XXXI. America…

XXXI. America

Two years have passed since the events happened which we last presented to our readers: it is on the other side of the Atlantic that our view now opens, but the friends we greet are of those we left behind.

The scene is in a beautiful extensive garden, well planted with trees; behind, on an eminence, rises a large white house with numerous piazzas which contrast pleasingly with the green sward and shrubs before it. The slope before the house is covered with groups of children weaving garlands, for it is a holiday, the feast of St. Aloysius; and all the schools have freed their pupils great and small. Feeling the privilege of the day, the children have bounded into the grounds of their patrons, M. and Madame de Villeneuve. They knew that a strawberry festival was preparing for them, and on their parts were anxious to be busy. Festoons were hung from pillar to pillar. The large refectory was opened, and the walls garlanded; merry voices were singing childish hymns and songs, and good humor was visible everywhere.

The grounds were very spacious; far away might be seen grown persons in holiday-trim; lads and lasses preparing the tables, and a band of music sending up, every now and then, cheery notes to gladden all around.

In yonder silent glade too, half hid by the thickness of the foliage, Eugene Godfrey is walking with his young bride; they are not yet past the honeymoon, and are bound for England. To-morrow is the day fixed for their departure, and the lady-bride; formerly Elise de Villeneuve, the youngest and fairest daughter of the house of De Villeneuve, is sentimentalizing very prettily her regrets at leaving, perhaps for ever, the paternal mansion.

Clotilde de Villeneuve, who has already entered as a postulant at the convent which is visible on that eminence to the right--rising majestically above the world and backed in the distance by the interminable forest; from which it is separated by that lovely series of lakes which lie at the foot of the hill on which the building stands--Clotilde de Villeneuve has for this one day consented to break inclosure that she may bid good-by to the young sister she brought up so carefully since her mother died.

There is another lady there, looking fairer and younger than when we saw her last, giving directions in a very pleasing tone; and ever and anon looking back, a little anxiously perhaps, to see what two young girls were doing with a something in a bundle of white muslin, which seemed very animated, and which the nurses are trying to kill with kindness.

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The pastor approaches, a fine old man with mild eyes, white hair, and a very benevolent aspect. All the little ones rise and courtesy, and Hester, yes, our old friend Hester, comes forward to greet him affectionately.

"Where is your husband, my dear lady?" asked the good priest, after returning the preliminary greeting.

"Well, I hardly know, he has been on the qui vive all day, here and there and everywhere. I hardly know where he is now. Do you want him particularly, father? You seem uneasy."

"Let us go in out of this hot sun," said the pastor, wiping his forehead.

They adjourned to the parlor, which opened on both sides to a piazza shaded by climbing plants, and thus promised a cool retreat. Hester handed the old gentleman a refreshing drink, for he seemed weary and excited. On setting down the glass, be whispered: "Are we alone here? Is anyone listening?"

"Not that I am aware of." said Hester, glancing in all directions. "I see no one, father, what is the matter?"

"There is mischief brewing in the city yonder; I want to see your husband. For the last six weeks there has been a strange man there, of singular eloquence, fomenting discord about Catholics, getting up a no-popery cry, uttering fearful scandals concerning the convent; to-night the people threaten to burn it down."

"Can this be true? Who is your informant?"

"My man Walter. It seems he knew the stranger in England."

"I know Edward has been annoyed with reports of some plots, but he thought as little about it as he could; he never harmed any body, and cannot imagine any body would harm him."

"This is a religions or rather a fanatical plot. What the purpose is, it is difficult to discover. The designer means something dark, you may be sure, the multitude are but his tools. He has used all the plea he could find; have not your committees refused many applications to receive pupils?"

"Yes, Edward acts on his father's plan, and he says the old marquis always insisted that a child was more formed by his companions than by his teachers; that one dissipated worldly companion would contaminate a school. It seems he loved real children, and hated the little bits of affectation, aping men and women, which we now so often see; so Edward will positively not have a child in the schools unless he knows the home influence they are under. In fact, our schools are not only exclusively Catholic, those we call normal schools are open only to picked Catholics. Edward wants them to turn out good and efficient teachers of practical Catholicity, and before he receives a pupil he not only exacts certain promises from the children, but from the parents also, as to the influence they will exercise from a distance. As long as they attend his schools they are under certain restrictions, at home as well as abroad."

