplexity.”

There is no denying the truth of this picture. Such is Christendom to-day, and what is to be the outcome of it all? The keen and truthful observer whom we are quoting thinks “it cannot be doubted that the modern tone is spreading,” and the tendency is therefore against faith. “To all except a small minority faith, in the old sense of the word, is growing a cold and shadowy thing.”

“The dogmas, the services, the ministers of the church are coming all of them to have a belated look for us. They seem out of place in the busy world around us. Ever and again we hear of a new Catholic miracle and the fame of some new pilgrimage. And the strange effect that these things have on us shows us how far our minds have travelled.

Do such things still exist? we ask in surprise and irritation, and we set them down as ‘the grimacings of a dead superstition’ galvanized into a ghastly imitation of life. And then from the modern miracles the mind goes back to the older ones, once held so sacred and so certain. And they, too, have undergone a change for us. Not only are Lourdes and Paray-le-Monial contemptible, but Calvary is disenchanted. There may have been a death there, but there was never a Sacrifice. Scales have fallen from our eyes. We see it all clearly. The creed we were brought up in is an earthly myth, not a heavenly revelation. We know exactly whence it came, and we see pretty certainly whither it is going. The signs of it still survive; but they signify nothing. They will soon be swept away, and will make place, we hope earnestly, for something better.”

Such is the modern tone, wonderfully well presented. Is it so universal as Mr. Mallock seems to think, or so deeply rooted in the minds and hearts of men? He himself is in doubt on this point, and proceeds to inquire with characteristic honesty and persistence. He takes up and classifies the various objections against Christianity that are popular to-day: the objections _à priori_, which are opposed to all religion, natural as well as revealed; and the objections _à posteriori_, which are opposed to revealed religion only. We must refer the reader to Mr. Mallock’s article for these objections, as space does not allow us to present them, nor is their presentation necessary to our immediate purpose. The conclusion at which he arrives is briefly this: “If Christianity relies for support on the external evidence of its truth, it can never again hope to convince men. These supports are seen to be utterly inadequate to the weight that is put upon them. They might possibly serve as props, but they crash and crumble instantly if they are used as pillars.”

We are not so much arguing with Mr. Mallock as allowing him free utterance, therefore we make no formal exception to what he here says. But, he goes on, “it is as pillars that the whole Protestant community uses them,” the “props” above mentioned, and he takes up Protestantism as the religion of the Bible.

“There,” it says, “is the word of God; there is my infallible guide. I listen to none but that. It is my first axiom that the Bible is infallible; and granting that, history teaches me that all other churches are fallible. On the Bible, and the Bible only, I rest myself. Out of its mouth shall you judge me. And for a long time this language had much force in it, for the Protestant axiom was received by all parties. It is true that it might be hard to decide what God’s word meant; but still every one admitted that God’s word was there, and it at any rate meant something. But now all this is changed. The great axiom is received no longer. Many, indeed, consider it not an axiom but an absurdity; at best it appears but as a very doubtful fact; and if external proof is to be what guides us, we shall need more proofs to convince us that the Bible is the word of God than that Protestantism is the religion of the Bible.”

We agree with Mr. Mallock that if this be Christianity, Christianity has lost its use and its place in this world. Reasonable men cannot be brought to understand how so stupendous and vast an edifice as Christianity can by any possibility rest on so very narrow and shaky a foundation as that presented by Protestantism. The whole thing is either a gigantic sham, which has enslaved and overshadowed men’s minds too long already and wrought infinite mischief in the world, or else we must seek some deeper and broader foundation for it than this. “In this country” (England), says Mr. Mallock, “nearly all the ablest attacks upon supernatural religion have been directed against it as embodied in the Protestant form; and they have widely, and not unnaturally, been regarded as quite victorious.” There is left then only one of two alternatives: either Christianity is false, or Protestantism is not Christianity.

Protestantism has fallen, as we said, under the hands of its own children. They have demolished it, and left only scattered fragments of what was a body with something like life in it. In destroying it have they destroyed what they identified with it—supernatural religion, or Christianity?

“It seems to escape the assailants,” observes Mr. Mallock, “that though they may have burnt the outworks, there is still a citadel inside, which, though it seems to them almost too contemptible to take account of, may yet not prove combustible, and, when the conflagration outside has subsided, may still remain to annoy them. They forget altogether, I mean, the Church of Rome; nor do they seem to consider that, though for other causes she may perhaps be dying, yet many of their logical darts can do nothing to hasten her end.”

Having found Protestantism so complete a failure, Mr. Mallock turns to the Catholic Church and examines it. He finds that “Catholics have one characteristic which fundamentally separates them from the Protestants” with respect to the chief points at which modern thought and science have assailed revealed religion. Protestantism, he says, offers itself to the world as a strange servant might—bringing with its number of written testimonials to character. It expressly begs us not to trust to its own word. The world examines the testimonials carefully; “it at last sees that they look suspicious, that they may very possibly be forgeries; it asks the Protestant Church to prove them genuine, and the Protestant Church cannot.”

Catholicism comes in an exactly opposite way. It brings the very same testimonials, but sets itself above them. It speaks with its own authority. It speaks as Christ spoke, Who said openly and boldly: “Believe in _me_; _I_ am the way, the truth, and the life; the Father and _I_ are _one_.” He used the Scriptures also, but only as adjuncts to his own teaching. His credentials were exclusively his own. The Scriptures were his; he was not the Scriptures’. And so the church which he founded surely ought to speak—the church which is his living body, higher and greater than any Scriptures. “It” (the Catholic Church), says Mr. Mallock, “asks us to make some acquaintance with _it_; to look into its living eyes, to hear the words of its mouth, to watch its ways and works, and to feel its inner spirit; and then it says to the world, ‘Can you trust me? If so, you must trust me all in all, for the first thing I declare to you is that I have never lied. Can you trust me thus far? Then listen, and I will tell you my story. You have heard it told one way, I know; and that way often goes against me. I admit myself that it has many suspicious circumstances. But none of them positively condemn me. All are capable of a guiltless interpretation; and now you know me as I am, you will give me the benefit of every doubt.’ It is in this spirit that Catholicism offers us the Bible. ‘Believe the Bible for my sake,’ it says, ‘not me for the Bible’s.’ And the book, as thus offered us, changes its whole character.”

We have no fault to find with this presentation of the Catholic claims so far. Mr. Mallock has here fully grasped an essential difference between Catholics and Protestants which few non-Catholics are able to grasp. How clearly and well he elucidates this important point will be seen by those who care to read his article, of which we can only present the substance. His conclusion with regard to Catholicity and the Bible is: “As Catholicism stands at the present moment, it seems hard to say that, were we for any other reasons inclined to trust it, it makes any claim for the Bible that would absolutely prevent our doing so.” That being the case, it follows as a matter of course that all the “logical darts” aimed at the Bible fall harmless from the invincible armor of the Catholic Church.

He then goes on to consider the various doctrines of the Catholic Church, and herein he shows the same capability of appreciating the Catholic stand-point, an appreciation of which stand-point is, of course, necessary to any one who would honestly inquire into what Catholicity really is, and what Catholics actually do believe. These doctrines, he says, “though it is claimed that they are all implied in the Bible, are confessedly not expressed in it, and were confessedly not consciously assented to by the church till long after the sacred canon was closed.” We would here remark that this is true only of some Catholic doctrines. Well, says Mr. Mallock, “let us here grant the extreme position of the church’s most hostile critics. Let us grant that all the doctrines in question can be traced to external and often to non-Christian sources. And what is the result on Romanism? Does this go any way whatever towards logically discrediting its claims?” We will let him answer his own question in his own way:

“If we do but consider the matter fairly, we shall see that it does not even tend to do so. Here, as in the case of the Bible, the Roman doctrine of infallibility meets all objections. For the real question here is not in what store-house of opinions the church found its doctrines; but why it selected those it did, and why it rejected and condemned the rest. History cannot answer this. History can show us only who made the separate bricks; it cannot show us who made and designed the building.... And the doctrines of the church are but as the stones in a building, the letters of an alphabet, or the words of a language. Many are offered and few chosen. _The supernatural action is to be detected in the choice._ The whole history of the church, in fact, as she herself tells it, is a history of supernatural selection. It is quite possible that she may claim it to be more than that; but could she vindicate for herself but this one faculty of an infallible choice, she would vindicate to the full her claim to be under a superhuman guidance. The church may be conceived of as a living organism, for ever and on all sides putting forth feelers and tentacles, that seize, try, and seem to dally with all kinds of nutriment. A part of this she at length takes into herself. A large part she at length puts down again. Much that is thus rejected she seems for a long time on the point of choosing. But however slow may be the final decision in coming, however reluctant or hesitating it may seem to be, when it is once made it is claimed for it that it is infallible. And this claim, when we once understand its nature, will be seen, I think, to be one that neither our knowledge of ecclesiastical history nor of comparative mythology can invalidate now or even promise ever to do so.”

It will be seen that we are a long way from Protestantism already, and that we have here a very different kind of church, which, be it right or wrong, rests on a very deep and firm foundation. At least this must be said of it by all: Granting its truth, there is no stronger foundation conceivable. Granting it to be false even, it is hard to conceive a stronger foundation, or one that could commend itself with more force and assurance of safety to reasonable men. If there be a God living and moving in this world, this looks very like God’s handiwork.

Mr. Mallock concedes that “the Catholic Church can still claim, in the face of all the new lights thrown on her history, to be sprung from a supernatural root.” But it may be that she “will be found to be betrayed by her fruits” when these are inspected in detail. Her primary dogmas and her general sacred character may be conceded; but “numberless deductions from them and indirect consequences” may “revolt our common sense and our moral sense, though we have no exact means of disproving them.” Such difficulties, he finds, do exist; “but if we examine them carefully, many, at least, will be found to rest upon misconceptions.”

The difficulties in question are that Catholicity “makes salvation depend on our assenting to a number of obscure propositions”; that to many Catholic ritual seems to be an integral part of the church’s mystical body, and that thus salvation is made to hang “not only on an assent to occult propositions of philosophy, but upon altar-candles and the colored clothes of priests”; again, “the temper and intellectual tone which she seems to develop in her members” makes the church “a rock of offence to many”; there are “a number of miraculous legends and quaint beliefs which are or have been prevalent amongst Catholics.” Of all these difficulties Mr. Mallock himself very lucidly and effectively disposes, and shows that they “will be seen to be not really formidable.” There are other difficulties, however, which he finds “worse than these.” They consist of “certain moral objections to the Catholic Church’s scheme altogether, and objections of science and common sense to other necessary parts of it.”

“The moral objections consist principally of these: the exclusiveness of the church, which leaves the rest of mankind uncared for; the church’s doctrine of rewards and punishments, which are barbarous or ridiculous in their details, and which, besides that, make all virtue venal; and the doctrine of a vicarious satisfaction for sin, which to many minds carries its own condemnation on the face of it. Lastly, besides these, there is the entire question of miracles.”

Into all these matters Mr. Mallock goes with the same patient purpose and honest mind that distinguish him everywhere. His conclusion, as a whole, is given at the head of this article. Space forbids us to follow him any farther, but we cannot resist the temptation to quote for the benefit of our non-Catholic readers what he says on infallibility and on the “exclusiveness” of the Catholic Church:

“The doctrine of the church’s infallibility,” he says, “has a side that is just the opposite of that which is commonly thought to be its only one. It is supposed to have simply gendered bondage, not to have gendered liberty. But as a matter of fact it has done both; and if we view the matter fairly we shall see that it has done the latter at least as completely as the former. The doctrine of infallibility is undoubtedly a rope that tethers those that hold it to certain real or supposed facts of the past; but it is a rope that is capable of indefinite lengthening. It is not a fetter only; it is a support also, and those who cling to it can venture fearlessly, as explorers, into currents of speculation that would sweep away altogether men who did but trust to their own powers of swimming. Nor does, as is often supposed, the centralizing of this infallibility in the person of one man present any difficulty from the Catholic point of view. It is said that the pope might any day make a dogma of any absurdity that might happen to occur to him; and that the Catholic would be bound to accept these, however strongly his reason might repudiate them. And it is quite true that the pope _might_ do this any day, in the sense that there is no external power to prevent him. But he who has assented to the central doctrine of Catholicism knows that he never _will_. And it is precisely the obvious absence of any restraint from without that brings home to the Catholic his faith in the guiding power from within.”

Of the “exclusiveness” of the Catholic Church, or, as it is more commonly put, of the doctrine that “out of the Catholic Church there is no salvation,” Mr. Mallock thus writes:

“As to the exclusiveness of the Catholic Church, it must be of course confessed that much perplexity is caused by any view of the world which obliges us to think of the most saving truths, and the most precious helps to a right life, being confined to a minority of the human race. But, supposing we attach to a knowledge of the truth any real importance, let us hold the supreme truths of life to be what we may, until the whole human race are unanimous about them we shall have to regard a part, probably through no fault of their own, as condemned to disastrous error. But of all creeds Catholicism is the one that does most to alleviate this perplexity. Of all religious bodies the Roman Church has the largest hope and charity for those outside her own pale. She condemns men, not for not accepting her teaching, but only for rejecting it; and they cannot reject it until they know it, what it is—know its inner spirit as well as its outward forms and formulas. Such a knowledge, in the opinion of many Catholics, it may be a very hard thing to convey to some men. Prejudices for which they themselves are not responsible may have blinded their eyes; and if they have been blind they will not have had sin. They will be able to plead invincible ignorance; and the judgments the church pronounces are not against those who have not known, but against those only who have known and hated. Nor is it too much to say that a zealous Catholic can afford to harbor more hope for an infidel than a zealous Protestant can afford to harbor for a Catholic.”

And now comes the final question, What is to be the future of faith? As we regard the matter, the answer to that, humanly speaking, rests mainly with those who have the faith. Faith is a sacred deposit, to be used, spread, and propagated over the world; to lead men to a right manner of living, to the true knowledge of God, and up to God. Thus the future of faith is in the hands of the faithful. Faith has two antagonists: the devil and, in a sense, man’s free-will. Of course modern thought scornfully dismisses the first antagonist as a myth. We cannot follow modern thought in this; we have a very profound belief in the existence of an ever-active and intelligent spirit of evil, who can and does tempt man into revolt against God, and who finds his readiest instrument, where he ought to find his chief resistance, in that highest prerogative of freedom which God confers on man. We take, then, first the devil, and, in a secondary sense, man’s free-will as the two great antagonists to faith. That is to say, if man _will_ rebel, if he _will_ not accept the faith, there is no power to hinder his rebellion.

And here we leave the devil aside and turn only to man. The future of faith is for him to say. What will he do with it? Why does he not accept it? Why should his free-will reject it, if it is good and approves itself so strongly to human intelligence, and if, moreover, God and all heaven are for ever standing on its side? There was at one time a united faith in Christendom; why was it ever broken?

Of course we can lay a great deal on the back of the devil and on the perversity of the human will. But it may be as well to remember also that those who have the faith may prove false to their trust. St. James tells us that even the devils believe and tremble. And so a man may possess the letter of the faith in full with very little of its spirit. A man may know St. Thomas from cover to cover, and assent to all his propositions, yet lead a bad life. Faith without works is dead. Christians must show forth in their lives whose disciples they are. If their lives are good; if the lives of a large body of believers are good; if they are chaste, charitable, honest in word and deed, and if such be the normal condition of their lives, men will not have far to go to look for faith. Virtue is the great preacher and converter. Even natural virtue—courage, sobriety, manliness, self-restraint—wins universal admiration. Supernatural virtue proclaims its godhead.

If the world is to be converted to faith, it will only be converted by the good lives and works of the faithful. The human intellect may carp at intellectual difficulties, but the human heart is overcome by goodness, by charity, by chastity. Faith is now what it always was; men are as they always were. But from a faithless and corrupt generation the inheritance is taken away. Thus the Jews lost it, thus Christian nations lose it. Had there been no corruption among the faithful there would have been no Protestant Reformation. Had there been no corruption in France, had the leaders of the people been true to the faith that was in them, infidelity would never have made such fearful havoc in a land of saints. And so with Germany, England, Scotland, Austria, Italy, and the other nations; when we examine closely we shall find that the revolt had its origin less in pride of intellect than in the concupiscence of the flesh and the pride of life. Intellectual assent to God’s teaching is not enough to lead a man to heaven. There must be a corresponding moral assent in his life. Why did Ireland, the weakest of the nations, not lose the faith? She was decimated, starved, made ignorant, brutalized as far as inhuman legislation can go to brutalize man, but she never lost the faith. Why? Because her sons and her daughters, whatever they may have known or not known of theology, of science, of philosophy, of literature, _lived the faith_, kept it stored up in their hearts, died for it, bequeathed it as a sacred legacy—their only legacy—to their children. Ah! it is on this that the future of faith hangs more than on intellectual discussion, articles in magazines, or theological writings. Shall we to-day doubt or hesitate about the future of faith—we the members of a church that numbers its millions by the hundred thousand? Are not we the children of Peter, of Paul, of Christ himself? Have not we the deposit that he confided to the twelve? Did they hesitate to face a world from which faith was almost blotted out, a world steeped in iniquity? They went out—twelve men; they preached Jesus, and him crucified; they lived what they preached, they suffered for what they preached, and, when nothing more was left for them to do, they died for it. We are not called upon to die for it to-day. The church is established. Its temples cover the world. Its children are in every land. From the rising of the sun to the going down thereof the living Sacrifice of Christ’s redeeming body and blood is daily offered up to God from the world and for the world. Can we tremble for the future of faith?

Of course sin and schism and infidelity will exist in the world till the end; but great multitudes may be saved and brought back if only the faithful are true. One great opposing element to the advance of faith is dissolving before our eyes—Protestantism. Shall all the children of Protestants perish and be given over to infidelity? Are there no earnest and well-inclined minds among them, no good people? There are multitudes of such, who are wavering and in doubt and sore perplexity because such support even as they had is slipping from under them, and beneath they see nothing but a blank and awful abyss. We do not anticipate that they will come back to us in multitudes. We scarcely look for that general “craving amongst men for the certainty, the guidance, and the consolation that the Catholic Church alone offers them,” as Mr. Mallock puts it. We do not rely upon “such an outburst of feeling”; and yet even that might come. _Sensim sine sensu_ will the wanderers come back. What we Catholics have to consider is our duty in the matter. We can indeed hasten that coming. If we would do so effectually we must be brothers to them in charity, examples to them in our lives, above them in intelligence as in that faith which is the highest intelligence.

NEW PUBLICATIONS.

ELEMENTS OF ECCLESIASTICAL LAW. By Rev. S. B. Smith, D.D. Second edition, revised and enlarged. Benziger Bros., New York.

We are glad to see that the Rev. Dr. Smith has been obliged to issue a second edition of his _Elements of Ecclesiastical Law_ so soon after his first edition. This is an evidence that his book was a desideratum in our country. Though considered as a missionary country and under the direction of the Propaganda, yet, owing to the progress which the church has made here during the last twenty-five years, we have almost all the qualifications for being put on the same regular footing as the oldest churches of Europe. At all events it cannot be denied that we are steadily and swiftly approaching that stage. Very soon the church in this country will assume the regular canonical status of the churches on the Continent of Europe. The necessity, therefore, is apparent of studying the common legislation of the church universal, in order to assimilate ourselves to the spirit and, as far as possible, to the letter of that legislation, and to apply its general principles to the particular conditions, wants, and requirements of our country. This has been Dr. Smith’s aim in the _Elements_ he has published. He gives, in the first place, an idea of law and _jus_ in general, and in particular of canon law with its divisions. Next he inquires into the sources of canon law—which are the Scriptures, tradition, apostolic enactments, decrees of the Roman pontiffs and of the councils, œcumenical, national, provincial, and diocesan, the Roman congregations and customs—along with a history of canon law in the Latin church, and especially a history of canon law in our country. This occupies the whole of the first part. In the second part our author treats of jurisdiction in general as vested in ecclesiastical persons, of the different kinds of jurisdiction, of the manner of acquiring it in general and in particular, of the manner of resigning and losing jurisdiction, and of the right and duties of such as are vested with ecclesiastical jurisdiction; hence in the third part he speaks in particular of the Sovereign Pontiff, his election, primacy, and other prerogatives, of cardinals and of the Roman congregations, of legates, nuncios, of patriarchs, primates, metropolitan bishops, auxiliary bishops, coadjutor-bishops, vicars-general, deans and pastors, etc., of the rights, privileges, and duties of all these respective dignitaries.

It might be said against this book that all these things are treated in every elementary treatise on canon law. Of course the author of the book before us does not claim to discuss any matter which has not found its place already in the canonical legislation of the church. But that does not make Dr. Smith’s book less valuable nor its author less worthy of praise for having rendered a great service to the church in this country. In the first place, he has put together in a comparatively small volume and at great labor what would only be found scattered in many books. In the second place, he has given us his _Elements_ in the English language, so that every one, even those who are not familiar with the Latin tongue, can acquire a fair knowledge of the church’s legislation.

Thirdly, and above all, he has taken great pains to give us the particular legislation of our country as derived from the first and second Plenary Councils of Baltimore, of both of which he has fairly interpreted the spirit and the aim. At the first glance, and upon a superficial perusal of their enactments, it would seem that the whole tendency of these two councils was a centralization of power as vested in the hierarchy—as, for instance, the power of governing without consulting the chapter or the advisers of the bishop; the power of having seminaries regulated altogether by the bishop without the three canonical committees of the clergy, one to look after the spiritual welfare, the other two after the temporal interests, of seminaries; the power of appointing priests to parishes without the _concursus_, or competitive examination; the power of moving priests from parishes, and many other instances, would seem to indicate a tendency of centralizing all power in the hierarchy. Yet the spirit of the two Plenary Councils of Baltimore was far from intending any such thing, as is evident by other enactments, and by the desire which the fathers of the council frequently express of conforming themselves as far as possible to the general legislation of the church, and by the regret which they manifest that, owing to the particular circumstances of our country, they are unable to adopt the general canon law of the church in many things. Dr. Smith’s book clearly puts forward this spirit of our two plenary councils, and the enactments which the fathers made in order to put a just and fair limit to their power, as in the question of removing pastors; in which case the last Plenary Council of Baltimore enacted that no bishop should remove a pastor without a proper cause.

In questions which these two councils left undecided our author, with all proper respect, gives a decision more consonant with the general canon law of the church and with the dictates of natural _jus_, thus conforming himself to the spirit of the two councils.

How far it would be desirable to adopt the common canonical law in this country, or whether the time has fully arrived for doing so, the author very properly leaves for the decision of the hierarchy and the Holy See. We do not deem it inconsistent with the respect we owe to our American prelates in coinciding with the desire expressed by the Council of Baltimore that some few things pertaining to the common canonical law of the church might be carried out; for instance, the exacting of a _concursus_ for parishes. Our bishops could require a _concursus_ at least for the larger parishes, and abstain from appointing any one to such parishes except one of those who have received a sufficient number of points required for approbation. This would secure always for the larger parishes at least an occupant sufficiently instructed in moral as well as parenetic theology. It would also be a great inducement for the younger clergy to cultivate these sciences, and not to abandon them as soon as they are out of the seminary. Our bishops would attain these great beneficial results without losing their perfect right and freedom of appointment, as they would not be bound to give the parish to the best in learning, but to the best all things considered, learning as well as probity, prudence, and ability in looking after the temporal welfare of the church; as, indeed, they would not be bound to give it to the best at all, but only to one of the approved.

With reference to other things our opinion would be to let things remain as they are; because the common canonical law as it stands only obtains in a very few parts of Europe, and we may say that the church legislation, owing to the circumstances of the times, is in a transition state. When the Vatican Council opens again—and we hope our Holy Father Pope Leo XIII. may soon see fit to reopen it—many changes may take place in the legislation of the church. It will be time enough then for the American Church to adopt such legislation as will be conformable with the common law of the church.

Dr. Smith deserves high praise for his work, and our seminarians and clergy would do well to study his book as eminently useful and important, giving us quite an accurate idea of the common canonical law and of the particular legislation of the American Church.

THE BOOK OF PSALMS. Translated from the Latin Vulgate, etc. London: Burns & Oates. 1878. (For sale by The Catholic Publication Society Co.)

This small and neat edition of the Psalms is most welcome. With all respect we apply to it the words of an old English Catholic poet, Crashaw:

“Lo! here a little volume, but large book, Much larger in itself than in its look.”

Cardinal Manning has written the preface, and the Psalms are enriched throughout with explanatory notes as the church requires for the Scriptures in the vulgar tongue.

The Psalter of David was among all classes of Christians, from the beginning, the favorite expression both of private and public devotions. The apostles themselves (Ephes. v. 19, Coloss. iii. 16) instructed the faithful in the use of these inspired canticles, and we learn from various passages in the writings of Tertullian, Augustine, Jerome, and Ven. Bede particularly, how familiar the early Christians must have been with them until the eighth century, when public or liturgical psalmody was left to the clergy exclusively. We hope that a taste for the reading of the Sacred Scriptures, and the devotional use of the Psalms especially, will increase—we had almost said will _revive_—among the laity.

BOOKS FOR SUMMER READING.

The Catholic Publication Society Company has just published quite a batch of very seasonable and interesting books. For those looking for summer reading nothing better could possibly be recommended than the graphic sketches of Italian life and manners, of scenery and monuments of faith and history, embodied in the charming _Six Sunny Months_, which ran as a serial in this magazine. Its gifted author, the writer of the _House of Yorke_, _Grapes and Thorns_, etc., needs no introduction to our readers. A companion volume to this is the _Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister_, which excited so much interest and no little controversy while appearing in these pages. The pictures of French home-life and scenery, of French and Irish character, of thrilling contemporary events, given in these letters are to our thinking unsurpassed in unaffected grace and naïve simplicity, while the growing sadness of the end lifts what was intended to be the unpublished narrative of unassuming everyday existence to the heights of tragic pathos. _Sir Thomas More_ carries us back into other days and weaves history into a powerful romance. _The Trowel and the Cross_, from the strong pen of Conrad von Bolanden, gives us the German social and political life of the day with a force and a truth and a deep philosophical insight that very few pens can command. Bolanden has Disraeli’s art of throwing the living problems of the day in social and political matters into interesting stories, with the saving gift, that Disraeli has not, of truth and right. Of lighter calibre, yet thoroughly charming and well adapted to while away the lazy summer hours, are _Assunta Howard and Other Stories_, _Alba’s Dream_ (by the author of _Are You My Wife?_) _and Other Stories_, _Stray Leaves from a Passing Life and Other Stories_. Nothing better, in the way of light literature, than any or all of these books issues from the press, and nothing better can be done by Catholics who read at all than to read their own literature and support the efforts of those who devote their gifts exclusively to the Catholic cause.

Pious books especially adapted for this season are the _Hand-book of Instructions and Devotions for the Children of Mary_ (translated from the French by Rev. J. P. O’Connell, D.D.), _The Love of Jesus to Penitents_ (by Cardinal Manning), and _The Young Girl’s Month of June_ (a companion to the _Month of May_, noticed last month, and translated by Miss MacMahon).

THE CATHOLIC WORLD. VOL. XXVII., No. 160.—JULY, 1878.

GERMAN SOCIALISM.

During the last two months our daily journals have contained reports of the doings and the threatenings of numerous mysterious associations in our Western cities. From these reports it is clear that attempts were being made to organize and arm the disaffected against the present constitution of society, and that the purpose of these proposed assaults was utterly destructive, and not at all constructive; everything as it exists was to be swept away, but there was no agreement as to what should take the place of the destroyed system. To the tail of the serpent there seemed to be no head. Each of the leaders in the agitation, when personally questioned by the agents of the daily press, spoke for himself, with more or less obscurity of meaning, but with no recognition or mention of a general organization or a directing head. In St. Louis, Cincinnati, Chicago, Milwaukee, San Francisco, and a score of other cities companies of men are meeting secretly night after night, and are drilling to accustom themselves to the use of arms; when they are not drilling they are listening to speeches in which most inflammatory language is used: in this place a certain list of “demands” is formulated; in another these so-called reforms are scouted as merely palliative in their nature and as unworthy of consideration. But amid this confusion it was seen clearly that the inspiration of the agitation came from German sources, and that the men engaged in fanning the flame of the inchoate conflagration were chiefly of German birth. Here we resist a temptation to diverge into an examination of the causes of the origin and growth of this revolutionary agitation in the United States—a most fecund and interesting theme. But just at this time the life of the Emperor of Germany is attempted by one of his own subjects; and it is made to appear that the would-be assassin made the criminal attempt in the interest of the socialistic agitation in Germany. Each branch of the German socialists, of course, condemns and disowns him; he appears to have been initiated into the secrets of the councils of many of these associations; he certainly was thoroughly impregnated with the theories of the German socialistic philosophers of the most advanced schools. These theories are destructive and not constructive; the man Hoedel had probably convinced himself that it was time to begin this work of destruction, and that it would be well to commence at the root of the tree. So he struck at the emperor—happily with a bad aim.

Here, then, we have a striking illustration of the fruition of German socialism at the very time when we see its initial workings in our own country. This flower of the tree—the man Hoedel—may, however, be said to be a premature and unnatural product of the plant. The educated classes in Germany, we believe, will not think so. If they are blind to the natural tendency of the socialistic theories of their own philosophers, it is not for lack of plain warnings and demonstrations from authorities whom they are accustomed to respect. The anxiety of the government regarding the spread of revolutionary and subversive opinions has long been well known. It is only a short time ago that a thorough review of German socialism was published in the _Deutsche Rundschau_—the “German Contemporary Review”—a monthly magazine of high standing, printed at Berlin. This review extended through two numbers of the magazine, and at once attracted attention by the thoroughness and acumen with which the subject was treated. Its author is Dr. Ludwig Bamberger, a gentleman whose own history is curious. Born in Mayence, in 1822, he studied for the law at Giesen, Heidelberg, and Göttingen, and in 1848-49 he edited the _Mainzer Zeitung_. Carried away by the revolutionary excitement of that period, he took part in the insurrection in the Rheinphalz, and was elected to the Frankfort Parliament. Instead of taking his seat, he wisely went into Switzerland and thence to London, where he devoted himself to the study and practice of banking. In 1851 he founded a banking-house in Rotterdam, and two years afterwards found himself at the head of a large financial institution in Paris, which he conducted with great success for thirteen years. He has written several works of importance; his last production, a volume published in German and in French at Paris, in 1869, on _Count Bismarck_, was not the least notable of his books. This is the author whose dissertation upon German socialism has appeared so opportunely. It is worthy of the most serious attention, and we give the substance of it in the following pages. Dr. Bamberger is not a Catholic. He is decidedly anti-Catholic, as will be seen, and as we allow him to appear; he discusses his subject without the slightest aid from the light which true reason, aided by religion, would throw upon it. But we shall take him on his own ground, and, without attempting to translate him fully, follow with fidelity his line of thought.

I.

The people of Germany, he says, are to-day waging as wordy a war as did the nobility of France a century ago. The men who best know this are those who for a generation have devoted themselves to fomenting the war of those who have nothing against those who possess everything, and who are to-day the leaders of the proletariat. The contrast between the theories and the practice of these men is ludicrous. A small number of gifted, learned, diligent men, they dwell in peace and luxury; they enjoy life like connoisseurs; from these secure and pleasant ports they sail forth to attack the economy by which the machinery of society is kept in motion. In this amusement there seems to be a species of demoniacal pleasure. If they were sincere, the contrast between their habits and their professed aims would be ludicrous. The equalization they call for can only be realized by placing an equal proportion of the means necessary for gaining a livelihood within the reach of all. Every ownership exceeding this minimum would be divided to increase the necessary quota.

Is it objected that this is looking at the question from the darkest side? It is true that great movements should not be measured by those nearest to them. But events can never be separated from those who bring them about. Moreover, we are not now concerned with history but with to-day. In the demonstration of philosophical principles it may be asked whether the teacher is a philosopher in his own life; this curiosity is still less indiscreet when the issue is one of life and death.

The originators of German socialism—Lassalle and his eulogist, Herwegh—were luxurious men of the world, for whose desires the voluptuous apparatus of modern cities alone sufficed. Their successors are like unto them. To meet them is to scoff at the idea that these men should have described, as participants, the grim battle for existence fought by the common people. An ingenious psychological explanation is offered for them. The conjunction of bodily comfort with intellectual distinction which they enjoy causes them to shudder at the thought of a life hard, painful, and colorless. Their sympathy to this extent may be genuine; but so much the greater is the hypocrisy of their battle-cry for a universal economy whose cardinal principle shall be the equal abnegation of all.

These men are not Catilinical but Herostratic. We can have some sympathy with the man who, thrown out of his path, angry with the whole world on account of his evil fortune, seeks for a new order of things. But these leaders, from Marx to Bakumin, from the caustic diatribe of the poisoned pen to the torch steeped in petroleum, exclaim: “For the world as it is we care not! If we can proclaim our contempt for it by destroying it, let it perish!” This is the cry that has been growing louder for thirty years—from the date of the appearance of the first socialistic articles in the _Cologne Zeitung_ to the present moment.

The public of to-day know the high-priests of socialism only from the thick books in which their solemn declarations are spread out, and from the interpretations of these given at working-men’s congresses. The personal motives from which the whole movement sprang are forgotten. Carl Marx, when he gazes over from his London cottage upon the new German Empire, can exclaim with pride that after thirty years his seed has brought forth abundantly. Whoever wishes to see this sower more closely and in his true character need only read Carl Vogt’s pamphlet, _Life of Fugitives in London_. Here are the revelations not of an opponent but an adherent of the cause and an admirer of Marx, but a disillusionized admirer. He sees that the meanest of tricks were practised by Marx and his _entourage_ in the meanest manner; and that the desire for power is as strong among these levellers as it is in the court of a king. Here, for instance, are extracts from Carl Vogt’s pamphlet:

“In the end it is all the same whether this contemptible Europe falls—an event that must presently occur without the revolution. They (Carl Marx and his Janissaries) care nothing for the German common people. They desire only to remain eternally in the opposition, without which the revolution would go to sleep.... We drank first porter, then claret, then red Bordeaux, then champagne. After the red wine Marx was quite drunk. This was very desirable, for he became more open-hearted. I heard much that otherwise would have been concealed. But he kept up the conversation to the end; he impressed me as a man of singular mental superiority and of remarkable personality. Had he as much heart as mind, as much love as hatred, I would go through the fire for him. I am sorry for our cause that he does not possess a noble heart. His ambition has eaten up all the good qualities in him. He laughs over the fools who repeat his proletariat catechism, as well as over communists à la Willich or the _bourgeoisie_. He cares only for the aristocrats, purely and consciously so. To drive them from power he employs a force that he finds only in the proletariat, and for that reason has adapted his system to it.”

So much for Marx. The true portraiture of Lassalle would be as amusing. But the contrast between the living and the preaching, between the private mode of thought and the public utterances of the German upper and middle classes generally, is equally observable. And in this respect they remind one of the marquises and viscounts of the eighteenth century. They do not dance on the volcano, but gather the fuel for the pile on which they themselves are to be consumed; and the cry _Sancta simplicitas!_ resounds, not sympathetically from the mouth of the victim, but mockingly from the throat of the executioner. The fact that the internationalists, far away from German shores, send mandates from beneath the shelter of their English homes for the destruction of our civil comity, would give us little cause for alarm, if men unwillingly united, and doubly important by their positions and their number, were not seeking to accomplish this work within our own walls. The fruits of their activity are observable everywhere.

Many will answer: In these symptoms appears the development of a healthy process, similar to the unconscious self-dissolution of the French aristocracy which brought about the revolution and thus conferred the greatest benefit upon posterity. So it is now the duty of the people—“the third class”—to make room for its legitimate successor, “the fourth class.” Whether it was fortunate for the world that the French Revolution was accomplished we shall not say. There is, however, not a single analogous characteristic between the epoch of that revolution and the present time.

One of the most absurd weaknesses of our time is that it hurries on with formulas of a dialectic development, and transforms them into the business of life before they are properly digested. What is more ludicrous than the introduction of parliamentary systems into countries semi-barbarous? The attempt to cure Russia, Turkey, Roumania, and Egypt with parliamentary constitutions reminds us of the peasant who, when the doctor has prescribed a medicine for him, employs the same for his wife and child in every disease. He falls into the same error who fancies that the German people have arrived at that stage of their development when, like the French nobility of the eighteenth century, they should betake themselves with a good grace out of the world. The very contrary is the case. Never have extremes met more closely than in the common attack of reaction and socialism against the German people. While the temperate socialistic ideal has for its end the revival of the state of society during the middle ages, the internationalists aim at the dissolution of all that has been gained since our ancestors were barbarians. There is a lower depth yet, for a school exists which, going only a step farther, calls itself “anarchist.”[92]

The support given the socialists by the agrarians and the ultramontanes is more than an ordinary political coalition. Their sympathy reposes on inward concurrence; and for Germany it is especially dangerous, because their attacks are directed against a people neither matured nor secured. _Germany is almost wholly wanting in everything needful for the formation of a united, intelligent, and independent body politic._ The strong material groundwork is yet wanting. The complaints made against our industrial products are not groundless. Nor can they be ascribed to the passing influence of commercial folly which characterized the period immediately following the war. We have to do with evils as old as the century. Improvement of workmanship, increase of general prosperity, and elevation of political prestige bear the closest relationship to each other. The intoxication of victory led to a foolish application of the booty extorted from France. Those who undertook the solution of this stupendous financial problem approached it with too small a measure of its importance. But everywhere we meet with the same technical inadequacy in Germany. Earnest work alone in domestic as well as public economy can lead us to the firm establishment of a healthy, civilized state. Only fools can propose to dispense with the forms requisite for the collection of strength which has made possible the stage of culture we now are in, and only sophists can attempt to establish this power without capital, and capital without property. But instead of allowing the German people to attain its development, the inimical elements are now all pouncing upon it, and telling it that it has outlived itself and is ready for dissolution.

In England, France, and Italy there is an aristocracy with strong self-respect and conservative principles—an erudite community, filled with the quiet consciousness of its intellectual superiority. But these classes do not separate the task of their self-preservation from that of the preservation of the people. There he who seeks to bring forward particular ideas endeavors to carry them into the great community of the people.

There are eccentric persons everywhere; but only in Germany exist entire groups of aristocratic, learned, and religious men who make war upon the people their business. Aristocrats who take the field against capital, professors who teach that the road to wealth leads to prison, bishops who conspire with demagogues, are to be found only in Germany. First one and then another of these groups wish to make _experimentum in anima vili_ with the people. Its pains give them no care—nay, in some cases secret joy; all are deluded by the idea that they can abuse it without imperilling their own safety.... The nation, as a whole, does not feel responsible for its own support. It still believes that the supreme power, reposing upon itself, would take care to preserve order. For this reason it does not permit any interference with attacks against itself,[93] and sometimes takes pleasure in joining in the sport.

The ruling class is scarcely wiser. Its nerves are somewhat more susceptible; but as for a true insight into the state of affairs it is as much in the dark as the governed. It suspects, in small degree, the extreme danger that threatens, but it is at sea concerning the origin and nature of the danger. If alarmed by a fresh incident, it thinks that more stringent laws are all that is needed,[94] or the revival of a buried belief.

It is an error to measure Germany by English or French ideas. Here immature conditions have penetrated over-ripe ideals. The lesson of the war of classes has, with us, fallen on a soil which for pernicious growth is better adapted than that of any country in the world, Russia excepted. The conjunction of our strongly-developed intellectual life with our crude and immature political and social systems has generated an atmosphere in which the poisoned germs of these seeds yielded fruit with unparalleled rapidity and plenty.

Germany has become the special field of this war of classes, because she is a country divided into many classes. Here every individual holds to his own claims or promulgates new ones; and no one feels himself united with the whole. No group hesitates to assail the foundations of society, if anything dissatisfies them. Our class strifes are kindled and fomented from all sides—from above as well as from below. No class knows for whom it is really working. Only the professional agitators know it; these are careful not to divulge the secret, and strive to make it appear that they do not suspect the connection between their conscious conspiracy and the unconscious conspiracies of all the other parties. They know that their principal strength lies in this quiet coalition.