"All this is good for the children, but it has made enemies. Those out of the pale pretend something must be wrong in so exclusive a system; they are jealous of advantages from which their children are excluded."

"But a great deal of the influence exerted is purely religious; how can we bring that influence to bear on such as are not Catholics, or who are worldly Catholics, who come merely for secular advantages?"

"I am not saying you are not right; I only say you have made enemies."

"I believe my husband would rather give up the schools than compromise his principles. He has been intimately acquainted with the management of some Catholic schools in which all parties were admitted: the rule was to all alike, it was difficult to make a distinction. Children, non-Catholics, were admitted to religious societies, services, and processions. {47} He has a very firm conviction that the result was that they were led to believe that assisting with due outward decorum, without the internal feeling of reverence, was all that Catholicity required; while the Catholics themselves, seeing others without faith were thus admitted, naturally ceased to regard faith as so essential a matter as the sermons heard in church proclaim it to be, and became liberal Catholics when they retained their faith at all. My husband knows he is called bigoted, but I do not think it has changed his feeling. He thinks the Catholic school a sacred place; and the soul of a little baptized child a thing to be guarded with reverential awe."

"Yes, I know De Villeneuve's reverence: he should have lived in the times when the catechumens were driven out of the church before the sacred mysteries could be performed."

"Indeed, father, I have seen his whole frame quiver with terror when any one, Catholic or non-Catholic, behaved irreverently in the presence of the blessed sacrament. He maintains that the worldliness of the age springs from the want of this reverence."

"He may be right, but meantime we must provide for the present safety. Your brother is not gone?"

"No, he starts to-morrow. I will send for him to come and see you."

M. de Villeneuve was not to be found, for the very cause that brought the priest to his dwelling. He was in earnest conference with the priest's man Walter on the subject of the projected attack. "Are you sure it was your brother that you saw?"

"Quite sure, sir."

"You did not let him see you?"

"I did not; I was very careful on that point."

"And you are sure they fixed tonight?"

"Quite sure, but if disappointed tonight they will try some other night."

"Did you hear of any one person marked out for any special object."

"There will be an attempt made to carry off Lady Conway and her children."

"I suspected as much. Well, we must be prepared; I will row Lady Conway across the lake, and you can drive her up the country to neighbor Friendly's house, without anyone suspecting the matter. Be silent and cautious, I will prepare watches secretly. You get home as quickly as you can from the drive."

"I will, sir."

The fête passed off without any alarm: no one would have dreamed that an attack was expected. The nuns one by one left the convent, which was supposed to be the object aimed at by the attack, and let the watchers guard the dwelling, while they took refuge at M. de Villeneuve's mansion. They dared not alarm the inmates of the school-house, which they thought was left out of the plot, lest their plan of safety should be frustrated. But an armed band watched over its safety in the hovels, and wherever they could be stationed unseen.

It was a dreary watch, though a lovely night; the round, full moon threw its splendid light over hill and and valley, lake and forest glades. Not a sound was heard. The watchers did not trust themselves to speak, lest they should give the alarm outside. Eleven, twelve, one, two; shall we wait longer? Yes, there is a sound outside; the out-houses are already on fire, and the school-house and the convent--all at once. A whole multitude of rioters are in the grounds; they force the convent doors, and, to their surprise, are met by armed men.

"Save, save the children," is the cry; "let everything go, even the prisoners, till they are saved." There is no engine, the city is so far away, and rioters are all around; but ladders had been prepared during the day, and everyone was soon in requisition. But the fire seemed then the least evil, for as each young lady was borne from the flames a mob surrounded her, and a fight ensued for possession. It was a terrible scene, the more terrible as it was impossible to get the children and teachers together to see if all were there. {48} There was no resource but to fire on the assailants, and accordingly a volley was discharged. This sobered the people somewhat; they loosed their hold and fled. One man, with a few followers, lingered awhile, apparently very anxious still to examine the parties saved; he was observed and seized by a strong hand and bound. Alfred Brookbank was the prisoner of his brother Walter.

And now are the pupils all saved? for the house is burning fast. How anxiously they were counted! What a relief to find them all there! There were no lives lost, and but that the building had been fired in many places at once, that could have been saved by the valiant arms who were there to defend it. But the evil work had been done effectually, the convent and school-house were level with the ground. Many of the valuables had been removed the day before; but the furniture was destroyed. The newspapers said it was the work of the mob; yes, but that mob was excited by one man's revengeful soul, which had animated the spirit of that mob to frenzy. Americans are too generous to make war upon defenceless women, unless incited thereto by some false tale of wickedness.

To bring the poor frightened children into the house, and to send to the city for police, occupied nearly all the night, and part of the next day; and then they took time to examine the prisoner who had been cast bound into the cellar. He was crest-fallen and terror-smitten at last! He knew the tale of terror his brother would have to tell; the quarrel about the estate; the offer to compromise; the attempt to drown him by throwing him over-board near the falls; and, finally, the belief on Alfred's part that the crime had been consummated when a body, disfigured and shapeless, had been picked up below the falls. He did not wait long in jail to have this and a long catalogue brought out against him--he died by his own hand.

Walter Brookbank wandering, restless, and dissipated, had been seized with fever in a wretched hovel, where he was found by some poor Catholics, who brought the priest (then on a mission in that district) to see him. The priest had him tended and cared for till he was well, then invited him to his house, and converted him to a Christian life; redeemed him doubly, first from the death of this life, then from that of the next. Walter had been grateful, and preferred to live henceforth as servant of the church, than to re-encounter the perils of the world by claiming his inheritance; it passed by default to his mother and sisters.

Our tale draws to its conclusion.

The multitude who, deceived by Alfred Brookbank's inflammatory tongue, had fired the convent, slunk away to their homes, ashamed, at length, of having expended all their energy in a cowardly attack on defenceless women and children. Would I could say they repented and endeavored to repair the mischief; but it was not so, the convent was rebuilt, but it was by Catholic money, by Catholic hands, and by Catholic hearts; and save the ring-leader, who, as we have seen, judged himself, the perpetrators of the dastardly deed remained unsought for by the authorities, undiscovered and unpunished.

This event checked for a while the work of the good society which M. de Villeneuve had founded, and of which he was the president and the "animus." This society was composed of enlightened Catholic fathers and mothers, who were fervent in their desires of establishing high Catholic education on a firm and practical basis. It was a committee formed to aid the practice of those precepts delivered by the zealous pastors of the church; to examine the books put into the hands of children, and to have them written, if none suitable were found, on the subjects required; to discuss all points of discipline recommended to them by the teachers, and provide that the financial department should not harass those who had charge of the intellectual department. {49} They were outside co-operators in the good work of education; valuable coadjutors in a matter in which it concerns every good Catholic to interest himself, for society is made up of individuals, and on the good training of those individuals depends the public welfare.

Their schools comprised both sexes; I will now speak of the girls only, as it was the matter in which our friend Hester most interested herself, for the reason that she thought that the formation of good women, wives and mothers, is lost sight of in the fashionable circles of our large cities. She had discovered that the fathers and husbands (men of large wealth and of thriving business) were, through the extravagance and non-domesticity of their families (more particularly of their wives and daughters), leading a life of torture under the appearance of prosperity; and that young men, with incomes of from $1,500 to $2,000 a year, shrank from marrying, because of the extravagance and selfishness they daily witnessed among the ladies. "Now," said Hester, with something of her old positiveness, "if this is so, the responsibility of the shame and degradation of so many unfortunate women lies at the door of the rich and honored ladies who turn aside from them in disgust, and the education of true women must be the basis of the renovation of society: for to woman's influence is confided the happiness of the family, as to family influence is committed the guardianship of the state. Where the family is out of joint, the state will be out of joint too. O my dear Edward! I now comprehend the prophecy you think so much of: 'That the worship of the blessed mother of God will be in after times one such as is not dreamed of in the present age of disruption. The blessed Virgin is the example of all womanhood; the family of Nazareth the true type of the Christian family; labor, purity, intelligence, submission, such must be the watchwords of all womanly training; such will form happy households and forward true progress.'"

The objects of the educational institutions at Villeneuve were in strict accordance with these views; they comprised several classes, and in each class were several departments.