In this unconscious raving against ourselves lies our chief danger. This assertion applies not only to the _bourgeoisie_ but to all classes up to the highest. All seem to be living in blessed ignorance of the real drift of affairs. Their efforts are always futile; they always take hold of their subject at the wrong end. Let us relate a parliamentary incident. The question of the best method of opposing the socialistic movement was recently debated in the Reichstag.[95] A decree forbidding attacks in the press upon the family, property, and religion was introduced. The government attached the greatest importance to the passage of this decree. It was to be the bulwark of existing institutions. The Prussian Minister of the Interior, Count von Eulenburg, made his first appearance in the Reichstag to advocate this measure. The minister betrayed his fear that the Parliament would not consent to increase the restrictions upon the press by reason of the ignorance of members concerning the intrigues and dogmas of the social democrats. His lively and exhaustive delineation of these dangers bore the stamp of a work ordered for the purpose by the department to which he belonged, which had supplied him with the necessary data for the instruction of the blind or unsuspecting parliamentarians. So far all was well. But when members arose, and, without contesting the reality of the danger, reminded the minister that the enemy in his own camp was the most dangerous; that the pet decree would find no favor with these arch-conspirators; that it would merely divert the danger from its least perilous direction; in short, that socialism had penetrated and found a home in conservative and governmental circles—then it became evident that “the world was nailed up before the eyes of the government.” They had no suspicion of what was really going on around them; the minister had no real knowledge of what he wished to explain. He felt harshly assailed, and disappeared; on the Right of the chamber there was confusion; as a closing scene Monfang and Bebel swore with touching unanimity that they did not know each other. Is anyone surprised to find the most select audience in Germany so unprepared, so ignorant of the real state of affairs? It is always a mistake to presuppose too much wisdom. A little keener scent of the secret forces that serve the socialistic propaganda has been gained by Prince Bismarck; but this is due to the fact that the intrigues directed against his person did not hesitate to employ socialistic partisans and catch-words. In this way the existence of this unnatural combination was forced upon his notice. Under other circumstances it was not to be expected of him that he should trouble himself about socialism. His method is to employ every element of power to his advantage according to circumstances, and to spare every one that does not thrust itself with hostile intent across his path.

“It is fortunate for us that a few social democrats have taken service in the camp of the ultramontanes and junkers, and thereby called attention to the consanguinity of their beautiful souls.”[96]

II.

Germany is the only great country in which exists a social-democratic party—using the word party in the sense of a compact political union which promulgates as its official platform the determination to secure by whatever means domination over the state and society. Even in the much-agitated kingdom of Denmark socialism has not yet attained parliamentary recognition. In England the mass of laborers organized for common purposes is disproportionately larger than in Germany, and all politicians there discuss the problems proposed by the workmen. The programme of a state reposing on a communistic groundwork, built upon the ruins of the present system, there is advocated but by few. With us this is the only solution sought by the entire social democracy; of late it has become the official profession of faith of the whole body.

In England the dissension is confined to the employer and the employed. The one tries to secure the best terms from the other. Political objects confine themselves within limits which, compared with the professed aims of the German social democrats, are very narrow. Extension of the suffrage, limitation of the labor of women and children, free education—these are demands which do not imperil the foundations of society.

In France the reaction from the _Commune_ has swept away all tangible remains of the social-democratic party. France has fought against communism in the streets. No peaceful overtures have been made to socialism, as in Germany. With us it is recognized as a political organization representing a particular line of thought. This constitutes its great strength, and all that strengthens it weakens us. In Germany almost all the reactionary parties strive to obtain the support of the social democrats. The Protestant hypocrite, the Catholic clergy, the combination of protectionists and agrarians, offer their hands to the social democrats in solemn pledges of brotherhood.[97] Thiers, in his political will, bequeathed the _Commune_ to us. France, he said, has overcome this misery; in her place Germany must carry the cross. The old man knew what he was talking about. When with Bismarck at Versailles he said his greatest fear was of the _coquins_ of Paris. After him came Jules Favre, who opposed the disarming of the national guard, and sublimely exclaimed: “There is no mob in Paris!” We have our Favres, who pretend to be in love with all the world. _Woe unto us if we should be placed on trial!_ The elevation of the social democracy to a recognized power dates from the creation of the German Empire. The causes were many; the decisive one was universal suffrage. This is made the scape-goat of many sins—most unjustly. The harm it carries in its train does not lie in the fact that it permits the expression of the opinions of all classes. On the contrary, this is a gain. It has only worked badly because it appeared as a new, powerful incentive to greater activity to those into whose heads confused notions are sought to be instilled. While the new elective law brought to its support a part of the population which had until then not possessed the right of suffrage, it compelled those desirous of gain to devote themselves mainly to this fresh ground.

To beget dissatisfaction, vague desires, and unlimited hopes was very easy here. Those who expected to gain the advantage of leadership from it determined quickly to take possession of this inviting land.

The regular organization of the socialistic party dates only from 1867. A careful dissemination of ideas had first been accomplished. The new constituencies had been imbued with the notions of the propaganda, and the way to obtain their votes was to advocate these notions. “If you wish to be elected to the Reichstag, apply yourself with all energy to the new voters,” was the _mot d’ordre_. The sentiment of hatred against property-owners, and hunger for the distribution of estates, now became merchantable commodities. Thus the election of a new German Reichstag offered a premium for the propagation of socialistic ideas. The leaders of the combination took immediate advantage of this. The necessary freedom accompanying the election cleared the road of a mass of police and legal obstacles. The rostrum of the Reichstag is of immense use. Those elected attain greater respect both in and outside their party. We should never have heard of the most renowned socialists—of Bebel or Liebknecht, of Most or Hasselmann—if a nomination to the Reichstag had not put them in a position of importance. Besides, the leaders learn much in Parliament, and take advantage of the opportunities given them. There is, for instance, no doubt that the introduction of free passage by railroads for the benefit of members of the Reichstag will be successfully employed for the dissemination of socialistic teachings, and perhaps gain new members of like tendencies. _Per diems_ (Tagegelder) would of course prove even more valuable. The socialistic organization at present pays each of its representatives nine marks per day during his stay in Berlin. If they were paid by the state the saving to the socialistic treasury would be thirty thousand marks; and this increase of the sinews of war would result, at the next election, in new accessions of strength.

There are only a dozen socialists in the Reichstag, but they rely upon the support given by the divisions of the other parties; and this is a peculiarity which runs through our whole national character. Every person pursues his own private and local ends, and there is no united feeling. It is for this reason that the socialists and ultramontanes make such rapid headway. Through the narrow-minded system of electing men to the Reichstag as a reward for local services, men of great talent are often neglected. The Reichstag has three hundred and ninety-seven members, among them twelve socialists. Deducting the latter, there are altogether only seven districts which are represented by deputies who are not natives of the places from which they were returned.

But how is this picture changed as soon as we look upon the social democrats! Here national unity is the rule. Of the twelve elected, eight are without any local relation to their districts. Even with the other four birth, representation, and residence do not go hand-in-hand. Bebel, though residing in Saxony, is a native of Rhenish Prussia; Fritzsche is a native of Saxony, but lives in Berlin; Motteler lives in Saxony, but is a native of the Palatinate. (These three were elected in Saxony.) The only one who falls within the general rule is Rittinghausen, who represents Solingen.

The kingdom of Saxony, the hot-bed of particularism, is the rendezvous of the whole German social democracy. Auer, Kapell, Bracke, Liebknecht, Most, and Demmler were returned from that kingdom. The same is true of Schleswig-Holstein; and if it were an independent duchy instead of a Prussian province, it would probably have sent three social democrats into the Reichstag.

The German people have not attained a degree of development sufficient to permit of their coping successfully with the political and social problems spread before them. Meanwhile socialism is widening its sway. Whither it tends we shall proceed to show.

III.

In ten years the German social-democratic party has sprung into importance. In the American Congress no representative of the social democracy is yet seated. In the French Assembly no member would subscribe to the confession of faith of the German socialists. In the English House of Commons there are two working-class members—Burt and Macdonald—but neither have ever thought of the abolition of private industry, the organization of the proletariat with state capital, or the destruction of private property. In Denmark no socialist has yet gained an entrance into Parliament. The German nation alone is represented by men who have declared war against our whole political and social economy. There are twelve of them. Ever since a German Reichstag has existed they have increased. In 1867 two of them entered the constituent Reichstag; in 1868 five entered the North German Reichstag; in 1871 two entered the first German Reichstag; in 1874 nine entered the second German Reichstag; in 1877 twelve entered the present Parliament. To understand these figures it must be noticed that South Germany was without influence in this regular increase, for the districts beyond the line of the Main have not as yet returned one social democrat; the increase occurred wholly on the old ground. The figures speak still more convincingly when we go from the elected to the electors. In the year 1874 only 350,000 votes were cast in favor of the social democracy; in the year 1877 they received 485,000—an increase of well-nigh forty per cent. The whole number of electors who cast valid votes in 1877 was 5,535,000. Of this total 3,600,000 votes were cast for the successful candidates. The last number divided by 397 (the number of members) gives us the average of the number of voters which go to a representative, 9,000. The same process applied to the twelve social-democratic representatives, and the 111,000 votes which are united upon them, makes the proportion remain the same: each one elected represents 9,200 votes.

A different picture is presented if we regard the votes lost by scattering. The 3,600,000 successful voters are in the ratio of 67 per cent. of the total number of voters. This repeats itself if we apply the investigation to the several parties. The total of votes for the national-liberal party was 1,594,000. The number of votes represented in the Reichstag of this persuasion is 1,082,000—that is, a little more than 67 per cent. of those 1,594,000. By comparing with this the corresponding proportion between the number of social-democratic votes and the number which obtained representation, we find that this party has not attained to an equal degree of concentration in its elective elements. Against 485,000 votes cast we find here only 111,000 at the back of successful deputies—_i.e._, only 23 per cent. of the voters have effected representation. If the general proportion had gained expression here, the number of social-democratic deputies would be thirty-two, or almost as many as the members of the German liberal party. Only for this reason, that 77 per cent. of these votes were scattered, whereas by the general rule only 33 per cent. are scattered, have we escaped the fate of giving the world, in tangible figures, an idea of the intensity of the disease which is threatening our nation. But if for the present we remain safe from such a humiliation, it is none the less true that our political thinking and feeling are already as strongly affected as these figures attest. There may not as yet be any immediate danger from the action of the Reichstag. But in the very fact which is as yet paralyzing the effectiveness of the socialistic elective power lies the greatest danger. For this scattering of votes is an omen of a distribution of advance posts throughout the whole empire, which, if particular circumstances favor it, will suddenly gain in strength, and, joining hands, can obtain control of the country. Had we introduced a method of minority representation into the elective law, the socialistic faction would already be on an equal footing with the other parties. If we had the French method, by which several deputies in large districts are elected on one list, we would, perhaps, already number two dozen social-democratic members in the Reichstag.

The socialistic party may justly boast that it is stronger than it appears to be by its representation in the Reichstag, and that it may reasonably hope for a speedy development of its parliamentary power. But even to-day it is strong. The twelve socialistic members may possibly hold the balance of power. A closer inspection of the election returns shows that nearly one-half of the voters in 1877 were hostile to the development of the German Empire on its present basis. Poles, Welfs, Swabian democrats, protesters from Alsace, social democrats, added to the ultramontanes who serve them as a firm nucleus, bring the sum of the combination up to 2,395,000 voters out of 5,535,000. An increase of but three or four hundred thousand votes would deliver the empire into the hands of its foes. Besides, circumstances favor the socialists. In large cities like Berlin, Hamburg, Breslau, Eberfeld, Bremen, and Lübeck a strong working-class element is easily concentrated. Seven of the twelve socialist members of the Reichstag were elected in Saxony. But wherever the local mind has had a definite and fixed idea socialism has made no progress. It is thus in the Catholic portions of Bavaria and in Alsace-Lorraine. In other quarters, where opinions are more divided, the Catholics form coalitions with the socialists. In France a large class of property-owners incline to Catholicism, because they believe that through it they can save the state and society. In Germany Catholicism throws itself into the arms of inimical elements, in order to strengthen itself.

The official reports of the annual congress of the socialists are highly instructive. The _Protocols of the Socialistic Congresses_ are issued at Hamburg, “printed and published by the brotherhood’s book-printing establishment.” For twenty-five cents as much instruction may be gleaned from them as in the whole mass of socialistic literature. Until recently the socialists were divided into two factions, each represented by a journal which attacked the other violently. But in 1875 they settled their differences, and united in issuing a paper called _Forwaerts_, or “Progress.” This is the official organ; but besides it there are forty-one socialistic journals in Germany, one of them an illustrated paper, _The New World_; and fourteen industrial journals, more or less imbued with the spirit of socialism. Of these forty-one organs of the social democracy thirteen appear daily, thirteen tri-weekly, three bi-weekly, and eleven weekly. Twenty-five of them are printed in offices belonging to the brotherhood. Eighteen of these journals have had their birth within the last year. “The rapid augmentation of our press,” says the report of the last congress, “is enormous, not only in the number of journals but in the number of subscribers.”

Germany is the breeding-house for the representation and distribution of socialistic teachings in the rest of the world; it is the apostolic seat of the new faith, whence missionaries are sent to all lands, preaching in all tongues. _Wherever in Europe or America a communistic congress or insurrection is to be noted, Germans are at its head, or exercise control._ At the congresses of the International, held since 1866 in Geneva, the Hague, and Brussels, Germans have always taken the front seats. The English communists were represented in Geneva in 1873 by the tailor Eccarius, a German Swiss, with whom, in truth, the congress of English workmen which met at Sheffield in 1874 wished to have nothing to do.[98] Next to Eccarius, the Germans Johann, Philip, Becker, and Amandus were especially prominent at Geneva. At the Congress of the International at the Hague in 1872 Carl Marx presided in person. This German ascendency is seen also in America.

Here Dr. Bamberger enters into a long description of our railway strike last summer, tracing its origin to German influences. The beginning of all socialistic combinations in America, he says, can be traced to German origin. The “International Working Confederation” of 1867 was founded by German emissaries from Marx’s mother-lodge, and Chicago was its headquarters. The point is made that at the meeting in New York on the 25th of July last Germans were prominent; at a similar meeting in St. Louis, suppressed by the police, among the arrested leaders were Germans, one of whom on the 26th of July, when the mob for a moment seemed victorious, had sent this despatch to Leipzig: “St. Louis, a city of three hundred thousand souls, is in our power.”

In Switzerland, Dr. Bamberger goes on to say, the international element is strongest where the German influence is greatest—in Zurich. The intellectual head of the whole international propaganda is the German Carl Marx, whose first lieutenant is the German Friedrich Engels. Marx framed the foundation of the International. The congress of the sect at the Hague in 1872 was his work. Among the sixty-five members of that body twenty-five were Germans; New York and Zurich were there represented by Germans.

The French socialism which ruled the field from 1830 to 1850 has been laid aside and forgotten. But the German socialism of to-day has the French system for its foundation. To St. Simon and Fourier, to Cabet and Considérant, however, reference is no longer made.

Louis Blanc’s “organization of labor” has been scientifically, and even piously, absorbed into “systematic production.” Proudhon has long been branded as a “miserable _bourgeois_” while the most devout of German Protestants, Pastor Todt, does not hesitate to exclaim in his latest organ: “The war of competition (Concurrenzkampf) today is nothing but a system of expropriations, shrouded in illusions with regard to property” (Eigenthumsillusionen). _“La propriété c’est le vol._” The pastor says the same thing, only in other words.

The sum total of the theories in all their gradations, from the formulating of the brutal war of classes to the most honey-toned appeal to the duties of men and Christians, to-day bears the predominating stamp of German invention. No country in the world can point to so extensive an existence of learned and unlearned literature in this province. Especially in the province of learned socialistic theories France and England stand far behind us. Socialism in Italy is confined to a small number of younger _savants_, who understand German, and acknowledge themselves pupils of our masters. The most prominent trait of the national character of German socialism is the trace of scientific coloring which is retained in the rudest revolutionary circles. Scientific epicures like Marx and Lassalle have written the gospels of the new brotherhood of working-men; professors and philosophically learned men like Schaeffle and Adolph Wagner, Rodbertus, Duehring, and Lange, have assorted them canonically; and even with the smell of powder and petroleum emitted by the congresses of socialists, composed mainly of working-men, is mingled something of the delicate perfume of quintessent abstraction. Herr Liebknecht, a man of learning, is the real _spiritus rector_ of the whole brotherhood, and it was his energy which finally triumphed over the different sects of the party and consummated the difficult work of consolidation.

Perhaps there is no man in or out of Germany better versed in the literature and history of socialism than this vaunter of the praises of the Commune. Has not this something attractive besides so much that is repulsive? Is it not touching to hear that the same Herr Liebknecht who in the tribune of the Reichstag agitates the nerves of his colleagues to excess by his strongly-spiced speeches, honors their library continually by collections of interesting works from the province of his “science”? and that, according to competent evidence, the social-democratic deputies are not only the most industrious readers of this library, but distinguish themselves by a prompt return and respectful treatment of the books? We could even find a touching symptom in the comical appearance of the deputy and former book-binder, Most, who is vieing with Prof. Mommsen for the palm in the investigation of Roman history. As if there was nothing more important to do than to allow one’s self to be touched! In fact, this hobnobbing with science is resorted to for the purpose of misleading the noblest tendencies of the German character. Something further is to be noted here: nothing less than the organic connection between the best and the worst which is in us. Not for nothing has Marx furnished with a highly-learned scaffolding his international platform which appeals to “the proletarians of all lands.” Lassalle is prouder of nothing than that, after the appearance of his books on _Herakleitos_ and _The System of Acquired Rights_, Humboldt and Boeckh should have counted him as their equal.

The militant social democracy well understand how to keep up this delusion. At their last congress it was proposed to issue in Berlin, bi-monthly, “a scientific review in an appropriate form.” The scientific contributors to the _Forwaerts_, the central organ of the sect, had overburdened it; if these had a journal to themselves the _Forwaerts_ could devote more space to its work of agitation. One of the delegates, Herr Geib, said that by this step an alienation between science and the workmen would not be caused, as some feared; and to anticipate the review he recommended a half-monthly scientific supplement to the _Forwaerts_ gratis. Another delegate said that “the more political life stepped into the foreground, the farther did the scientific side of life recede, unless official efforts were made to promote it. It was necessary that this should be cared for, in order to prevent the levelling of the party.” The proposition was adopted, and the scientific review, _The Future_, has appeared regularly since October last in the “appropriate form” of a red-covered magazine.

The commanders of the socialistic army are wise in thus enlisting scientific officers on their general staff. They gain by this, in literary circles, the position of “the best-favored nation.” In the vast number of publications lately issued on “the social question” we seldom meet one which, even if inspired with the utmost disfavor for the new dogma, does not approach it with respectful and ludicrous timidity. The social democracy has for its first article of faith open hostility to all other parties; their extinction is its aim. But almost all confutations, on the other hand, strike the key-note of a defender who is only pleading for milder conditions. By aid of the “scientific” coloring the social democracy has moved into a position to which every assailant makes an obeisance before firing. Through the anti-socialistic literature runs a tone of humble apology that seems to say: “Excuse us that we belong to the contemptible class of the _bourgeoisie_, and believe our promise of future reform.” As with the cause, so do we approach the individuals with uncovered head. All presentations of the life and teaching of Lassalle accept the Titan’s diploma which he has given himself. If unbelievers and half-believers do this, how natural that the social democracy has decreed him Godlike honors after his demise! If we, however, look with impartial eye into the biographic material which is available to us, we are struck by the characteristic trait of grotesque mockery overshadowing all. Were it not sinful to recount the names of Germany’s great men—those who still live as well as those who have left us—in one breath with the name of this talented agitator, we might be tempted to draw a parallel between the letters which we possess of the former and those which the Lassalle literature has brought to light. An instructive antithesis, forsooth: the simple, human self-sacrifice, thought, and feeling of truly great souls, and the hollow pretensions of a proletariat rescuer, who lifts his martyrdoms into the skies, in order to step down from them into perfumed boudoirs! This man writes to young women that he was born to wage a contest with the world, and in the same text explains to them that never had a woman resisted him, but he had never yet done homage; for him it was only to accept, not to give. How modest, in comparison with this, does the address sound with which Saint-Simon had himself awakened every morning: “_Levez-vous, Monsieur le Comte, vous avez de grandes choses à faire._”

IV.