The highest was that of a boarding-school, regulated by the nuns themselves; it was within the enclosure, though apart from the convent, and having its own allotted grounds. It was a normal school, the object of which was to prepare efficient school teachers for the parochial schools throughout the country. No pupil could enter this establishment under fifteen years of age, or for a shorter period than three years; and if at the end of that time she had won her diploma, she was expected for the two years following to place herself at the disposal of the church, to teach any parochial school that might require such assistance. Besides the thorough course of instruction given during these three years, to enable the pupils to fulfil their duties efficiently as school-teachers, and to keep pace with the secular knowledge required by the age, the pupils were required to do all their own work: they took it by turns to provide for the household; the cooking, washing, every part of the household work, and making their own clothes, were all done by themselves; so that at the end of the five years, when their term of teaching had expired, they were ready to become either efficient members of society, fit to perform the duty of wife, mother, or teacher, or to enter religion, should such prove to be their vocation.

The second class of schools were named the probation schools; these, in their various departments, received children of all ages under fifteen, but Catholics only. The parents of the children attending these schools were required to give a guarantee that, during the children's attendance at these schools, they should not be allowed to read either novels or any other books not approved by the committee, nor attend any place of amusement disapproved by the church. {50} In fact, during their attendance at school, it was a part of the labor of the directors to provide suitable relaxation within the school grounds, that they might the more easily discourage all dissipation outside. There were also regulations concerning deportment and dress, which formed very efficient aids in inculcating Christian manners, but the details of which it is not necessary to give here.

These schools are supposed to be the Christian schools par pre-eminence. The young ladies of the first-named schools were much sought as wives, when their excellence became known; most of them could have married rich men, had they chosen to marry out of the church, but this, I need hardly say, they refused to do. Many entered teaching sisterhoods, and proved very efficient members of the society which they joined.

The children of the second series were, on the other hand, simple, joyous, affectionate, pious, and obedient. The age for childhood was renewed, and the results were very pleasing.

Besides these, the committee prevailed on M. de Villeneuve to establish (after the incendiary fire) general schools open to the community at large. In these schools the routine was Catholic; none but Catholic books were admitted, and as much Catholic training was introduced as the public mind would bear. These institutions were thronged, for the teachers were efficient, and the discipline much approved of. These were the best remunerating schools of the series. But M. de Villeneuve could never be brought to be satisfied with the results, and only in deference to the wishes of his friends did he tolerate them at all. His chief care was to prevent children from these schools being admitted to serve in the church or to take part in religious processions, until they had been well proved, and then he wished them removed to the Christian schools before he presented them to the pastor. Many thought the man a monomaniac, he had so great a horror of sacrilege, or indeed of witnessing any irreverence in the church at all. Strangely enough, his wife Hester saw in this only an additional virtue, which she endeavored to assist her husband in enforcing, as indeed she did in all his regulations.

A week or two after the fire, when the excitement had somewhat subsided, Eugene took his young wife to England. He found that Adelaide had been so busy during the past two years in providing orphan asylums, refuges, and hospitals, and so forth, that Mr. Godfrey had been very frequently alone, and this rendered him very glad to welcome his pretty, gentle daughter-in-law, and he persuaded Eugene to establish himself at Estcourt Hall, that he himself might have a home for his old age. In due time he learnt to amuse himself with his, little grand-children, utterly forgetful that they were members of a hated church. I never heard that be became a Catholic himself.

Eugene soon found interest and employment in aiding the Catholic movement which first agitated for emancipation, and then employed earnest minds in co-operating with the declared will of the church, to give efficiency to the measures which soon after provided a Catholic hierarchy for England.

As soon as Mr. Godfrey's comfort was provided for in Eugene's household, Adelaide united her efforts to those of Ellen, and together they established a society, which in after years developed itself as one of the many orders of Mercy which bless the great city of London. Without a uniform, though living under a rule, these ladies and their associates perform countless deeds of charity and kindness, the origin of which is often unknown to the recipients. Few among that saintly community are more anxious to obey, or to humble themselves, than the once proud duchess. Generous to all, to herself alone she became sparing and non-indulgent, and if the voice of praise, often publicly lauding her, met her ear in private, she would say, with a sigh, "Ah! how easy is all this, to give when we have more than we want, and to love those who spend their life in toil for the comfort and luxury of the wealthy. {51} But to love God as Bridget Norton loved him; to trust him when nothing but clouds and darkness were around; to face starvation, disgrace, and all, in trust that God would bring up those dear little ones for himself--this is heroism. Oh! talk not of the goodness of the rich; they are great people in this world of false show, but Bridget Norton called down the angels to witness her death and bear her noble martyr soul to heaven."