Fallacious as it might be to judge of the effective socialistic strength in time of war from the number of votes it controls in time of peace, it remains true that the growth of these numbers points to a change in the sentiments of the voters. There is something more at the disposal of the leaders than a mass accidentally thrown into their hands. We must guard against too trivial an appraisement of human appearances, especially in Germany, where thought enlarges its sway more than in any other land. Ideals, real or false, cannot become powerful with us without going through the earnest-thinking process of the nation. The socialistic leaders have fully recognized and acted on the principle that he who wishes to have an interest in. the future must first do his share for science. The German mind being thus constituted, we must, to explain the spread of socialism, find the fountains of its source. This is easy. The professors of political economy in our high-schools at the beginning of this century turned their attention to the socialistic problem. The university professors, even, have lately declared that they accept the socialistic stand-point _sans phrase_. The word expressing the nature of the whole movement would not have gained an introduction into the language had not the characteristic symptoms demanded an expression. The phrase “platform socialism” is not permitted to be left out of any German dictionary. The German _Socialistes de la chaire_ are as familiar to French writers as the _Socialisti della Cattedra_ are to the Italians. All manner of shades of opinion have been developed from this academic socialism. But a series of stereotyped formulas have come into existence with which every one, in the press and on the platform, plays; as, for instance, that the inequality of property is greater now than formerly; that the masses are more unhappy; that wealth remains confined to the few and flows only to them; that capital rules supreme over labor and prescribes its laws. From these premises, which are all false, the conclusion is drawn that the present social system must be rejected and replaced by another; that it was the government’s business to do this; and that “science” should furnish a plan for a righteous economy, and a guardian to regulate the same for all time to come. “Science” did not wait for a second invitation. Young souls devoted themselves to the projection of plans for the salvation of society; systems were invented for the organization of working-men into historical and organic groups, in order to enable them to withstand capital; others discovered methods of taxation by which the inequalities of ownership could be neutralized. He who had too much, in the opinion of “science,” was to be deprived of it, and it was to be given to him who had too little; persons were to be prevented from getting rich by ingenious plans for equalizing prices. “Permissible luxury” was divided from prohibited enjoyments; “science” undertook to prescribe the limits of individual action.

Former times offered stronger contrasts, perhaps, of luxury and misery. But the complaint now is that some persons have by certain manipulations become rapidly rich, and have made a “loud” use of their wealth. But are the hereditary ownerships of nobles or of extensive mercantile houses more sacred than the newly-won riches of stock speculators? Does the ancient castle with its solemn walls fit better into the new system than the luxurious villa of the parvenu? Is one’s desire for equality less offended by the velvet train which a page bears behind a duchess than by the satin skirt which the wife of a contractor draws behind her in the dust of the promenade? The _bourgeoise_ spirit has nothing in common with the principles of socialism, nor with the sentiments of the proletariat. But the fountain of civil dissatisfaction has fed the torrent of socialistic agitation. Many a man, ruined by gambling, becomes a convert to the idea of a more just division of property; many, from grief over unlucky stock speculations, have written essays on the immorality of the acquisition of capital.

Why has German science, justly renowned for its exactness, and often accused because of its heaviness, hurled itself into this whirlpool, in order to rise again, dripping with foul water, and with its hands full of prospectuses for the eternal freeing of the world from evil? Well, one can have too much of a good thing. The scientific spirit can be driven to excess. Science has done so much for us that it was easy to believe that it could accomplish everything. Science and its disciples suddenly proposed to solve all the problems of life; and every one with a project was compelled to give out his method for science to decide upon. Your German, as, a rule, has more adaptability for theoretical learning than for practical action. Into his head everything penetrates, and in his head he accomplishes everything. Other people do much with their five senses and ten fingers without their minds giving much attention to it. We have more learning than action; more criticism than taste; we do better when we work with circumspection than when we attempt to improvise. When, therefore, in the space of a few years, we had conquered two powerful states in war and in diplomacy, and the world asked whence we had taken the means, we reflected upon the secret of our success, and believed that we had found the correct answer in this: “The school-teacher has won the battle of Sadowa!” In all probability it was a school teacher who invented this saying, for _fecit cui prodest_. Already has Lasker warned us of the folly of this dictum. Nothing can be less acquired in school than genius, and the decisive turn toward greatness which Germany has accomplished was given by the genius of the great men who in the right moment took its destiny into their hands. Statesmanship and war are two arts, not two sciences. To trace the secret of the power of the commander is not vouchsafed us; but as regards the political side of the question, it is certain that no German was ever less of a pedagogue than the imperial chancellor.

We might almost ask how a man who is so exactly the opposite of a school-teacher could be born in Germany. Germany has at length broken through the chain which so long held it prostrate, just because it found a statesman who was so entirely differently constituted from all the rest. For those who desire to make nature and destiny democratic by teaching that no one is irreplaceable this fact is unwelcome; but nothing is more aristocratic than nature and destiny.

But as the schoolmaster carried off and appropriated the laurels of 1866, these of 1870 were awarded to him without question; and when, in the German Empire which he was supposed to have founded, a breach showed itself here and there, who should be called upon to fill it but he? The question was seriously proposed whether society should not be reconstructed from the core. And the schoolmaster undertook to reply.

The turn which public life has thereby taken is of a very dangerous character. If we do not soon turn away from this overrating of the school we shall destroy the whole of German life. By imposing upon science tasks that do not belong to her we would destroy life through science, and science through life, and that which was Germany’s pride and safeguard, her learning and knowledge, would become a burden and a curse.

Science and life have constantly to learn from each other. In an exchange of their riches is to be found their salvation, not in the domination of the one over the other. The much-praised student-life itself does its part in imbuing the student with the inclination for an isolated existence. Many remain students all their lives, and a love for the practical tasks of life is not thereby fostered. The consciousness of high scientific attainments gives a degree of self-confidence which is easily carried too far when applied to worldly affairs. To this temptation more than one succumbed when he was told that it was his task to reconstruct the social structure. The cry was that the whole existing order of things had become “bankrupt.” By what rules, then, was the new order to be established? These were sought and ranged, as the expression went, in a scientific way. The first of these rules is: “The weak person must be protected against the strong.” How much can be brought under this formula! We can pledge ourselves with its aid to work out every communistic programme to the smallest details. If we only once lose the sense of discrimination between theoretical knowledge and practice, no limit can be placed upon self-confidence. Science applied to dogs and frogs is one thing, but it would not do to apply the same rules to men. For the communists to assume for their method of regulating society by scientific means the title of a historical school is indeed a piece of communism!

How was it possible that a number of scholars, to whom no one can deny ability and purity of intentions, could permit themselves to be led on to such extravagances? The overrated conception of the avocation of the teacher is not sufficient to explain this. Another exaggeration had to combine with this: the exaggerated conception of the avocation of the state. Teaching was to prescribe all, the state to execute all.

In regard to the state we have fallen from one extreme to the other. After it had sunk to the level of a caricature during our political degeneracy, the recognition of its high vocation overcame us, and we made an omniscient and omnipotent deity of it. When we say “state” philosophy takes a hand in the matter, and immediately the conception of absoluteness and divinity is apparent—the “state” becomes a god in whom we can place unlimited confidence and from whom we can expect everything. The truth that after all the “state” is only a term for a body of individual ministers or legislators has been forgotten. We make a secret idol of the state. To look behind the curtain is forbidden. But the less the state benefits one, just so much the more does he expect and demand from it. He beats his idol in order to compel it to work miracles. As Herbert Spencer says, it is the fashion to scold the government in one breath for its awkwardness in the most trifling matters, and in the next to demand from it the solution of the most difficult problems. Statecraft, at its best, is only the work of individuals; it must lose in fineness in proportion to the number of those who participate in it. There is a thousand times more wisdom in hero-worship than in the adoration of the intangible collective being to which, under the name of the state, we do divine honors only because we cannot see it. A parliament can be observed at its work; even ministers appear in flesh and blood as parliaments do. But of a sudden parliaments and ministers end their work; the curtain falls; second act: the state! It is divine!

Curiously enough this adhesion to the collective system coincides with the time of the disappointment over this system. For the financial grief of the last few years is nothing but sorrow for the losses to which stock-companies have led. If the anonymous corporation could puzzle so many heads, it is due to the fatal charm which the apparatus of the collective system exercises. Whenever a man withdraws from the eyes of men; where in place of the individual a corporation acts, under whose name the individual is lost to view, there a curtain is drawn which excites the fancy of those without. Even those who partake of the labor inside the curtain are enshrouded by the clouds of anonymousness, and believe more in themselves as a part of the abstract whole than they would believe in themselves as individuals.

Nothing is more calculated to make intelligible the mixture of deceiving elements which lie latent in abstract authorities than the famous sixth great power, the press. How much better were it for that other abstraction, “public opinion,” if it kept in mind that it is only a man (and often what a man!) that stands behind the thought! It has been attempted to remove this cloud, and to force men to see, by compelling every one to sign his articles with his own name. But this was of no avail. The law never was enforced in its true sense. Public opinion as an abstraction feels the need of intercourse with something of a kindred nature far too deeply to be willing to miss an abstraction representing that opinion in the form of an anonymous press. It is the same with anonymous business corporations as with the press. All efforts have failed to effect a reform in the laws relative to stock-gambling by means of which the personal responsibility of the board of control of an anonymous corporation could be brought home to individuals. A piece of fiction will and must always remain here. If the lawmaker were to take upon himself the task of changing this fiction into reality the result would be the same as with the press. Those associations are the best which are most tyrannically administered, and in which the director has the least respect for his executive committee. _Tant vaut l’homme tant vaut la chose!_ There will be no relief until the stockholder knows that in entering a company he sacrifices a part of his motive for self-sustentation.[99]

V.

Science is not all in all. To the department of the “highest powers” reason also belongs. Reason must decide where the domain of science begins and ends. When science, because it has studied history, feels called upon to make history; when, because it observes developments, it believes itself bound to work out plans of development for the future; when it sends out its champions into political assemblies—why, then it is out of its own sphere.

In a country which, more than all others, lives on “the milk of the mind,” the pest of socialistic nonsense could not have spread so widely if the unwholesome ingredients of this lacteal fluid had not impregnated the country. For him who studies men and things in proximity it is curious to observe that when ministers come into Parliament to thunder against socialism, the offices under their control are filled with younger officials who have imbibed socialism with the mother’s milk of the high-schools, and who esteem it their duty, as far as their position admits, to aid in the inauguration of small socialistic experiments. At times the jargon of social democracy even finds its way into their official reports. Still more noticeable is this in journalism. The official organs which the congress at Gotha mentioned as being in its service are really only a weak auxiliary corps to the great power which works in the civilian press for the social democracy. The same reader who would grow pale were he to discover on the last page of his newspaper the news of a sudden fall in stocks, is delighted to peruse, on its first page, a leading article presaging the speedy coming of the day of vengeance for the proletariat. Such readers count upon the protection of the army in the event of this theoretical revolution becoming practical. But this does not hinder them from assailing “militaryism.” That the strong and strictly-disciplined armed power would still remain indispensable for internal war, even were the danger of outward war removed, is a natural thought. But this consolation, if it be one, is not of so trustworthy a character as is commonly supposed. So long as the quiet course of history follows its accustomed path Germany need not fear the dissolution of her army organization by socialistic agitation. But who can say what a systematically-conducted dissemination of ideas may not in the end accomplish?

In Würtemberg, Saxony, Hesse, and Holstein the social democrats have entered the municipal governments. The number of socialistic students is large; in Schleswig-Holstein and Saxony the rural population has allowed itself to be drawn into the net of the propaganda. Of course all this can go much farther without changing the outward aspect of life, and the suggestion that life is threatened with a radical alteration will only arouse incredulous laughter, as being an outgrowth of terror or the “red ghost.” But we should take into consideration the possibility of a great catastrophe, and remember how, in the breaking-out of a storm, all the elements of evil augment themselves, unite, and fall upon everything with destructive force. Thus would Christian socialists, social-political-socialists, tax-reformers, and local-economic-reformers unite; and among the leaders themselves one would be dragged on by ambition, the other by a sense of his responsibility. The motto of Carl Marx, “The liberation of labor must be the work of the working-class, to which all other classes are only a reactionary mass,” has now become the _mot d’ordre_ of all the socialistic organizations in Germany. The “Brotherhood of Locomotive Engineers,” which last year formed the nucleus of the terrible railway insurrection in America, began in 1863 in an association for mutual aid in cases of sickness, and for temperance in the taking of spirituous liquors. This insurrection is in its way better adapted than the Paris Commune for the study of those who are anxious to ascertain how much longer the fire can smoulder, and how suddenly and with what irresistible force it may break forth. Faithful to their tender predilections in favor of socialism, many German papers have found in the destruction and incendiarism at Chicago, Cincinnati, Reading, Pittsburgh, Columbus, Baltimore, and Martinsburg only material for throwing light upon the American speculative mania; and the terrible devastations which shadowed with gloom a third of the Union were mostly presented as though they were only to be ascribed to transgressions in the financial economy. The truth that for years the propaganda had won the mass of the working-class, and had reared a conspiracy extending over the whole country, remained in the background. The season in which the West sends its many products to Eastern ports, and receives in return the means for carrying on its business, was selected as the moment for interrupting traffic. At a certain hour all trains were to stop, and not again move until all the workmen had achieved their object, whose principle was that industry was bound, even in times when it does not produce much, to pay just as high wages to working-men as in seasons of the utmost prosperity—a principle which is announced in the writings of the Christian socialists of both confessions. After the population had recovered it asked how it had been possible for it to be beset by such a monster, whose existence it had not before dreamt of? And yet three years before, on Christmas day of 1874, a similar attempt, though on a smaller scale, had been made. On that day at the stroke of twelve the engineers of all locomotives which transported trains between the States of Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Kentucky, and Missouri stepped down, left the cars and passengers where they were, and refused to serve any farther until their demands had been complied with. But in that widely-agitated country this note of warning was soon forgotten.

Must nations experience everything for themselves? Does man learn nothing from the misfortunes of others? Forsooth, he seems to learn nothing from his own. Not insensibility to the wants of the weak dictates the principle that no legislation on the part of the state can prevent poverty, inequality, and suffering. Insight into the nature of man shows us this truth. This insight teaches us that growths in freedom, in acquirement, in diligence, and in possessions bear inseparable relations to each other and lead to the good of all. It is not true that the proportion of the poor and unhappy is larger than formerly; not true that the contrast between rich and poor is harsher; not true that the weak is more at the mercy of the strong. It is only true that the greater approximation between all classes compels us to become more sensitive to diversities of conditions and to regard them as intolerable. The idea of a mechanical levelling of the fortunes of all is the _non plus ultra_ of folly, which in the course of realization will result in nothing but the destruction of all liberty, for which reason all reactionary instincts feel themselves attracted to socialism. Socialism, it is true, has not been productive wholly of evil, because there are no absolute truths (_sic_), and every anomaly, in its way, performs a service. It has led, and will in the future lead, the community and individuals to understand the connection between true interest and true humanity. More important than to set in motion the motive of self-interest is it to direct attention to real abuses. For, say what we may, never has a time possessed more sensitiveness for every ill and more craving after justice than ours.

Footnote 92:

The man Hoedel, who sought to kill the emperor, stated that he belonged to this school; he had swung around the circle, and had ended as an “anarchist.”

Footnote 93:

But this interference is now to be insisted upon, for Prince Bismarck has instructed the Parliament to pass laws for the suppression of the publication and spread of socialistic and revolutionary doctrines.

Footnote 94:

Just as the emperor and the chancellor are now urging upon Parliament the passage of laws to restrict the right of public meeting and of free speech on the platform and in the press.

Footnote 95:

It is now being debated there under the direct orders of the emperor and the chancellor.

Footnote 96:

We give this passage literally, in order to furnish an indisputable evidence of the animus of Dr. Bamberger when he writes of the church or of Catholics. We shall see, as we go along, how this spirit colors his reasoning.

Footnote 97:

Dr. Bamberger utterly misrepresents the attitude of the Roman Catholics in Germany towards the socialists. In the debate of May 23-24 in the Reichstag, on the proposed restrictive measures against the socialists, the Catholic members aided in defeating the government’s bill: on the very rational ground that the laws already in existence were sufficiently strong to accomplish all that the government required, if only they were properly applied. In any case it is to be hoped that a man may defend freedom of speech and public assembly without necessarily being ranked among the socialists. Men may defend right principles without at all defending a wrong application of them. The Protestants and National Liberals who, in this instance, joined with the Catholics in condemning what was essentially a tyrannous measure, were not “hypocrites.” All condemned alike the wicked attempt on the life of the German emperor. But even that attempt did not justify what practically amounted to a wholesale gagging of the German people.—ED. C. W.

Footnote 98:

As a matter of fact, Mr. Eccarius could not have gone to this congress at all had not the London correspondent of one of our New York journals furnished him with the necessary funds for his journey, taking his letters as payment. Mr. Eccarius, who is an able writer and personally an estimable man, made excellent use of his visit, as the London _Times_ took his letters from the congress and paid him at the rate of £2 a column for them.

Footnote 99:

Here Dr. Bamberger portrays at great length and in a bantering manner the demands of those who believe that the state can remedy all evils, and describes with humor the various programmes for state administration of domestic life, public amusements, education, and what not. He quotes the Italian proverb that “a fool in his own house is smarter than a wise man in another’s mansion,” and says that the state falls into folly when it penetrates the houses of its subjects and regulates for them their domestic economy.

HELEN LEE. A ROMANCE OF OLD MARYLAND. CONCLUSION.

It were difficult to describe how intensely Helen enjoyed her ride through the wilderness. A good part of the way they followed an Indian trail which skirted the bank of the Potomac; but occasionally they were guided in the right direction by blazed trees. “The work of my dear William’s axe,” thought Helen. In the most beautiful parks in England she had never beheld any scenery like this; an ancient Greek might have told her that the wood-nymphs and fauns had come forth from their sylvan retreats to deck her progress through their dominion. It looked, indeed, like a festive march; the gentian flowers were a-bloom in every open spot; the American ivy flung out her gorgeous banners of orange and yellow; the cedars were draped in scarlet woodbine; the maple, the gum, the pepperidge-tree, and the sassafras, each one wearing a color of its own, added glory to the landscape; while from amid clusters of berries and chestnuts the yellow-hammer and blue-jay called out to Helen in shrill, gladsome notes.

“I agree with you at last,” said Evelyn—“I agree with you: the Old World has no season which can compare in loveliness with the American Indian Summer.”

“And whatever father may say,” observed Helen, reaching out her hand as they jogged past a persimmon-tree, “I do love ripe persimmons. Nor have I any objection to a fat ’possum. Look! look! there goes one.” And sure enough Evelyn caught a glimpse of one of those “low, plebeian brutes,” as Sir Henry Lee called them, making off through the bushes.

It was late in the evening when they reached St. Joseph’s. The Angelus bell had long rung; but there was a full moon shining, the air was balmy, and Helen, tired though she was, was not willing to forego the pleasure of a stroll with the surprised and enraptured Berkeley at this witching hour. And as they sauntered along she gave him an account of her life since they had parted; after which he gave her an account of his, then ended by making a fervent appeal to her not to return to St. Mary’s except as his wife.

“Does this startle you?” he asked, as Helen stopped short and half withdrew her arm from his, murmuring:

“My father! my father!”

“Oh! I entreat you, do not let Sir Henry stand in the way of your plighted troth. Think—think of me! Loving you with my whole heart, yet condemned to live separated from you—Helen, it is cruel. No, no! Let the holy sacrament of matrimony make us one; then, if circumstances still force us asunder, it will be most consoling to know that the separation is only for a brief space. I am sure God will soften your father’s heart towards me, and that ere long he will call me son. O Helen! answer. Do not refuse my petition.”

While her lover was speaking Helen remembered the dream she had had, and the ingenious method which had occurred to her in that dream for overcoming her parent’s aversion to the young man. At the same time her heart whispered a thousand tender things, such as only a heart deeply in love can ever whisper; and now when Berkeley ended his supplication all fear of her father had vanished from her mind, and, looking up at him, she said:

“Dear William, I consent; let it be as you wish.”

“My own dear girl!” cried Berkeley. “And now, my darling, you have only to name the happy day. When shall it be?”

“Well, let us be wedded to-morrow. I will tell Father McElroy our whole story; when he hears it I am certain he will marry us.”