. . . .

Annie's children rewarded her care; the boy became a worthy priest, and the girl, after witnessing the consecration of her brother, requested permission to enter the convent in which she was brought up. Mother and daughter received the veil on the same day. All efforts to recover the property for the children proved fruitless. But they had long since learned that happiness does not consist in wealth.

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Original

Kettle Song.

Sing, kettle, sing! Busily boil away! My goodman to the field has gone, The children are out at play.

Sing, kettle, sing! Sing me a merry song! You and I have company kept This many a year along.

Sing, kettle, sing! I'll join with a low refrain-- Needle and thread drawn through my work, Like steadily falling rain.

Sing, kettle, sing! The far-off fancies come, But never a sad or a weary thought Along with your cheery hum.

Sing, kettle, sing! The hearth is swept and clean, And the tidy broom in the corner stands Like a little household queen.

Sing, kettle, sing! Evening is drawing nigh, The shadows are coming down the hill And coming up in the sky.

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Sing, kettle, sing! Shadows are on the wall-- The last stitch done! a merry shout! And here are the rovers all!

Sing, kettle, sing! By the merry candle-light, And you and I'll keep company Again to-morrow night!

Fanny Fielding.

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Original.

Ritualism.

by John R. G. Hassard.

In one of the up-town streets of New-York there is a Protestant Episcopal Church dedicated to St. Alban. It is externally a plain, unattractive little building of brick and stone, in the early English style, with a modest little porch, and a sharp high roof, surmounted by a belfry and a cross. Within there is little to be seen in the way of ornament about the body of the church. The seats are plain benches rather than pews, and are free to all comers. But any one who should enter St. Alban's, not knowing to what denomination it belonged, and should look toward the sanctuary, would be very apt to fancy for a moment that he had got into a Catholic Church. Let us imagine ourselves among the crowd of curious spectators who fill the edifice of a Sunday morning. In place of the reading-desk conspicuous in most Protestant meeting-houses, there is a very proper-looking altar set back against the chancel wall, and ornamented with a colored and embroidered antependium. Behind it, instead of a painting, there is an illuminated screen-work, with inscriptions in old English ecclesiastical text, not much easier to be read than if they were in Latin. Where the tabernacle ought to be, stands a large gilt cross; on each side of it are vases and ornaments. On a shelf which runs along the wall back of the altar there are candlesticks, three tall ones at each side, and two others just over the altar itself. We see altar-cards, such as are used at mass; a burse for holding the corporal; and a chalice covered with a veil, the color of which varies with the season of the ecclesiastical year. Today not being a festival, the hue is green. At one end of the altar is a big book on a movable stand. At the epistle side is a credence table with a silver paten, on which is the wafer-bread for communion, and with vessels of wine and water that might be called cruets if they were only a little smaller. The pulpit stands just outside the railings on the left. There is a little raised desk on it for the preachers's book or manuscript, and this desk is covered with a green veil. Opposite the pulpit on the right hand side is a lectern with a bible on it. The lectern likewise has green hangings. On one side of the sanctuary is a row of stalls, precisely like those we see in some of our cathedrals and seminary-chapels. On the other are benches for the choristers. The organ is in a recess just behind them, and the organist sits in the chancel, in full view of the people, with his back to the instrument. He wears a white surplice, and presents altogether a very respectable and ecclesiastical appearance.

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The appointments of St. Alban's being so very much like those of a real church, we shall not be surprised to find the service almost equally like a real mass. At the appointed hour an acolyte in cassock and surplice lights the two candles on the altar. Then we hear a chorus of male voices-- principally boys--intoning a chant, and presently a procession issues from the vestry door and files into the chancel. First comes a lad wearing a black cassock and short surplice, and carrying a cross on a tall staff. Then follow the chanters, men and boys, similarly attired; then one or two clergymen, or perhaps theological students, also in cassock and surplice; next two little boys in red cassocks; and finally two officiating ministers, wearing long albs. The "priest" has a green stole, crossed on his breast, and confined at the sides by a cincture; the "deacon's" stole is worn over the left shoulder. The clerks take their places in the stalls; the singers proceed to their benches. The cross-bearer kneels at one side of the altar; the "priest" kneels at the foot of the steps, with the deacon behind him and the acolytes at his side. The service about to be performed is not the "Order of Morning Prayer" prescribed by the prayer-book, but simply the communion service. The officiating minister (for the sake of convenience let us call him what he calls himself--the priest; though without, of course, admitting his sacerdotal character) chants a short prayer, very much in the style of the chanting we hear at mass, and the choir respond "Amen." Then the litany is chanted antiphonally, by one of the clergy and the choristers alternately; it is in the main a translation of that part of our litany of the saints in which we address Almighty God directly, without asking the intercession of his blessed. This over, the ministers and acolytes retire in the same order in which they entered, and the organist plays a voluntary, during which the other six altar-candles are lighted. When the clergy return the priest is seen in a green maniple and chasuble. The latter differs from the vestment worn by the Catholic priest at mass only in being less stiff in texture, pointed behind, and covering the arm nearly to the elbow; and instead of being embroidered with a cross on the back it is marked with a figure nearly resembling the letter Y. With hands clasped before his breast the priest now ascends the steps, and standing before the altar, with his back to the people, goes on with the second part of the service. We need not describe it, for it is principally translated from the missal. The words are all repeated in a tone which is half reading and half chanting, and whenever the minister says "Let us Pray," or "The Lord be with you," he turns round to the people like a priest chanting "Oremus" or "Dominus Vobiscum." The epistle and gospel are read by the deacon. The sermon follows; a rather vague and wordy discourse, chiefly remarkable for the frequent and affectionate use of the term "Catholic." The preacher begins by saying "In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost," and the more devoutly disposed of the congregation thereupon cross themselves. After the sermon comes the most solemn part of the service, taken nearly verbatim from the canon of the mass; and at the commencement a great many of the congregation who apparently are not communicants, leave the church with reverential faces, as if they supposed the old law forbidding catechumens to witness the more sacred mysteries were still in force. But the curious spectators, who compose a large proportion of the audience, are under no such scruple about remaining.

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We need not describe the order of the service in detail, because the words are almost exactly those to which we are ourselves accustomed, and the ceremonies come as close to those of the mass as it is possible to make them come. Whenever the ministers or attendants pass before the altar they make a low bow to the cross. As the time of consecration approaches, the deacon goes to the corner of the altar, and the acolytes bring him there the bread and water and wine, which he hands to the priest, the wine and water being mixed in the chalice. The prayer of consecration (a translation of our own) is chanted like the rest of the service, until the priest reaches the words, "This is my body," etc., "This is my blood," etc.; those, suddenly dropping his voice, he repeats in a low voice, bending over, and immediately afterward lifting up the elements on high. The attendants, during this ceremony, hold up the corners of his vestment. After the consecration all make genuflections, instead of bows, when they have occasion to pass before the altar.

After receiving communion himself, the priest administers it to the deacon and clergy and the altar boys. The people then approach the railing and the priest gives them the consecrated wafer, using the formula prescribed in the Catholic and the Protestant Episcopal liturgies alike--"The body of our Lord Jesus Christ," etc.; but with each morsel of bread before he gives it he makes the sign of the cross, which is a striking innovation in the Protestant service. The deacon follows with the chalice. Before the communion, however, a general confession is recited, and then the priest, turning toward the people with great solemnity, repeats the form of absolution, making the sign of the cross as he does so with outstretched arm. After communion the celebrant scrapes the crumbs from the paten into the chalice, and takes the ablutions at the corner of the altar exactly as the priest does at mass. And when the congregation is dismissed at the close, it is with a blessing and the sign of the cross, just as we are dismissed after the Ite, Missa est at the end of the mass.

On specially solemn occasions incense is used at St. Alban's, and various other ceremonies are performed which have been borrowed from the Catholic ritual. For example, candles are placed about the corpse when the burial service is read.