And Helen was right. The wise, kind-hearted priest, after lending an attentive ear to what she narrated to him early the next day, agreed to perform the ceremony forthwith. Indeed, there was nothing Father McElroy liked better than to see young folks united in wedlock, and whenever a young couple announced to him that they were betrothed he always clapped his hands and cried: “Good! good! My children, you could not bring me better news.”

The wedding was as private as possible. Then Helen abode a fortnight at St. Joseph’s—a blissful fortnight—after which she went back to her father, who, when he saw her coming towards him, exclaimed:

“The jaunt has done the child a world of good! She needed a change of air.”

Whereupon Sir Henry’s friend answered:

“Ay, Harry, her cheeks are rosier, and she is every way prettier, than when she left us.”

The winter that followed this glorious Indian Summer was a very happy winter indeed. Almost every evening Evelyn visited the tower and passed an hour in the queen’s room, where Helen played merry airs and sang joyous songs; and so pleased was Sir Henry at the way she behaved towards the baronet that he laid aside his gruff manner entirely, and addressed her always in the kindest voice; for which, we may be sure, Helen felt extremely grateful to generous Evelyn, who was playing his part to perfection. And once when the old gentleman kissed her and asked when the happy day was to be—“For, child, I am growing old; don’t put it off much longer”—Helen answered: “I promise, father, that I will yet make you the happiest man in the colony.”

At which he gave her another kiss, then, walking up to the ancient suit of armor, he began talking to it in an undertone, to the no small amusement of his friend Dick, who had heard him say that this armor was haunted by the ghost of one of his forefathers.

But nothing contributed so much to Helen’s peace of mind as a certain resolution which her father came to towards Christmastide. Sir Henry had resolved to make a visit to his native land in the company of his friend Dick, who would be obliged to return in spring. _The Ark_, the same vessel that had brought him to Maryland, would sail for England early in March, and the temptation to see his birth-place once more ere he died was too strong to be resisted. Sir Henry announced his intention to Helen with a tear in his eye. “But I’ll not be long gone, child. I’ll be back again before autumn.” Which when Helen heard, instead of looking pensive, as her father thought she would, she sat down to her harpsichord and played the most gleeful air he had ever heard in his life—an air which Helen herself had composed during her honeymoon at St. Joseph’s. Many times that winter did she repeat this happy air, and more than once, too, when she finished playing it, she burst into a merry laugh; and whenever Sir Henry begged to be told what pleasant thought was amusing her, she only laughed on, then ended by twining her arms about his neck and saying:

“Dear, dear father! don’t be longer away than the last day of summer.”

As for Evelyn, during those months he was happy too. Yes, he truly was, and often said to himself: “Thank God! I am awakened from the listless and supine life I was leading.” And he inwardly confessed that Helen’s refusal of him had kindled him into a man. Father McElroy, to whom he made known his resolve to enter the priesthood, was delighted, and lent him several books which it was needful that he should read; and having already taken his degree at Oxford, Sir Charles was not ill prepared for his glorious vocation.

Yes, those days were days of peace and sunshine for the young wife, and when by and by March arrived and her father bade her adieu, she did not feel lonesome for being left all alone in the tower. _The Ark_, she knew, was a stanch craft, and would carry Sir Henry safe across the ocean, helped by her prayers; then back in a few months he would come, to meet a joyful surprise.

Of Helen’s life during this spring and summer naught need be said. Time flew swiftly by; every opportunity brought a letter from her dear William; and now we find ourselves verging towards September, and Helen is gazing anxiously from the highest window of her home to catch sight of _The Ark_, which may any hour be expected. At length, on the very last day of August, _The Ark_ appeared; and was ever ship so beautiful in Helen’s eyes?

Happy indeed was the meeting between father and daughter.

“But you look a little pale, child—a little pale,” spoke Sir Henry, as he clasped her in his arms. “Worrying, no doubt, about me. Well, we had a tempestuous voyage last spring, and coming back the sea was not much smoother; I once thought we might never reach land. But, nevertheless, here I am safe and sound, and now your cheeks must bloom again.”

Then, after the fond greeting was over, Sir Henry set out, accompanied by Evelyn, to inspect his domain.

“Let us first go see how your lilies are thriving,” suggested the latter—“the lilies which you planted by the Island of Tranquil Delight.”

“Yes, yes, we will visit them first of all,” answered Sir Henry.

Accordingly, off they went, briskly too, for the old gentleman was delighted to find himself on solid earth again, and from a distance he caught sight of the lilies, and of something else besides which was not a lily, but lovely, wonderful, bewitching, half hidden in a small birch canoe that floated in the midst of the beautiful flowers.

“Well, I do declare, here is a baby—a winsome blue-eyed baby!” cried Sir Henry, beside himself with astonishment, as he bent his rheumatic back over the little mortal, who seemed to know him, for the prettiest of blue peepers began straightway to wink and make love to him; and as soon as he lifted it out of the canoe, deep into his grizzly beard its tiny fingers dove and wove themselves.

“Well! well! This is truly amazing!” he continued. “Some villanous Indian must have stolen it from its mother. But I will rescue it.”

“So it would seem,” remarked Evelyn, with difficulty repressing a smile, “for here are a bow and arrows and deerskin blanket.”

“The wretch! the vile kidnapper!” went on Sir Henry. Then, wrapping the infant in his coat, “Come, come,” he added; “although ’tis a warm day, yet this poor wee creature might take its death of cold. Come, I must hurry home; and do you make all speed to the town and fetch a nurse.”

“Helen! Helen! Where are you?” cried Sir Henry the moment he reached the tower. “Quick, Helen! and look what I have found. Helen! Helen!”

But his daughter did not appear for half an hour, by which time a nurse had been procured and was already bestowing all needful attention on the little stranger.

“Why, father!” exclaimed Helen, with radiant countenance, as the old gentleman led her into the baby’s presence, “why, what a treasure this is! It will no doubt bring you good luck.”

“I verily believe it will; perhaps money enough to finish my castle,” said Sir Henry. “Although”—here he looked yearningly at his daughter—“although this is not the babe I am longing to greet.”

“Well, well, we will do our best to make the pretty waif at home among us,” pursued Helen. “I am sure we shall get to like it. Why, see! see! ’tis reaching out its hands towards you, father.”

“Just what it did when I first discovered it among the lilies,” said Sir Henry. “But now let us retire and leave it awhile with the nurse; for the little darling must need sleep.”

Accordingly they withdrew; and through all the rest of that memorable day Sir Henry could do nothing except talk about his wonderful discovery by the Island of Tranquil Delight.

During the week which followed Sir Henry paid frequent visits to the nursery, and his fondness for the infant grew with the hours. Like many a stern, imperious nature, he completely unbent; he became woman-like in his devotion to it. Closely and with fluttering heart did Helen watch him as he fondled the babe, who never whimpered when he approached, but, on the contrary, always smiled and made funny signs with its fingers, which Sir Henry declared that he understood. Then her father would take it in his arms and speak to it; and once he carried it into the queen’s room, where he showed it the rusty armor and portrait of the queen.

It was during one of these pleasant promenades that he turned to Helen and said, “My daughter, ought we not to have the little one baptized?”

Helen breathed a short prayer ere she answered, then spoke: “Father, the baby is already baptized; his name is Harry Lee.”

“Harry Lee! What mean you?” exclaimed Sir Henry, giving a start; and he might have let his precious charge drop, had not its mother sprung forward and caught it. Then, while she pressed it to her bosom, the truth like lightning flashed upon him.

“And I am now Helen Berkeley,” went on Helen. “But we have christened our darling Harry Lee.”

“Good heavens!” cried Sir Henry, utterly aghast. “Good heavens! How you have deceived me!” As he spoke his brow grew dark as a thunder-cloud and the mother trembled.

Presently, clasping her infant still closer to her bosom, “O father! father!” she sobbed, “forgive me! forgive me!” And while Helen sobbed and implored, and while the old knight was trying to calm himself sufficiently to go on and vent his indignation in measured terms, the baby, for the first time since he had found it among the lilies, turned away from him and began to cry. This was more than Sir Henry could stand. Its wailing accents pierced deep into his heart. There was a moment’s struggle within him; then, going up to it, he let fall a tear on its bare head, saying: “Harry, Harry, don’t cry. For love of you I will forgive all.”

Berkeley, who had been for the past three days at St. Mary’s, was not long in answering his wife’s summons to speed to the tower, and with him came Father McElroy, who offered to take the whole blame on himself. But all was blue sky now; the baby had triumphed, and as Sir Henry grasped the hand of his son-in-law he said:

“I thank you, ay, from the bottom of my heart I thank you, for christening the child Harry Lee. I hope it is his whole name, no addition?”

“Harry Lee and nothing else,” replied the happy Berkeley; whereupon Sir Henry, in the fulness of his joy, took the child away from Helen, and, kneeling down at Father McElroy’s feet, said, Anglican though he was: “Reverend father, may I ask your blessing on me and my grandson?” Then, when the blessing had been pronounced, he rose up off his knees, and exclaimed with a voice and mien which those who were present never forgot: “O God be thanked! I shall not be the last of the Lees.”

* * * * *

One autumn day in the year 1660 a young pale-face might have been seen entering an Indian village which stood on the western slope of one of the Alleghany mountains and not far from the source of the Monongahela.

He was a tall, handsome youth, with long, chestnut hair resting on his shoulders; yet withal he had a somewhat girlish countenance which sorted ill with the deep scar across his left cheek, that looked very like a sabre-cut. Presently he reined in his steed in front of a big cabin forming the centre of the village, and on top of which was a cross, and said to himself, “This must be the church”; then inquired for Father Evelyn.

A few minutes later the young man entered a wigwam close by, and found himself face to face with his god-father; but neither recognized the other. “Are you truly Harry Lee?” exclaimed the priest, with visible emotion. “Why, Harry, I have not laid eyes on you since you were a child. Is this indeed you?”

We may be sure that Harry was warmly welcomed to the missionary’s humble abode, where for a score of years he had dwelt with his savage flock around him; but no, not savages any longer. Virtue reigned in the midst of this happy tribe, and no prisoner had been put to the torture by them for well-nigh a hundred moons.

“You tell me Sir Henry is dead,” said Father Evelyn, after the first words of greeting were over. “Well, well, God rest his soul!”

“Dear grandfather!” said Harry. “Not many like him left in this world. He was so loyal; he was steel itself. Why, he took to his bed the very day the news reached him of the battle of Naseby, and never left it again—no, never—and died within twenty-four hours after hearing of the king’s execution. ‘Damn the Roundheads!’ he cried, as he rose up on his pillow—‘damn the Roundheads! No, no; God—God forgive them—God save the king!’ Oh! I shall never forget his expression as he uttered these his very last words.” Here Harry brushed away a tear and was silent a moment.

“Before dying,” went on the youth presently, “he gave me this book”—as he spoke he drew from his pocket a well-fingered copy of _Don Quixote_—“and mother has taught me Spanish, and I carry this book about with me wherever I go.”

“Your mother,” said Father Evelyn, “your mother—tell me how she is.”

“Thank God! mother is in excellent health,” answered Harry. “But it was long before she recovered from the shock of my father’s death. We have a comfortable home at Jamestown, Virginia; we want for nothing.” (Berkeley would have died a much richer man, except for his father-in-law’s debts, which he paid.) “But mother cannot get over her love for Maryland, and last year we made a visit to St. Mary’s. But we did not stay long; ’twas too sad. There the tower stands, half hidden by wild vines and creepers, and surrounded by persimmon-trees. Once a rude churl dared to call it ‘Lee’s folly’; but I made him rue the day—rue the day.”

As Harry spoke he sprang to his feet; his face, a moment before as mild and tranquil as a woman’s—his very mother’s face, which Father Evelyn remembered so well—changed in an instant; and while the lightning darted out of his eyes, the priest beheld the face of old Sir Henry. Ay, and farther back, too, it went through the generations—back, back: it was the self-same look which Harry’s ancestor wore who fell at Agincourt.

“Well, is the old home deserted?” asked Father Evelyn, after calming him and persuading him to resume his seat.

“No; it is used for a look-out tower, and from its summit you can see ships a long distance down the river.”

Presently Harry noticed a painting hanging on the wall above a rude book-case, and, after eyeing it a moment, said the two faces in the picture reminded him of his father and mother. To this the priest made no response, except to observe that he intended to bequeath him this painting when he died. “My good Indians will keep it safe for you, Harry. Do not forget to come for it.”

Then after a pause, during which he ruthlessly crushed many a golden memory, Father Evelyn added: “The scene represented is not strictly historical, for St. George lived some time later than St. Margaret. But in one of the old miracle plays of the middle ages the knight is made to rescue St. Margaret from the dragon.”

Harry Lee tarried a week under his god-father’s roof, and a pleasant week it was; after which he returned to his far-off home in Virginia. But before departing Father Evelyn took his hand in his, and, pressing it, said: “Harry, who knows when we may meet again? So listen well to what I am about to say. Your dear father I knew most intimately. In the colony of Maryland there was no better man than William Berkeley; none more active; none to whom, after Lord Baltimore himself, the people have been more indebted for their prosperity and happiness. Therefore tread in his footsteps. You tell me that you are a surveyor. Well, labor hard and honestly at your profession. Learn betimes to measure life; stay true to the faith; and above all things don’t dream—don’t dream.”

HERMITAGES IN THE PYRÉNÉES ORIENTALES.

“Let man return to God the same way in which he turned from him; and as the love of created beauty made him lose sight of the Creator, so let the beauty of the creature lead him back to the beauty of the Creator.”—_St. Isidore of Seville._

II.

Three miles from the village of Passa is the hermitage of St. Luc on an elevated plateau, surrounded by thorny furze and the cistus, and a few old mulberry-trees. It overlooks a vast plain dotted with villages, and in the distance is the Mediterranean—no melancholy main, but a golden sea of light beneath a burning sun. This is a place of strategical importance, and in time of war has been alternately occupied by French and Spanish troops. The chapel has been restored, and a hermit lives in the adjoining cell. Near by is a fountain shaded by plane-trees to slake his thirst. On great festivals the peasants come to sing the _Goigs_ relating to the chapel, and votive Masses are frequently offered up for the cure of various maladies.

About two miles from the little walled town of Ille in the valley of the Tet, on the side of the mountains that separate it from the valley of the Tet, is the hermitage of St. Maurice shaded by walnut-trees (what we call the English walnut). It is a lonely spot, but there is an agreeable view over the broad valley. The chapel is dear to the people, and they come here with holy songs on the feast of St. Maurice, who is invoked for fevers, common in this region. Over the altar is his statue as a Roman soldier, and near him are two sainted virgins who overcame the fiery dragon—St. Martha and St. Marguerite. In the pavement is inserted—a rare thing to find in these chapels—the tombstone of an old hermit who died here in 1758, with its

_Pregau per ell_.

Further up, on the right bank of the Tet, you came to Prades, a village north of the Canigou, in a valley teeming with wheat, vines, delicious peaches noted in the market of Toulouse, and fruit of all kinds. The very hills are terraced for cultivation. A few miles distant is the hermitage of St. Etienne on a spur of the Canigou inaccessible to carriages—a wild, desolate place where rocks are piled on rocks, out of which gush clear, sparkling rills that keep alive the few plants and shrubs that grow wherever soil can collect. It once belonged to the counts of the Cerdagne. The chapel often serves as a refuge to the shepherds of the mountain in storms. Here is a picture of St. Stephen with a stone on his head, as he is painted by Carpaccio. Just beyond the chapel rises the _Roc del Moro_, a high peak crowned by the ruins of an old watch-tower—perhaps a Moorish Atalaya.

Near Prades, on an elevation overlooking the fertile valley, is the ancient hermitage of St. Jean Baptiste, now private property, though the chapel is open to the public. The Canigou presents an imposing aspect from the terrace, and not far off are the interesting ruins of an old monastery.

“The long ribbed aisles are burst and shrunk, The holy shrines to ruin sunk, Departed is the pious monk, God’s blessing on his soul!”

The hermitage of St. Christophe is on a mountain shelf shaded by a venerable hermit oak, looking off over a beautiful valley sprinkled with villages such as Ria, Sirach, etc. Beyond tower the calm, grand heights of the Canigou, that, like the contemplative soul, stands above the world, its gray sides relieved by no soft green pasture-land, and yielding no corn or oil to man, but holding in its stern recesses the cold glacier springs whose waters pour down through summer heat from its storehouses of ice and snow to refresh the thirsty plain, fit emblem of the holy influences that rain down from the sanctuaries it overshadows. The huge St. Christopher may well be set up among these giant peaks, ’mid flood and fell. His beautiful legend is told in a series of bas-reliefs around the walls of the old chapel of rubble-work. On the 10th of July, when he is specially honored here, as in Catalonia, the surrounding villages come here in procession, stopping on the way to pray at the oratory of St. Sebastian. After their devotions at St. Christopher’s they eat their lunch among the rocks and drink from the stone basins in the caves. Not far off is Ria with its castle—the cradle of an historic race from which descended the old counts of Barcelona, as well as many a king and queen of Aragon, Navarre, France, etc. Several of the present sovereigns of Europe, in fact, might trace their descent from the old lords of the obscure hamlet of Ria.

The valley of the Tet contracts to a mere gorge at Villefranche, where there is barely room for the river and the two streets that constitute the town. This is one of the first places fortified by Vauban. Further on there is only a mule-path along the ravine shut in by wild, rocky mountains whose sides are lashed by fierce torrents. On one of these is the hermitage of St. Pierre de la Roca, reached by climbing a steep path cut in the sides of the cliff. The chapel fell to ruin at the Revolution, and the Madonna, which had been found ages before in a cave, was carried to the parish church. It is now owned by private individuals, who have had it restored. Adjoining is the hermitage, that looks down on the beautiful villages of Fulla and Sahorre. Directly behind rise tall cliffs, and beyond is a vast amphitheatre of mountains, above which towers the majestic Canigou. A convent once stood close by, the monks of which served the church of the _Tour Carrée_ at the foot of the mountain, now in ruins. The convent, too, is gone. You see only the remains of the old kitchen with its marble pavement and fine cistern; and, climbing up the side of the cliff by means of a ladder, you come to a terrace where the monks had their parterre of flowers for the garden. Close by is the Virgin’s Cave, where the Madonna was found. The chapel, which is only twenty-five feet long and ten wide, has few ornaments except the statues of St. Peter and St. Teresa. Before the entrance are several tombstones, on one of which is this inscription:

“Thou who regardest this tomb, why dost thou not despise that which is mortal? A similar dwelling is reserved for all mankind. What thou art, I was. What I am, thou wilt be. I was honored in the world, and now I am laid away and forgotten in the tomb. I shone in the world with my rich garments; now I am naked in the grave. I only inspire horror. I lived in delights....”

Unfortunately the inscription is incomplete. There is no name, no device, to indicate who it was that had thus tested the pleasures of life. The stone only echoes the eternal refrain: _Vanitas vanitatis_.

The hermitage of Notre Dame de Doma Nova is on a peak in the ancient seigneurie of Domanove. At the foot is a rivulet that feeds the stream of Riu-Fagés. The terrace is shaded by evergreens. You enter by a pretty porch and find yourself before a mediæval-looking altar with a Madonna dressed in the Spanish style. This statue was found under a juniper by means of a lamb that had strayed thither. Among the _ex-votos_ on the walls is a painting of a hermit tied to a pillar by a band of Huguenots who are setting fire to the chapel he is in. This commemorates a pleasing instance of Protestant toleration in 1580.

The Huguenots of Béarn made several raids into Roussillon in the sixteenth century, and a company was organized to resist them, for which several communes were rewarded by the king of Spain with special privileges. Ille, for instance, was allowed to hold a fair.

The hermitage of Notre Dame de la Roca stands on a naked cliff not far from Nyer. In the depths of the ravine below flows the Mantet ’mid rocks and frightful precipices. Near by are the ruins of an old battlemented tower, and on the other side of the stream, in a still wilder, more inaccessible spot, is the cave where the Madonna was found by a girl in search of fagots. The chapel is vaulted and adorned in Spanish fashion, with a retablo over the altar, on the panels of which are painted the mysteries of religion. The Virgin and Child are in silken garments; and an iron _reja_ protects the sanctuary. People come here to pray in time of calamity, and often hang their votive offerings on the wall.