We have described a service at St. Alban's, because that is the church in which the ritualistic ideas, as they are called, are carried out to the fullest development they have thus far attained in the United States. But the rector and congregation of St. Alban's are by no means the only persons of the Protestant Episcopal denomination who entertain those ideas. They are only a little more advanced in their views than the majority of the High Church Episcopal party. There are many places in New York where Sunday services are conducted more or less in conformity with the practices of the ritualists; and antiphonal chanting and other popish abominations have been introduced, even into sober old Trinity Church itself. The number of those who believe that divine service ought to be conducted with a more elaborate ceremonial than any Protestant sect has thus far admitted is rapidly increasing, and among them are many of the most distinguished and influential of the Episcopal clergy.

But if so many strange things are done in our own country, they are nothing to the innovations which are rapidly gaining ground in the Church of England. The ritualistic movement in Great Britain is not so much the struggle of an enthusiastic party for change or reform as it is the spontaneous working of a logical doctrinal development which is gradually spreading throughout the community. There is a struggle attending it; but it is the struggle of the let-alone party for its repression, not of the apostles of ritualism for its extension. And in spite, perhaps partly in consequence, of the bitterness of the opposition, the number of churches in which the good old Catholic ceremonies are revived in their ancient splendor is, daily augmenting, and the zeal of the congregations is increasing. {55} Ritualism in England is not what Punch is so fond of representing it--a mere system of ecclesiastical millinery, born of the sick brains of foolish and fanciful young curates; but it is a genuine expression of the sentiment of a respectable minority of the Protestant laity. The numerous prayer-books and similar works, prepared for the use of laymen under ritualistic inspiration, are sold by millions of copies. One entitled "The Churchman's Guide to Faith and Piety," contains formulas for morning and evening prayer, with an examination of conscience; devotions for saints' days; instructions for systematic sacramental confession, and for devoutly receiving the holy Eucharist and assisting at the sacred mysteries; and prayers for the faithful departed. The real presence and the sacrificial character of the holy Eucharist are expressed in the clearest possible manner. There are several hand-books of devotion toward the blessed sacrament, and manuals of religious exercises in honor of certain particular manifestations of the divine goodness, such, for instance, as the passion of our Saviour. A collection of "Hymns, Ancient and Modern," of which it was stated some time ago that over one and a half millions of copies had been sold, contains simply the principal hymns of the Breviary, and in a work entitled "An Appendix to the Hymnal Noted," the advanced Puseyite will find complete directions for using those hymns in public worship, according to the rubrics of the Breviary. An English publisher has just announced a new manual containing "the offices of prime and compline and the vigils for the dead; the forms of blessing and sprinkling holy water; the Missa in nocte Nativitatis Domini; the Lenten litanies; the blessing of the ashes and the palm branches; the washing of the altars and the Maundy; the benediction of the fonts on Holy Saturday, and the like: translated from the Latin, with an introduction and explanatory notes, and illustrated with extracts from the consuetudinary of the church of Sarnm and the plain-song of the Mechlin office-books."

"Matins" and "vespers" are chanted in many of the English churches by choristers robed in surplices and ranged on each side of the chancel. The Gregorian tones are used to a great extent. The officiating clergyman wears a cope on festival days, and it has been the custom until lately to incense the altar during the chanting of the Magnificat. The most complete return, however, to the practice of the ancient church is seen in the celebration of the Eucharist. All the Catholic vestments--the amice, alb, cincture, maniple, stole, and chasuble--have been restored. The regulations of the rubrics respecting different colors for different days and seasons are followed. Sometimes the celebrant is attended by a deacon and a subdeacon, acolytes, and censer bearers; and the use of candles on the altar is very common. Even in churches where candles, incense, and colored vestments are unknown, the Introit, taken from the Roman missal or the missal of Salisbury, is frequently chanted at the beginning of the service, and it is a very common practice to add to the regular liturgy contained in the Book of Common Prayer various prayers taken from the ordinary and the canon of the mass. For example, the minister often prefixes to the service the psalm Judica me, Deus with the antiphon, the Confiteor, etc., which we hear every day at mass. So, too, when the celebrant is placing the bread and wine on the altar, he borrows our offertory and the prayers which follow it, his own liturgy not having furnished him with anything appropriate to the occasion. The Anglican office sets down no prayers for the priest's own communion; he, therefore, supplies the omission by reciting in a low voice the unde et memores of the missal.