The hermitage of St. Jacques de Calahors is but little frequented. It has a poor desolate chapel with rude images of the Virgin and St. James, and an altar to St. Antich, probably some Spanish saint. If any one wishes to live in poverty and undisturbed solitude, he could find no more suitable place than the wild, desolate region of which St. Jacques is the culminating point.

“Never was spot more sadly meet For lonely prayer and hermit feet.”

The hermitage of La Trinité is known to have existed in the ninth century. Think of that! A thousand years of prayer in this sacred desert! What fruits of immortal life from this obscure region! The present chapel is of the twelfth century. Here is a curious crucifix known as the _Santa Majestad_, said to have come down from the age of Charlemagne. It is in great veneration, and sung in quaint Catalan _Goigs_ perhaps as ancient as the image itself. The Christ is clothed in a long tunic that allows only the hands and feet and head to be seen. He is fastened to the cross by four nails, and around the head project long rays. There are several of these singular crucifixes in the Pyrénées Orientales, and we remember seeing a similar one at Naples, clad in its long crimson tunic.

The chapel is surmounted by three crosses, of which the central one is the highest. Behind rises a peak, on which stands the old donjon of Belpuig that dates at least from the thirteenth century. La Trinité is very popular in this pastoral region, and on St. Peter’s day and Trinity Sunday the mountains ring with the _Goigs_ of the shepherds and herdsmen.

One of the most picturesque hermitages in the valley of the Tet, and certainly the most popular, is Notre Dame de Font Romieu, a mountain solitude surrounded by pines, delightful in summer, but so snowy in winter that the chapel is closed to the public about the middle of November, and scarcely opened again till spring. But in the summer it is open night and day, that the shepherds may come here at any hour they are at leisure. The actual chapel is of the seventeenth century, but it is on the site of one much older, built to receive the Virgin found here in 1113. This venerated statue is kept at Odello the greater part of the year. On Trinity Sunday it is brought here in solemn procession and left for a few months, when it is carried back with equal pomp. On these days there are five or six thousand pilgrims. The Virgin and Child are crowned and clothed in rich garments, so their faces alone are visible, but they are evidently very ancient. The fountain that, according to the _Goigs_, sprang up where the statue was discovered is beneath the high altar, and the water is conveyed by pipes beneath the pavement of the chapel to the court, where the pilgrims go to drink. It is remarkably pure and cool. One pipe extends to a private room, where there is a large reservoir, twelve feet square, made of a single block of granite, for the purpose of bathing. This tank is inscribed: _Fons salutis Maria_. Those who come here to bathe first say the rosary before a statue of the Virgin at one end of the room, after which they walk several times around the reservoir, praying Our Lady de la Salud as they go. A short distance from the hermitage is another fountain, called St. Jean.

One peculiarity about the chapel is that one-half of it is higher than the rest. You traverse part of the nave, and then ascend seven steps to the remainder, into which open the side chapels and the sanctuary. The retablo of the high altar is covered with bas-reliefs of the life of the Blessed Virgin, which, as well as the other sculptures, were done by Suñer, an artist of the seventeenth century from Manresa, Spain. The walls are covered with an infinite number of _ex-votos_, such as crutches, long tresses of hair, rude pictures of the Virgin invoked in time of danger, etc. The whole edifice is rich with gilding and sculpture, and, when filled with lights and flowers on great festivals, is quite dazzling. Over one of the altars in a niche is an old painting of San Ildefonso of Toledo receiving the Santa Casulla from the hands of the Virgin. We love to find this great servant of Mary in her churches—him who seemed clothed with her virtues as with the garment she gave him, and who is never weary of dwelling on her exalted mission. “Lo, by means of this Virgin the whole earth is filled with the glory of God!” exclaims he. The Mass here on his festival is obligatory for the parish of Odello.

Near the church is a still higher eminence, to which you ascend by a path winding around the mount with the Stations of the Cross up the sad, funereal way, terminating in a Calvary with the uplifted image of Him who alone can heal the serpent’s wounds that filled our souls with death.

The buildings at Font Romieu are quite extensive. There is a hostelry with a gallery of eleven arcades in front, where meals are prepared and rooms furnished those who wish to make a retreat. During the summer not a day passes without visitors. But the great day of the year is the patronal festival on the 8th of September, when the people of all the neighboring valleys come here, displaying a variety of physiognomy and costume hardly to be found elsewhere. Sometimes they amount to ten or twelve thousand. From the earliest dawn you can see them flocking in from every quarter, in the costume of their own valley, praying aloud or singing sacred hymns. As soon as they come in sight of the Calvary they fall on their knees to salute the uplifted Image so powerful to save, and again at the sight of the holy chapel. They hear Mass, go to Holy Communion, and, after completing their devotions, they scatter over the green to eat their lunch, when the whole scene assumes the aspect of a rural festival full of innocent gayety. Venders of fruit, cakes, and all kinds of wares, secular and holy, fasten themselves upon you with amusing pertinacity, while wandering musicians, in hopes of a few sous, begin to play on various rustic instruments—the flageolet, oboes, and perchance, at a proper distance from the holy chapel, the tambourine and bag-pipe.

Meanwhile, _Goigs_ succeed each other all day long in the chapel, sung by peasants to rude mountain airs quite in harmony with the words and place. Every valley awaits its turn to sing its hymn before the Holy Mother of God.

“Love of Mary is to them As the very outer hem Of the Saviour’s garments blessed!”

One would think the age here still Golden, so naïve is the piety, so simple the manners, of these mountaineers.

We come now to the valley of the Tech, abounding in harvests and rich meadows kept verdant by the mountain streams. The air is pure and exhilarating. The pastures are full of sheep and goats. On one hand are the ridges of the Canigou with watch-towers and ruins of old castles on the tops, and mines of iron ore in their bosom. The sides of the gorges are bristling with gloomy pines, and the rocky cliffs aflame with the rhododendrons that grow in their crevices. On the other hand is the long line of the Albères with pleasant villages in their folds, and torrents of crystal coursing down their sides. Beyond is Spain, true land of Mary. Prats-de-Mollo is the last town on the frontier. It is an old place, at the very source of the Tech, surrounded by the fortifications of a bygone age, and commanded by a fort on one of the heights above. A few miles from the town is the hermitage of Notre Dame de Coral, delightfully situated on a mountain among trees that afford an agreeable shade to the weary pilgrim, while cool springs are at hand to quench his thirst, and rooms provided should he wish to tarry. The Madonna is in great repute, not only in the province but across the border. The word _coral_ is supposed to refer to the heart of the oak in which the Virgin was found. But that was ages ago. It is known to have existed in 1261. This ancient image is now enclosed in another, likewise very old, as if to enshrine it. It is over the high altar, behind which is a stairway that enables the votary to approach it. At one of the side altars is another of those ancient crucifixes similar to the Santa Majestad at La Trinité, supposed to be of Spanish origin. It came from an old hospice at the entrance of a Coll, or mountain pass, not far from Prats-de-Mollo, where lodged pilgrims to Compostella in the middle ages. There is still a round building remaining that formed part of this hospice, with four openings towards the different points of the compass, in which lights used to be placed to guide the traveller by night. The chapel, too, called Notre Dame du Coll d’Ares, is still standing, but is sequestrated.

But to return to our hermitage. Among the numerous _ex-votos_ on the chapel walls is a curious painting of a young man, seized by two demons, invoking the aid of the Virgin, who appears and carries him off by the hair of his head. Beneath is the inscription: “This miracle was wrought by Maria Santissima del Coral in favor of Joan Solána in the year 1599. Thomas Solána, his descendant, had this painting done in 1704 for the honor and glory of the _Verge Purissima_.”

Mgr. Gerbet, Bishop of Perpignan, visited this hermitage in 1857, and commemorated his visit by a graceful poem which runs thus in more sober English prose:

“Señora del Coral, for ages the protectress of the pious people of Prats, Tech, and St. Sauveur, as soon as a turn in the mountains brought thy chapel in view, the song of the pilgrim burst from my heart. The rock of Aras, once consecrated to false gods, exorcised at thy coming, has ever since proclaimed the true Lord. Let thine ancient power be again renewed. Destroy in us all devotion to worldly idols with their lowering influences. And accept this ephemeral homage in union with the _Goigs_ that for so many ages have resounded in these mountains. Let my verse mingle with these ancient hymns, as among thy venerable elms the flower of a day springs up and then dies.”

Between Prats-de-Mollo and Tech, not far from the source of the Comalada, a branch of the Tech, is the hermitage of St. Guillem de Combret in the midst of the ridges that shoot off from the Canigou like huge buttresses. In ancient times there was a _Pausa_ here where pilgrims to Spain found shelter—a kind of station or hostelry, where pious people exercised their charity in allaying the fatigue of such holy wanderers. The Pausa Guillelmi is spoken of in the donation of a part of Mt. Canigou to the abbey of St. Martin by Count Wifredo of Barcelona. In the eleventh century it seems, however, to have belonged to the Benedictines of the neighboring village of Arles, whose church, still standing, contains the shrine of SS. Abdon and Sennen, noted for the perpetual flow of miraculous water. These saints are very popular all through these valleys, and are called by the peasants _Los Cossos Santos_, or the Sewed-Together Saints, perhaps because they are never mentioned apart. There is only a part of their remains here, brought from Rome at some remote period, as the guide-book sneeringly says, to free the neighborhood from the dragons and other wild animals that infested it. We know that when these saints were exposed to the fury of two lions and four bears in the Coliseum, the animals became tame and harmless before them. No wonder that, crowned in heaven, they should be equally powerful against error, or the wild beasts, whichever it might be, that infested these mountains.

The lives of the saints do not mention St. William of Combret, but the ancient _Goigs_ and sculptures of the chapel set forth a few details of his life. According to these, he was a Frank who came to seek solitude and oblivion among these Pyrenees. The wild goats used to come and offer him their milk for nourishment. And to confound the impiety of the smiths (who are still numerous at Arles) he wrought, as by miracle, a bell in their presence that still rings the hour of prayer—an iron bell, very broad in shape and sharp of clang. The rough altar of solid stone he is said to have brought here unaided. He died at Alp in the Spanish Cerdagne, and two blind women are known to have recovered their sight at his tomb. His statue in the chapel represents him with book and crosier, as if an abbot. Beside the hermitage is a small garden and a fountain of delicious water. On St. Guillem’s day the parish of Tech comes here in procession; High Mass is offered; four gospels are sung in the open air, as if to proclaim it to the four quarters of the globe; benediction is given with a relic of the True Cross; and _pains bénits_ are distributed in remembrance of the hospitality of the old Pausa. Prats-de-Mollo comes here on St. Magdalen’s day, for to her the place was dedicated before the time of St. Guillem. Religious traditions never seem to grow dim in the memory of these tenacious mountaineers.

Three miles from the watering-place of Amélie-les-Bains is the hermitage of St. Engracia in a green valley that once belonged to the Benedictines of Arles. The cell is in ruins, and the little chapel very poor. The walls are about four feet thick, and the dim light makes it seem like a cave. There is only one altar, with the virgin martyr of Zaragoza on it, a palm in her hand and a nail piercing her brow. Her legend is told in some old paintings on the wall. There are statues, too, of the _Cossos Santos_.

Coming down to Ceret, where the Albères sink into the plain, the Tech is spanned by an immense arch, by no means so pretentious in the spring, when the snow melts in the mountains and the waters come pouring down through the wild gorges, sweeping everything before them. A little way from the village is the hermitage of St. Ferréol on the plateau of a mountain. The road to it passes through vineyards, and is bordered by cherry, walnut, and other trees. The chapel is in such veneration that the peasants often used to ascend the mountain on their knees with a candle in their hands, in fulfilment of their vows, and perhaps do so still. Before it is a terrace shaded by elms, beneath which are two springs. Here is a fine view over the valley of the Tech extending to the very sea, while in the background are the everlasting mountains. In the chapel is a statue of St. Ferréol in the garb of a Roman soldier, with a sword in his left hand. He is said to have been an officer of some high grade, martyred for the faith at Vienne, in Dauphiné, in 303.

There is an altar here to Notre Dame dels _Desemparats_—the Catalan for abandoned or forsaken. There are times in every one’s life when one feels the need of invoking such a Madonna, and she may well be set up here in a solitude that harmonizes with the feelings of those who have need to appeal to her. To be friendless is solitude, says Epictetus. The women of Valencia wear combs on which is graven the image of Nuestra Señora de los Desemparados, but whether this is by way of bewailing their forsaken condition, or to announce their readiness to be consoled, or merely by way of averting the possible contingencies of life, we cannot say.

A Catalan inscription on the holy-water vase states that it was given by a hermit of St. Ferréol who had been a slave at Constantinople twenty-four years. The chapel is specially frequented in time of epidemics, and on the festivals of SS. Lawrence and Ferréol, when worship is conducted with great pomp, the _Goigs_ never cease around the altars.

The hermitage of Notre Dame del Castel is on a mount belonging to the chain of the Albères, a few miles from the pretty village of Sorrède. The pathway up the height is bordered with violets, wild thyme, furze, and various shrubs. You pass three crosses, and a small oratory where the processions of Rogation week stop on their way to the mount to sing a hymn to the Virgin. The hermitage is in a fine position, shaded by trees, the terrace overlooking a vast extent of country with the immensity of the sea in the distance. In sight are several places of interest—the rock of Montblanc, where once stood a royal château; the _Cova de las Encantadas_, or the fairies’ cave; and, on the top of an isolated peak, the ruins of the old castle of Ultrera, which history says was taken by Wamba, King of the Visigoths, in the seventh century. Don Pedro of Aragon received its keys from Don Jaime of Majorca in 1344. Finally, it became the property of the lords of Sorrède. Marshal Schomberg took it from the Spanish in 1675, and the place his troops occupied is still pointed out as the Camp des Français. The castle being dismantled by order of Louis XIV., Jeanne de Béarn, who had seigneurial rights over it, took possession, among other things, of the ancient Madonna in the chapel, and built another to receive it. This statue had long before been miraculously discovered in a cave of the mountains. There is a singular expression of sweetness in the face, and both Mother and Child are considered _muy hermosos_. She is dressed in Spanish style, the veil that falls around her partly covering the Child. Great crowds come here on the festivals of the Virgin, where Mass is sometimes sung at an altar under the trees, and the people, spread around on the neighboring heights, give it the aspect of an amphitheatre.

Not a mile from the hamlet of La Roca, where Philip le Hardi in his campaign against Aragon lodged with all his court, is a pleasant valley watered by a limpid stream and shaded by trees. Out of it rises a low hill from which you can see the Albères and their forests of cork-trees, and among them the ruins of the castle of La Roca, where the king of Majorca took refuge from Don Pedro of Aragon. Here is the hermitage of Notre Dame de Tanya, with a well before it shaded by fine old plane-trees. On the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin Mary the people of La Roca come here in procession. There are daily services during the octave, among which is the rosary at sunset. On the eighth day there is a Mass of thanksgiving, after which the people return processionally to La Roca.

Near the Coll de Prunet, through which passed Hannibal and the hosts of the Cæsars, is Notre Dame del Coll, shut in by the mountains and their forests of evergreen oaks and cork-trees—a popular chapel, where people come to pray to be delivered from the _goître_ and all throat diseases common in the mountains. The _Goigs_ contain the only accounts of its history, from which it appears that the chapel was built in the ninth century to receive a Virgin discovered by means of an ox. There is a painting over the altar of a herdsman and dog kneeling before the Virgin. The statue has been gilded, and the dress only allows the head to be seen. Here are manacles worn by captives in Moorish times, brought in gratitude for their deliverance and suspended before the image of Him “whose pierced hands have broken so many chains” other than those of material bondage. There is an altar, too, to St. Quitterie of Aire, to whom there are also special _Goigs_. She is invoked for hydrophobia.

About two miles from Argelés is the hermitage of St. Ferréol in a wild, solitary place among the cliffs of the Albères, the savage aspect of which is softened by the almond, fig, cherry, and oak trees. Before the chapel ran the ancient “Carrera de Espagna,” by which Philip le Hardi went with his army when he undertook the disastrous war against Pedro III. of Aragon, in 1285, continuing along beneath the castle of Ultrera to the Coll de la Massane. The chapel used to have two holes in the wall to receive the alms of the passer-by when the doors were closed. It has been restored from the ruin into which it had fallen, but is seldom visited.

On a bare rock not far from Argelés is the hermitage of Notre Dame de Vic, apparently very ancient, from the thick walls and low heavy arches of the chapel. Just below is a dark ravine lined with trees, and a cistern that catches the water trickling down the rocks. A family now lives in the hermitage. From it you can see over a vast plain, and beyond is the Mediterranean Sea, a perpetual beauty in itself.

The hermitage of Notre Dame des Abeilles is near the sea-coast, not far from the Spanish frontier, in a region once noted for its honey. In some seasons it is approached by the dry bed of a mountain torrent that comes down in the spring through the undulating hills covered with vines and olives. As far back as 1657 the chapel was known as the Capilla Antigua, and was famous for the perpetual miracle of its ever-open door which no human hand could keep closed. It contained one of those images which was “not willing to be shut up.” This was an old Madonna, black as that which Giotto loved to pray before, with a honeycomb in her hand, sweet to the taste as the knowledge of wisdom to the soul, reminding one of the spouse of the Canticles, whose lips drop as the honeycomb. People used to come from Spain to revere this Virgin, but it was removed for safety in 1793, and is now in the parish church of Banyuls-sur-Mer, where, as in ancient times, a lamb is offered at her altar on Whit Tuesday, the feast of Notre Dame des Abeilles, which is afterwards sold to the highest bidder to defray the expenses of the festival. On the top of a neighboring mountain, about two thousand feet above the level of the sea, may be seen the old historic tower of Madeloc.

Three miles from the town of Collioure is the hermitage of Notre Dame de Consolation, to which you ascend out of vines and plantations of olives, almonds, and figs by a path cut in the rocks. By the wayside is an oratory here and there with some saint in the niche, as St. James, St. Ann, and Our Lady of Many Griefs. You seldom find a more charming spot in summer. The terrace before the chapel is shaded by alleys of lindens, chestnuts, and elms, some of which are of enormous size, and beneath them are fountains that diffuse their cooling waters. Below is a vineyard noted for its products, and through an opening between two hills can be seen the fortress of Miradon, the belfry of Collioure, and the sea in the distance. The ancient image of Our Lady has disappeared, but there is a modern one in the sculptured retablo. Here on certain days, as St. Ferréol’s, is a great gathering. The popular _Goigs_ are sung to airs of simple melody, and every one goes down the eighteen steps to drink at the miraculous fountain. He who has prayed in this mountain chapel among the pious peasantry, and wandered in the shady alleys of the delightful terrace, and drunk of the waters, finds it difficult to tear himself away.

Such are a few of the ancient hermitages of the Pyrénées Orientales. Not one is without some beauty of its own that would commend it to the heart of the poet; not one without the balmy fragrance of some holy legend so attractive to the imagination; not one without its altar where God has for ages revealed himself, and the solitude where he loves to speak to the heart. Well may we exclaim with one[100] who was himself a hermit for a time on the shores of this very sea: “How delightful this boundless solitude where nature silently keeps watch! This silence has a thousand tongues that prompt the soul to soar away to God and wrap it in ineffable delights. Here no noise is heard but the human voice rising heavenward. These sounds full of sweetness alone trouble the secret solitude. Its repose is only interrupted by murmurs sweeter than the repose itself—the holy murmur of the lowly psalm. From the depths of the fervent soul rise melodious harmonies, and the voice of man accompanies his prayer to heaven.”

Footnote 100:

St. Eucher.

ROSARY STANZAS. GLORIOUS MYSTERIES.

I.

PSALM cxxv. 5.

Once lost and found, again the Lost is found! Drinking his voice, and feeding on his face, Again her care and grief of heart are crowned; Her lifelong grief outmeasured by the grace That rained upon her in each moment’s space As she beheld Him living who was dead. Away the clouds of Time such meetings chase. Wells of delight like those by tears are fed; The soul to joy like hers by sorrow must be led.

II.

PSALM lxxxiii. 6-8.

The mountain-roots lie in the lowly vale. Mother bereaved! from height to vaster height Ever ascending, his last triumph hail! On wings of fire her love has taken flight, To follow where he is gone beyond her sight; Heaven is not far off, Love’s wing is strong. She sees the royal portals clothed in light; To Son and Mother there high thrones belong: Whom dying will unite, life cannot sever long.

III.

ACTS i. 14.

In the pale light of subterranean glooms, Rude art of early centuries portrays Upon the wall of Roman Catacombs Jesus’ great Mother, Mary, as she prays, With arms uplifted, while apostles gaze.[101] Even so she prayed before the Spirit came To consecrate the Pentecostal days, With rushing power and tongues of lambent flame. Can aught be then denied, if prayed in her great name?[102]

IV.

CANTIC. ii. 17.

Shades yield to light. The Twelve from every land Are gathered round the dying Mother’s bed; Tranquil she lies, awaiting the command To arise and come. She hears, and bows her head: One _Fiat_ more, and Mary is with the dead; But, sought the third day in her empty tomb, On wings of angels borne, had upward fled, Where flowers of Paradise undying bloom, And glories passing thought her future home illume.

V.

JOHN xvii. 22.

From tiny rills the mightiest rivers grow; Insensibly from small to great they glide, City and plain rejoicing as they go. But never less than great the treasures wide Of Mary’s peerless grace. Full they abide For evermore; and deep and strong and free The current of that overflowing tide; Beyond all ear can sound, all eye can see, Mingling her glorious wealth with the Everlasting Sea.

Footnote 101:

_Le Oranti_ of the archæologists.

Footnote 102:

John xvi. 26.

PANTHEISM _VERSUS_ ATHEISM.

Protestantism is very unfortunate in its warfare against modern unbelief. It is daily losing battles, losing men, and losing ground; and it feels so little reluctance to give up one dogma after another as to create the impression that the time is not far off when it will deliver up its last citadel and accept the yoke of the enemy. The fact is so well known that it needs no proof; nevertheless, as we have a striking illustration of it in a phase of the struggle which is now going on between Protestant and infidel thought on the all-important dogma of the existence of God, we will make it the subject of a short discussion, that our readers may form a clearer conception of the suicidal strategy of some Protestant controversialists.

A work has recently appeared which purports to be a natural history of atheism.[103] Its author is an accomplished Protestant scholar, a learned professor, an elegant writer, and an earnest advocate of religious ideas in accordance with the Bible as interpreted by his private judgment. His object is to refute atheism. Of course history, reason, and revelation are all on his side, so he is well armed; whilst his antagonist, though boisterous and aggressive, is by no means formidable, having had his strength thoroughly broken by former defeats. In such a condition of things the victory should evidently belong to the champion of Divinity. And yet no. Our champion strikes, indeed, some heavy blows, but while thus struggling with the enemy he falls into a quagmire. In other words, he grapples with a senseless atheism only to plunge into an equally senseless pantheism.

With regard to the first chapters of the work we have little to say. The author proves pretty conclusively that atheism is against reason. He shows that the belief in the existence of God has been universal not only among civilized nations but also among barbarous tribes. “Atheism,” says he, “is a disease of the speculative faculty.” “It indicates a chaotic state of mind.” “It is a doctrine so averse from the general current of human sentiment that the unsophisticated mass of mankind instinctively turn away from it, as the other foxes did from that vulpine brother who, having lost his tail in a trap, tried to convince the whole world of foxes that the bushy appendage in the posterior region was a deformity of which all high-minded members of the vulpine aristocracy should get rid as soon as possible.” This argument against atheism was well known to the ancients, who laid great stress upon it, as they saw that a universal agreement of mankind on the existence of God could not but proceed from our rational nature; but our author considers it as a simple “presumption,” rather than a proof in favor of the theistic doctrine.

He then argues from the principle of causality and from the wonderful wisdom displayed in the architecture of the universe. This, too, is very good. Next, he meets the objection drawn from the existence of evil in the world.

“If there were no poverty,” says he, “where were charity? If every person were equally independent and self-reliant, where would be the gracious pleasure on both sides which arises from the support given by the strong to the weak? Where again would be the topping virtue of moral courage, unless the majority, at some particular critical moment, were cowards?... In fact, always and everywhere the development of energy implies the existence of that which energy must subdue—namely, evil in some shape or other. Therefore the existence of evil is not a proof that there is no God; but it is by the overcoming of evil constantly that God proves himself to be God, and man proves himself to be God-like, when in his subordinate sphere he does the same.”

This answer is tolerably good; but we doubt if the atheist will be silenced by it. The author should have distinguished physical from moral evil. The existence of physical evil he could have shown to be perfectly reconcilable with God’s infinite goodness and providence; whereas the existence of moral evil should have been shown to be in no manner derogatory to his infinite sanctity. This has been done very fully by a multitude of philosophers and theologians; but it could not be done consistently by our pantheistic writer, because, as we shall see, all moral evil, according to his pantheistic theory, would either emanate from God or be immanent in him, with a total ruin of his infinite sanctity. Hence the atheist, after all the reasonings of the learned professor, may still urge that the existence of a God is incompatible with the existence of sin; and we think that the professor will be at a loss how to answer the difficulty so long as he holds to his pantheistic views.

As to the genesis of atheism the author makes many good and thoughtful remarks. There is a sort of atheism which arises from an absolute feebleness or babyhood of intellect. This he calls “atheism of imbecility”; but, says he, “we need not detain ourselves with this type of intellectual incapability. It is not atheists of this class that we are likely to meet with in the present age; and if we did meet them we should be much more likely to remit them summarily to some hospital of incurables than to a thinking school.”

The next type of the atheistic disease has its origin in moral depravity. There are men whose career is “like a piece of music made up of a constant succession of jars, which shakes the strings so much by unkindly vibrations that the instrument, from the force of an unnatural strain, cracks itself into silence prematurely. Now, unharmonized characters of this description are naturally indisposed, and practically incapacitated from recognizing order, design, and system in the constitution of the universe, and of course cannot see God.” This root of atheism is very well illustrated by Mr. Blackie. Here is a beautiful passage:

“It occurs to me to set down here the features of one of the most notable of those disorderly characters who lived in ancient Rome at the same epoch when the hollow atheism of Epicurus was dressed up for a day in the garb of poetical beauty by a poet of no mean genius called Lucretius. The man I mean is Catiline. Hear how Sallust in a well-known passage describes him: ‘Lucius Catiline, born of a noble family, a man of great strength, both of mind and body, but of a wicked and perverse disposition. To this man, from his youth upwards, intestine broils, slaughters, rapines, and civil wars were a delight; and in these he put forth all the energy of his youth. He could boast of a bodily frame capable of enduring heat and cold, hunger and watching, beyond all belief; he had a spirit daring, cunning, and full of shifts, ready alike to simulate what he was not and to dissimulate what he was, as occasion might call. Greedy of others’ property, he was lavish of his own; in passion fiery, in words copious, in wisdom scant. His unchastened ambition was constantly desiring things immoderate, incredible, and beyond human reach.’ This is exactly the sort of character, to whose completeness if anything like a philosophy is to be attributed, atheism will be that thing.”

In our age, however, according to the author, all the varieties of speculative and practical atheism which we meet with in common life are “weeds sprung from the rank soil of irreverence.” Man being naturally a religious animal, atheism can then only spring up when, in the individual or in society, any influence arises which nips the natural bud of reverence in the soul. Thus power may foster a strong feeling of independence, which may end in a monstrous self-worship. But liberty also, as the author well remarks, when unlimited, leads to godlessness. There is an atheism of democracy no less than of despotism. From extreme democracy, as from a hot-bed, atheism in its rankest stage naturally shoots up. There is nothing in the idea of mere liberty to create the feeling of reverence. The desire of unlimited liberty is an essentially selfish feeling, and has no regard for any Power from above. The fundamental maxim of all pure democracy is simply this: “I am as good as you, and perhaps a little better; I acknowledge nobody as my master, whether in heaven above or on earth beneath; I will not be fettered.”

But, continues the author, unlimited power and unlimited liberty are not the only social forces that are apt to run riot in the exaggerated assertion of the individual and the negation of all superhuman authority. There is the irreverence begotten of pride of intellect. Knowledge, of course, does not directly produce irreligion or extinguish piety, on the contrary, the more a wise man knows of the universe, the more he is lost in admiration of its excellence. But the knowing faculty is not the whole of a living man, and to bring forth its healthy fruits it must go hand-in-hand with a rich moral nature; divorced from this, knowledge begets intellectual pride and opens the way to godlessness.

Here the author points out the fact that there is something in the researches of modern science, at least in certain conditions of the intellectual atmosphere, not apparently favorable to the growth of piety and the cultivation of religious reverence. In not a few modern books of physical science we find nothing but “a curious fingering of wretched dumb details utterly destitute of soul. Whatever is in the book, depend upon it, God is not there. You will hear no end of talk about laws and forces, developments and evolutions, metamorphic forms, transmuted energies, and what not; but it is all dead—at least all blind. For seeing intellect and shaping reason there is no place in such systems.” The author strongly condemns this godless science, and shows at length its fickleness and unwisdom; and we might almost mistake him for a Catholic apologist, were it not that he ventures to speak of “non-sense” in connection with the Council of Trent, at which he irreverently sneers.

In the next chapter he treats of polytheism, whose origin he traces to misdirected reverence towards the powers of nature. He shows that polytheism was not atheism, and that polytheistic society could reach a certain degree of morality not to be found among atheists. To our mind, this chapter, though learned, is nearly superfluous; for it has scarcely any bearing on the history of atheism. In like manner we think that the chapter on Buddhism, which comes immediately after, and which fills seventy pages, was uncalled for. The author says that the British atheism of Bradlaugh, John Stuart Mill, Miss Martineau, Tyndall, and others called his attention to the assertion that in the far East atheism had been publicly professed for more than two thousand years, and was at present the corner-stone of the faith of more than four hundred millions of the human race. Could such an assertion be true? He could not believe it. To talk of a religion without God was, to his mind, “as to talk of the propositions in Euclid without the postulates on which they depend.” He therefore determined to get at the root of the matter, and thus he discovered that Buddhism was not atheism. It is to show this that he gives an elaborate explanation of the Buddhistic system. We need not discuss it, though we believe that some Buddhistic errors which he points out are somewhat exaggerated. We only repeat that the natural history of atheism would have lost nothing, and perhaps gained something, if this long digression on Buddhism had been omitted.

And now we have reached the last chapter of the work, where the author endeavors to make theologians responsible for a kind of modern atheism which he calls “atheism of reaction,” and where he makes his strange and foolish profession of pantheism. It is with this chapter alone that we shall be concerned in the following pages; for it is the evil doctrine contained in this objectionable chapter that spoils the whole work and gives it a totally anti-Christian character. Is the author a Freemason? Is he the mouth-piece of the Scotch and English lodges, whose members are anxious not to be ranked among atheists, though they have no definite creed? We do not care to know. But we may well affirm that his book is full of the Masonic spirit, and answers so well the present needs of British Freemasonry that we cannot be much mistaken if we call it a Masonic work. It is well known that the English Freemasonry, either because less advanced or because more prudent than the Masonry of France, thought it necessary to protest against a suicidal resolution lately passed by the latter, which permits the admission of candidates to membership irrespective of their belief or disbelief in the Great Architect of the universe. This resolution was strongly condemned by the English lodges, which lost no time in sending out a public official declaration that, so far as the English fraternity was concerned, no member would be recognized who did not profess to believe in the Great Architect, according to the old Masonic constitution. The wisdom of this measure cannot be doubted; for the English Masonry enjoys still a certain degree of respectability, which must not be compromised by a low sympathy with the desperate atheism of the French communists. Nevertheless, so long as they talk of a “Great Architect of the universe” without explaining more particularly what they mean by these words, there is reason to fear that their protest against the French infidels is a deceit. The pantheist, the Buddhist, and the agnostic, and even the materialist and the fatalist, can admit an Architect of the universe, provided they are allowed to put upon these words a free construction. One will identify him with Law, another with Nature, a third with Force, a fourth with Matter, and perhaps a fifth with Satan himself; for, as the old Manichæans held that this material world was the work of a bad principle, so there are now men (not unknown to Freemasonry) who consider Satan as their friend, their master, and their god. There are lodges where the “Great Leonard,” a satanic apparition, is an object of worship. No doubt these lodges recognize him as the “Great Architect of the universe.” And Proudhon was so bold as to publish that he was in love with Satan: “_Viens, Satan; viens, que je t’embrasse!_”

At any rate, if the book we are criticising has been written in the interest of the British Freemasons, it fails to show that they are more orthodox than their French brothers whom they have excommunicated. The pantheism professed in the book is just as worthless as the French atheism; for pantheism, just as much as atheism, makes all religion impossible. Hence a book which refutes atheism in order to establish pantheism, however filled with Scriptural quotations to make it look religious, is an anti-Christian book.

The atheism of reaction, of which the author speaks in the first part of this chapter, is, according to him, “a recoil” from the exaggerations and dictatorial imperiousness of theological orthodoxy. “Even theism,” he remarks, “the only reasonable theory of the universe, in the blundering fashion in which you state it, may possibly produce atheism, the most unreasonable of all theories.” The Reformation “was unquestionably a reaction from the excess of sacerdotal assertiveness, and the abuse of ecclesiastical power in the latter centuries of the middle ages.” This excess “gave sharp offence to the delicate conscience of Martin Luther, and roused his sleeping wrath into a thunder-storm of holy indignation.” How? “By parading the public places, and marching through the highways of Christendom with a sacerdotal gospel of salvation by works—by conventional and arbitrary works, penances, and payments of various kinds imposed by authority of the all-powerful clergy, and having little or nothing in common with the morality of a pure life and a noble character.” “Against this abuse Luther protested exactly in the same way, and with similar effect, as St. Paul protested against the ritualism of the Jews.” “_The just liveth by faith._ This great doctrine has saved the world twice, once from the cumbrous and narrow-minded ceremonialism of the Jews, and again from the despotic and soul-stupefying sacerdotalism of the Romanists.”

All this trash is beneath discussion; it only shows that the author is little acquainted with the men and the doctrines to which he refers. He seems never to have reflected that such “delicate consciences” as that of Martin Luther had as little scruple about falsifying history as they had about marrying nuns, rebelling against authority, or shedding blood. Even Protestants would now smile at the “thunder-storm of holy indignation” roused in the good soul of Luther at the thought of a gospel of salvation by works of penance. Well might even Lucifer’s “delicate conscience” have burst into a storm of “holy indignation,” as he could not work out his salvation without controlling his pride; and he might have protested against God’s orders, just as Luther did, by alleging that “the just liveth by faith.” How the reformers succeeded in “saving the world” by this doctrine of salvation without works, can be argued from the fact, attested by our author himself, that “anarchy and confusion, with the braying of a theological ass here, the cackling of a clerical goose there, and the raving of a sectarian madman in a third quarter, began to show face to such a degree that sensible and quietly-disposed men, like Erasmus, became seriously alarmed before the spirits they had conjured up, and retreated, with a devout timidity, into the sacred ark of the old Catholic Church.” This confession speaks volumes.

The author describes a sort of rampant orthodoxy which delights in doctrinal exaggeration of mysteries, and which is never so happy as when it can plant itself behind the broad shield of unintelligible formulas and traditionary shibboleths, to pluck Reason by the beard, and bid open defiance to the grand principle of the Scottish philosophy called common sense. And this, he says, excites an atheistical reaction. We really do not know of any orthodoxy which delights in “plucking Reason by the beard.” The Scotch Presbyterians may have done something of the kind, but they have no claim to orthodoxy. True orthodoxy is nowhere but in the church whose centre is Rome. But the Roman Church never used unintelligible formulas, never had shibboleths, and never plucked Reason by the beard, but on the contrary made use of the plainest language and the best cultivated reason to teach the revealed truth, and to defend it against heretics and unbelievers. Had the Protestant sects as much regard for Reason, and for the great principle of the Scottish philosophy called common sense, they would soon perceive that their claim to orthodoxy is nonsensical and their Christianity a delusion. And if they were logical, they would not, when their ministers pluck Reason by the beard, feel inclined to an “atheistical reaction,” but would only conclude that their ministers do not belong to God’s church, and have neither grace nor mission to teach Christianity.

The author admits the necessity of faith; but he scouts the doctrine that whoso believes not every dogma about the divine nature shall be eternally damned.

“The spirit,” he says, “from which damnatory declarations of this kind proceed is a mingled spirit of ignorance, conceit, presumption, insolence, and pedantry, and has more to answer for in the way of creating atheism than any other fault of Christian preachers that has come under my observation. Against declarations of this kind, however solemnly made, and however traditionally hallowed, the moral and intellectual nature of the most soundly-constituted minds rises up in instinctive rebellion: the intellectual nature, because the propounding of dogmas in a scholastic form about the nature of the Supreme Being shows an utter ignorance of the proper functions and limits of the human intellect; and the moral nature even more emphatically, because to make fellowship in any religion conditional on the merely intellectual acceptance of an abstract proposition addressed to the understanding, is to remove religion altogether out of its own region, where it can bear fruit, and to transplant it into a soil where it can show only prickles that fret the skin, and thorns that go deeply into the flesh.”

This is wisdom! Therefore, according to this writer, to believe in three divine Persons, Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, is unnecessary for salvation, and to say the contrary is conceit, insolence, and pedantry. It is difficult to conceive how a Christian could fall into such absurdity. The mystery of the Holy Trinity is the very base of Christianity. It is in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost that we are baptized; it is by the Son of God that we are redeemed; it is by the Holy Spirit that we are sanctified. Without this faith there is no Christianity, and without Christianity there is no salvation. We need not be afraid that “the moral and intellectual nature of the most soundly-constituted minds should rise up in instinctive rebellion” against this doctrine; for the history of eighteen centuries proves very conclusively that soundly-constituted minds have never rebelled against dogma. Nor do we see why the intellectual nature should denounce the use of the scholastic form in the propounding of dogmas. Such a form is clear, precise, and full of meaning; it is therefore the best intellectual form. And as to the moral nature, we can only say that nowhere is it more cultivated than in the Catholic Church—a truth which no one disputes—whilst the assumption that “the _merely_ intellectual acceptance of an abstract proposition” suffices to qualify a man for religious fellowship, is a clear proof that the author has never read our Christian catechism.

“But,” says he, “it is not only in their way of presenting faith generally, but in their rash and unreasoned statement of special points of Christian belief, that our theologians have greatly erred.” And he mentions the doctrine of predestination and reprobation, the doctrine of original sin, the doctrine of eternal punishment, the doctrine of creation out of nothing, and the doctrine of God’s providential intervention in human affairs. We do not deny that the doctrine of predestination and reprobation has been discussed rashly and in an irreverent manner so as to create scandal and discord; but it is on the Protestant, and especially on the Calvinistic, preachers and writers that lies the responsibility of such deplorable quarrels. It was their private judgment pushed to excess and their pride that roused the storm. Of course our Catholic theologians could not look silently on such a wanton perversion of truth; to defend human liberty on the one side and God’s justice on the other they had to take part in the difficult controversy. They often differed in matters of detail, but their conclusions as to the main point—that is, as to the dogma—were uniform and irreproachable. Mysteries, however, do not cease to be true because men cannot unravel them. Theologians do not claim the privilege of tearing asunder the veil through which mysteries are seen; but they claim the honor of defending the objective truth of mysteries against the attacks of heresy and unbelief. This is why theologians investigate and expound mysteries; and to contend that the result of their labors is to encourage atheism is to abandon “the great principle of the Scottish philosophy called common sense,” or, to use another phrase of the author’s, “to pluck Reason by the beard.”

The author says that he has brought forward this matter (of predestination and reprobation) specially because the Calvinistic view of it, as laid down in the catechism used in the elementary schools of Scotland, occasions “no small amount of misery and self-torture to young persons beginning seriously to look into the great truths of religion and morals.” We agree with him. The Calvinistic doctrine of reprobation makes man the helpless victim of a tyrannical and cruel God, destroys all the seeds of piety, and fosters despair. But if its adoption may lead to atheism, it is not the fault of theology; it is the fault of Calvin’s rebellion against the church.

The next good service done by theologians to the anti-Christian tendencies of some “respectable” (?) classes of the community has been, according to our author, their inculcation of the doctrine of original sin. “Original sin,” says he with Coleridge, “is not a doctrine but a _fact_”; by which he means, we suppose, that the first man sinned, but that from this fact we cannot conclude that his children are born in sin.

“Moral merit and demerit are in the very nature of things personal; to imagine their transference is to destroy their definition. If every baby when born, in virtue of an act of transgression committed some six or eight thousand years ago by the father of the race, must be confessed a ‘hell-deserving sinner,’ and lying on the brink of eternal damnation as soon as it lies on its nurse’s lap, then every man of sound moral feeling is entitled to protest against a doctrine of which such a cruel absurdity is a necessary postulate.”

Here again the author is at fault. The dogma of the inheritance of guilt from our first parent is not an invention of theologians, but an explicit doctrine of the New and even of the Old Testament. To omit other quotations, St. Paul the apostle, whose authority is so frequently appealed to by our author, declares that Adam sinned, and that _in him all men have sinned_. Now, if St. Paul cannot be charged with doing a good service to anti-Christianity by preaching this doctrine, why should theologians be denounced for preaching it?

The author argues that “merit and demerit are personal,” and that “to imagine their transference is to destroy their definition.” Yes; but the dogma of original sin does not imply any such transference. The original sin is _personal_ and _inherited_, not _transferred_. “Out of good seed,” as the author tells us, “a good plant will grow, and out of bad seed a bad plant.” Is the badness of the plant _transferred_? No; it is inherited. And so it is with the stain of original sin. We are born of a degraded father, and we are a degraded race—degraded not only physically but morally; that is, deprived of the supernatural grace which accompanied the original justice in which man had been created. This is what St. Paul expresses by saying that we are born “children of wrath.” It is not in virtue of an act committed six thousand years ago that every baby is _formally_ a sinner; he is a sinner owing to his own personal destitution of supernatural grace, just as the child of a redskin is _formally_ a redskin, not by the skin of his father but by his own. This doctrine has been taught and held from the origin of Christianity by the most learned, the most acute, and the most holy men, without their sound moral sense being hurt by it; it was reserved to our vicious and ignorant generation to take scandal at the pretended cruelty involved in such divine dispensation. What a pity that God, in shaping his decrees, forgot to consult our learned professor of Greek![104]

The doctrine of eternal punishment is, according to Mr. Blackie, another “stone of stumbling” set up by the Christian doctors. The ancient Greeks, he remarks, had also taught this doctrine; but they taught it in a very modified form. Only a few flaming offenders were condemned to a state of helpless reprobation and inexhaustible torture. But the Christian churches “committed themselves to a theology drawn up by scholastic persons in a series of formal propositions which challenge contradiction and refuse compromise. Therefore the doctrine of infinite torture for finite sins is still stoutly maintained as a point of Christian faith, and as stoutly disowned by a large class of benevolent and thoughtful persons, who look upon such a doctrine as utterly inconsistent with the conception of a wise and benevolent Being.” He then adds that if there were not a great deal of dogmatic obstinacy, a fair amount of hermeneutical ignorance, and a considerable vein of cowardice also in the ecclesiastical minds, this stumbling-block might easily be removed. For “it does not require any very profound scholarship to know that the word αἰώνιος, which we translate _everlasting_, does not signify eternity absolutely and metaphysically, but only popularly, as when we say that a man is an eternal fool, meaning only that he is a very great fool.”

This last argument is easily answered. In fact, it does not require any very profound scholarship to know that the word αἰώνιος here means _everlasting_ in the sense of perpetual duration. This is evident from collateral passages of Scripture, from which we know that the fire of hell “shall not be extinguished,” that, the smoke of the torments of the wicked “shall ascend for ever and ever,” that their worm “shall never die,” etc., all which expressions, according to our “hermeneutical ignorance,” more than suffice to annihilate the professor’s pretension. Besides, the ancient translators of the Bible were as good professors of Greek, to say the least, as Mr. Stuart Blackie; but they never suspected that there would come a time when such slang as “an eternal fool” would mean “a very great fool.” It is too late now for any professor to pretend that the ancient Greek had no correct interpretation till English slang made its appearance.

The other argument consists in saying that a finite sin cannot deserve an infinite punishment. This, too, is easily answered. The act of sin is finite, but it violates the infinite majesty and sanctity of God, and on this account it partakes of infinity. However, let us drop this consideration, which is too scholastic to be understood by certain modern professors of Protestant institutions. We have another answer. A man can dig out his eyes in less than a minute; the act is finite, but its result is perpetual blindness. In like manner a man loses, by sinning, his fitness to see God in his glory; the act is finite, but the consequent unfitness is, of its nature, everlasting. God alone can restore the sinner to his previous condition; but this he is not obliged to do. The rehabilitation of a sinner is a real miracle, just as the resuscitation of Lazarus, and miracles are not the rule but the exception. God warns us that “the hope of the sinner shall perish,” that “now is the acceptable time,” and that after death “there is no redemption.” And yet we are accused of “dogmatic obstinacy” because we do not renounce this doctrine of faith!

We are told that there is a large class of “benevolent and thoughtful persons” who look upon such a doctrine “as utterly inconsistent with the conception of a wise and benevolent Being.” But our “dogmatic obstinacy” compels us to remark that this wise and benevolent Being knows much better than those “benevolent and thoughtful persons” what his wisdom and benevolence require; and therefore it is from his word, not from those “thoughtful persons,” that we must accept the solution of the problem. It may be that in doing so, we exhibit “a considerable vein of cowardice”; but it is wise to fear God. We are weak and he is almighty.

“Another stumbling-block which theologians have laid in the way of the devotee of physical sciences is _the creation out of nothing_. This dogma, which, as every scholar knows, is not necessarily contained in any place, whether of the Old or New Testament, arose in the Jewish Church, and has been stamped with orthodox authority in Christendom, partly from a pious desire to magnify the divine Omnipotence; partly from the timid stupidity of clinging to the letter instead of breaching the spirit of Scripture; and partly also from the evil trick which we have just mentioned of importing metaphysics and scholastic definitions into the Bible, from which all the Scriptures are the furthest possible removed. Now, the objection to this doctrine on the part of modern thinkers I conceive to be this: that, though not perhaps absolutely impossible, it is contrary to all known experience, and highly improbable if we are to judge of the constitution of things from what we see, not from what we choose to imagine. It is the vulgar imagination which delights to represent the Supreme Being as a sort of omnipotent harlequin, launching the _fiat_ of his volition, as the nimble gentleman in the pantomime strikes the table with his wand, and out comes a man, or a monkey, or something else, out of nothing. This is man’s crude conception; but God’s ways are not as man’s ways, and his way is _evolution_. Nothing is created out of nothing; and mere volition, even of an omnipotent Being, cannot be conceived as bringing into existence a thing of an absolutely opposite nature, called matter.”

To answer these reckless assertions in detail would take a volume. Fortunately, however, we may be dispensed from such a task, as there are hundreds of excellent books, both philosophical and theological, where the dogma of creation is fully established and victoriously vindicated. On the other hand, our professor does not give any proof of his infidel view; he merely asserts what has no possibility of proof. “Nothing is created out of nothing,” says he; but philosophy demonstrates that nothing is, or can be, created but out of nothing. “God’s way is evolution.” No; God’s way is creation. Evolution is man’s way, as Mr. Darwin and all his admirers know; and, since (as the author reminds us) God’s ways are not as man’s ways, it follows on his own showing that God’s way is not evolution. Evolution is impossible without antecedent creation. The subject of evolution is matter, and matter is a created being. To deny the creation of matter is to assume that matter is eternal and self-existent, or, in other terms, to make it an independent being or an appurtenance of Divinity; and this colossal absurdity even the author must reject, as he confesses that the nature of matter is “absolutely opposite” to the nature of Divinity.

The author imagines that the absolute opposition between God and matter makes it impossible for God to create matter, because “mere volition, even of an omnipotent Being, cannot be conceived as bringing into existence a thing of an absolutely opposite nature.” These words show the author’s philosophical ignorance of the law of causation. The law is that efficient causes must always be of a nature entirely different from that of their effects. The efficient cause of gravitation at the earth’s surface is the substance or matter of the earth itself; but gravitation is neither matter nor substance, but something entirely different. The soul is the efficient cause of the voluntary movements produced in our organism; and yet those movements have nothing common with the substance of the soul. And the same is to be said of all other effects as compared with their efficient causes.[105] Hence it is idle to argue that an omnipotent Being, owing to his spirituality, cannot create matter. The author will say that every effect must be contained in its cause, and that matter is not contained in God. To which it must be answered that effects are _eminently_ and _virtually_, not _formally_, contained in their efficient causes. If the effect existed formally in its cause its production by the cause would become a contradiction; for the effect would exist before its effection. Effects are said to be pre-contained in their causes only in this sense: that causes possess a power competent to produce their effects. Causation is action, and action is the production of an act. Every act produced is the formal principle of a new existence, or of a new mode of existence. To say that God cannot create matter is to say that God cannot produce an act giving formal existence to matter; which amounts to the denial of omnipotence. Still, the existence of matter must be accounted for. Matter undergoes modifications and is subject to natural agents; it is therefore essentially potential and contingent. How, then, did it come into existence? And how is it potential, if it is not created out of nothing, since nothingness is the only source of potentiality?

But we are told that creation out of nothing “is contrary to all known experience.” This shows what new kind of philosophers nowadays we have to deal with. They want to see God making a few acts of creation before they consent to believe, just as they want a lecturer to prove his theories by a series of visible experiments. God, of course, will not satisfy their curiosity; he has given them the light of reason and the light of revelation, which are quite enough. But were God to condescend to their yearning, would they believe even then? Would not these men, who have the impudence to speak of an “omnipotent Harlequin,” declare with equal profanity any visible fact of creation to be jugglery?

The author tells us also that “if we are to judge of the constitution of things from what we see, not from what we choose to imagine,” we shall find out that creation is improbable. At this we need not wonder; for the author is a great enemy of scholastic definitions and of metaphysics—that is, of intellectual light. He sees with the eyes of his body, but he shuts the eyes of his reason. Had he less horror of metaphysics, he might learn that “the constitution of things” proclaims in the loudest and most unmistakable language the fact of creation; and that every change or movement in the universe furnishes a peremptory demonstration of it. But what can a man see who discards definitions and disregards the principles of real philosophy?

And now let us see to what conclusions the author is led by his style of reasoning. He says:

“To us dependent ephemeral creatures all existence is a divine miracle; and the continuity of that divine miracle in the shape of what we call growth is, so far as we can see, the eternal form of divine creativeness. The absolute dualism of mind and matter which is implied in the received orthodoxy of the church is not warranted by any fact that exact science can recognize; nowhere do we find mind acting without a material instrument, nowhere matter absolutely divorced from the action of inherent forces, inasmuch as even the most motionless statical condition of things most solid is always produced by a balance of forces in some way or other—forces which, if they are not blind, but acting according to a calculated law, as they manifestly do, are only another name for Mind. This view of the constitution of the universe ... is generally disowned with a certain pious horror as pantheism, a word to which a great chorus of thoughtless and ill-informed people are straightway ready to echo back atheism, with the feeling that the two terms, though etymologically as opposed as white and black, are practically the same.... Pantheism, scientifically understood, has nothing to do either with materialism or with atheism. It ... simply denies the existence of two opposite entities in the world of divine reality, while it asserts the existence of only one. The world is essentially one; and the All, though externally many, is, when traced to its deepest roots, not different from the One; as the human body, for instance, is both one and many.... The term pantheism, therefore, is not opposed to unity, or to the principle of unity in the world, which is God; and a pantheist, as Hegel well said of Spinoza, may more properly be said to deny the world than to deny God.”

This is the quagmire into which the professor, as we said at the beginning of this article, has fallen. The view he takes of “the constitution of the universe,” the assertions he makes, and the arguments he employs are a mass of confusion to which no more appropriate name can be given than _nonsense_. We are “dependent ephemeral creatures.” Yes. But how could he call us “creatures,” he who denies creation? or “dependent,” he who makes us one with God? or “ephemeral,” he who includes us in the eternal All? Is not this a flagrant contradiction?

To us “all existence is a divine miracle.” If so, the author cannot consistently be a pantheist. Miracles are facts transcending the power and exigencies of nature. Pantheism divinizes nature, and admits of nothing transcending the power and exigencies of nature; and therefore pantheism can admit of no miracle.

“Growth is, so far as we can see, the eternal form of divine creativeness.” Growth implies change, whereas the eternal form of divine creativeness is altogether unchangeable. Hence, so far as we can see (and we see it most evidently), growth is _not_ what the professor imagines.

“The absolute dualism of mind and matter is not warranted by any fact that exact science can recognize.” If so, then exact science should find a way of reconciling the well-known inertia of matter with the equally well-known immanent and reflex self-activity of mind. For, as the latter excludes the former, their existence is the most incontrovertible evidence of the absolute dualism of matter and mind; and this evidence is quite scientific, too, for it is the result of universal and unexceptionable experience. But our men of science, who profess to deal with nothing but matter, are not the best judges about the attributes of mind. They are gross and material; they must see, and touch, and smell, and subject everything to chemical analysis; and spiritual substances refuse to be thus manipulated. Hence no wonder if these latter substances are not recognized in any fact of exact science so long as “exact science” is confined to the study of matter.

“Nowhere do we find mind acting without a material instrument.” Be it so; it does not follow that matter and mind are one and the same thing. The organ is not the organist, and the instrument is not the artist.

“Nowhere do we find matter divorced from the action of inherent forces.” Quite true; but these forces of matter are absolutely blind. The author pretends that they are not blind, because “they act according to a calculated law”; but this is a new blunder. It is not the forces of matter that have calculated the law, it is God that subjected them to the law; and their acting according to the law is a mechanical necessity. The very fact of their inviolable subjection to the law proves their utter blindness; for were they intelligent, they would have given before now some instances of proud rebellion at least in the hands of the torturing chemist.

“This view ... is generally disowned as pantheism.” Certainly. Let the author remember “the principle of the Scottish philosophy called _common sense_,” and let him ask himself if a view generally disowned deserves the honor of being adopted by a professor of a Scotch university.

“Pantheism, scientifically understood, has nothing to do with atheism.” May we ask how pantheism can be “scientifically understood”? Science is concerned only with material phenomena. God, mind, and spiritual things in general are beyond its reach. How, then, can what is above science be understood “scientifically”? And, again, how can pantheism be “understood” at all, since it is as contradictory as a changeable immutability, a compounded simplicity, or a sinful holiness? That the terms “pantheism” and “atheism” are etymologically opposed is quite clear; but our question is one of things, not of mere terms. The atheist says to God: “Thou hast no existence”; the pantheist says: “Thou art a compound of matter.” Which of them is better? Which is less irrational—the one who degrades his Creator, or the one who merely shuts his eyes that he may not see him? After all, neither the one nor the other has an object of worship—the atheist because he denies its existence, the pantheist because he denies its superiority; and thus the atheist and the pantheist are twin-brothers, with this only difference: that the latter wears a mask of hypocrisy, that he may the easier seduce those who would be disgusted with the impudence of the former.

“The world is essentially one.” No greater blunder could be uttered.

“The All, though externally many, is not different from the One.” The truth is that things cannot be “externally many” unless they be also intrinsically and substantially many. Thus in the human body, which the author brings forward as a fit illustration of his view, the limbs are many because each one substantially differs from each other. It is the negation of identity that makes things be many; and no such negation can be conceived without entities intrinsically distinct. Hence, if the All is “many,” it must intrinsically differ from the One.

“Pantheism is not opposed to the principle of unity in the world, which is God.” To this we say, first, that pantheism is opposed to the fact of plurality in the world. This fact is so manifest that no professor can plead ignorance of it. We say, secondly, that the world has unity of design, of composition, and of government, but no unity of substance. This, too, is as evident as noonday.

“Spinoza may more properly be said to deny the world than to deny God.” Were this granted, it would still be supremely foolish to trust and follow a leader who denies the world. But Spinoza denies God as well, if not explicitly, at least by implication. To set up a mass of contradictions, and to call it “God,” is to declare that there can be no God; and this is just what Spinoza did, through ignorance, we suppose, rather than malice, though not without a sovereign arrogance and presumption.

Before we end we must take notice of an attempt, on the part of Prof. Blackie, at answering the objection that pantheism destroys religion, “because it destroys human personality, and denies individual responsibility, on the foundation of which all human society, as well as all religious obligation, is constituted.” He answers thus: “Freedom, personality, and responsibility are facts which no theological or metaphysical theories can meddle with, any more than they can with generation, or appetite, or digestion.... The answer to all such speculative objections from transcendental theories, when brought into the world of practice, is a fact and a flogging.”

Bravo! Freedom, personality, and responsibility are facts. The pantheistic theory contradicts them, but cannot interfere with them any more than with generation, appetite, and digestion. Hence when any one argues from the pantheistic theory against freedom, personality, and responsibility, he must be answered with “a fact and a flogging.” And, _vice versa_, if any one from freedom, personality, and responsibility argues against the pantheistic theory which makes these things inexplicable and impossible, he, too, must be answered with “a fact and a flogging.” Does the reader understand the excellence of this liberalistic logic? Yes, with a fact and a flogging; for the eloquence of the scourge sometimes replaces with advantage the doubtful efforts of a hesitating tongue: _Si non prosunt verba, prederunt verbera_. What a candid confession of pantheistic impotence! But then, if flogging is to be resorted to, who shall be found more worthy of it than the pantheist himself, who wantonly contradicts by his theory what his common sense recognizes to be a fact?

The book we have thus far examined contains many other errors on important points of religion; but our readers need not be detained any longer in their refutation. The author admits a general providence, but a providence which imparts particular favors in reward of prayer he does not admit. Answers to prayers he considers to be “as ridiculous as interpretations of judgments are presumptuous.” For him “the idea of a God, constantly interfering in answer to prayer, or otherwise, is one of the most anthropomorphic of theological conceptions.” “Asceticism and monkery form a very sad and lamentable chapter in the history of the church.” Abstinence and mortification are “a pedantic and ridiculous sort of virtue,” and they are “abnormal, monstrous, inhuman, and absurd.” Then “there is, and can be, no such thing as a priesthood in Christianity.” It would take too long to enumerate all his theological, philosophical, and historical blunders, for his book is full of them; so we must give up the task.

In the last pages of the work we find a fairly good refutation of atheism, as maintained by Miss Martineau, Mr. Atkinson, and Prof. Tyndall. But what is the use of such a refutation, if it is intended merely as a first step towards pantheism? A pantheist has no right to refute atheism. Whatever he may say against it can always, in one manner or another, be retorted against himself; and when the retorsion is pushed on to its last consequences, his defeat takes the aspect of an atheistic victory. Thus nothing is gained, and discussions become interminable, to the great satisfaction of the sceptics. It is for this reason that most of the Protestant controversies on religious topics cannot be settled. Truth, if mixed with error, has little, if any, chance of victory; and books in which truth is compelled to minister to error are all the more pernicious because their poison is less recognizable. If this _Natural History of Atheism_ is what we assume it to be—a Masonic work—then we must confess that the Scottish Masons could not be served better than by such a baneful mixture of Calvinistic dogmatism and pantheistic dreams.

Footnote 103:

_The Natural History of Atheism._ By John Stuart Blackie, Professor of Greek at the University of Edinburgh. New York: Scribner, Armstrong & Co. 1878.

Footnote 104:

Children dying in original sin, though children of wrath, are not necessarily “hell-deserving sinners,” as the author objects. Most Catholic theologians maintain with good reasons that they will be in a state of _natural_ happiness, though debarred from the vision of God.

Footnote 105:

See THE CATHOLIC WORLD for February, 1874, where we have proved that _all efficient cause is infinitely more perfect and of an infinitely better nature than any of its effects_ (“The Principles of Real Being,” p. 584).

THE CREATED WISDOM.[106] BY AUBREY DE VERE. I.

Created Wisdom at the gate Of Heaven, ere Time began, I played; The Eternal Wisdom Uncreate Beheld me ere the worlds were made.

I danced the void abyss above: Of lore unwrit the characters I traced with wingèd feet, and wove The orbits of the unshaped stars.

When first the sun and moon had birth, When seas rushed back, and hills up sprang, Before God’s eyes in sacred mirth Once more I circled, and I sang.

I flashed—a Thought in light arrayed— Beneath the Eternal Wisdom’s ken: When came mine hour I lived, and played Among the peopled fields of men.

Blessed is he that keeps my ways, That stands in reverence on my floor, That seeks my praise, my word obeys, That waits and watches by my door.

Footnote 106:

Proverbs, cap. viii.

CONRAD AND WALBURGA.