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The use of crucifixes and images, and especially the image of the blessed virgin, holding her divine Son in her arms, is by no means uncommon among the more advanced ritualists; and some clergymen are in the habit of blessing objects of devotion, such as medals and crosses, and even of blessing holy water. A correspondent of a London newspaper writes a letter of indignant complaint about the Christmas celebrations this season, at some of the "advanced" churches, in one of which he declares that "numberless tapers shed their halo of glory upon a veritable Bambino," or figure of the infant Saviour lying in the manger. An Anglican Missal has been published at Oxford, containing the order of the Communion service, without any other part of the Liturgy. This service is commonly spoken of as the "mass," and we even hear of "high mass," and "low mass," to say nothing of matins and vespers. A few weeks ago we read an account in an English paper of a nuptial mass in one of the ritualistic churches. The faithful address their ministers as Father John, Father Peter, or whatever the Christian name may be, and talk of their "confessors" and "spiritual directors" with all the composure of genuine Catholics.

The following description of a service at St. Alban's in London in holy week, is taken from an English newspaper:

The altar on Maundy Thursday was vested in white and the holy Eucharist was solemnly celebrated at 7 A.M. when many of the members of a confraternity attached to the church communicated. After the morning service the altar was entirely stripped of all its vestings and ornaments except the candlesticks, and so remained until Easter eve. On Good Friday, there was a meditation at 8 A.M., which was well attended. The church was full at 10.30, when matins and the ante-communion office were said. The sermon was followed by the chanting of the Reproaches, and the hymn Pange Lingua. At 2 P.M., after the singing of the litany, the Rev. A. H. Mackonochie preached the three hours' agony, the order of which was as follows: (1.) One of the words of our Lord on the cross, was chanted by the choir; (2.) A short sermon on the word was next pronounced; (3.) All knelt in silent meditation, the organ playing softly; (4.) A hymn was sung. This order was observed for each of the words on the cross, the whole service lasting three hours and a half. At 3 o'clock, the hour of our Lord's death, the bell was tolled for five minutes, while all knelt in silence. Even-song, or vespers, took place at 7 P.M. The sermon was followed by the chanting of the Stabat Mater and Miserere. A meditation on the taking down from the cross closed the evening. All through the day the bell was tolled solemnly, and most of the congregation appeared in mourning. On Easter eve there was service at 9 P.M. The church was elaborately decorated for the coming festival with white and scarlet hangings, hot-house flowers, and candles. The service opened with a procession, the chanters singing the old Easter hymn O filii et filiae, and three of the attendants carrying banners. Then vespers were chanted, and after the reading of the second lesson the sacrament of baptism was administered to twenty-eight persons. On Easter Sunday the Eucharist was celebrated at 7, 8, and 9 A.M.; at 10.30, matins were sung; and at 11.15 there was a grand Easter service which we suppose the high and dry "Anglo-Catholics" would call high mass. The ministers and attendants, with lights and banners, entered in procession, while the choristers chanted the hymn Ad Caenam Agni. As soon as they reached the altar, the Introit was sung, and the "mass" or communion service, was then celebrated in the usual manner, another breviary hymn, the victimae Paschali, being chanted at the offertory.

In an account of the holy week services at St. Philip's, Clerkenwell, we read that on Palm Sunday the altar was vested in black, the cross veiled with crape, and the retable strewn with palm branches. {57} The choir, bearing palms, entered the church, singing the hymn "Ride on, etc.," preceded by the processional cross which was also veiled with crape. At a church in the diocese of Manchester recently, the services for Good Friday began at midnight, with a litany and sermon. At 6 A. M. there was a litany again, with a second sermon. At 9 A. M. followed matins and a sermon; at noon a special service and sermon; at 3 P. M. litany and sermon; at 6, evensong, and sermon, at 9, litany, sermon and benediction. The Church Times, a ritualist periodical, remarked that it was "cheering to find the Catholic view of the observance of the great fast so admirably developed in a diocese so terribly over-ridden by Puritanism."

Some of our readers may remember the circumstances attending the funeral of the Rev. John Mason Neale at East Grinstead, England, in August 1866. Dr. Neale was well known as the author of some admirable translations of Breviary hymns, as one of the most earnest apostles of ritualism, and as the founder of a convent of women. The burial ceremonies, in the chapel of Sackville College, included what might be called a high mass of requiem, with priest, deacon, and sub-deacon, habited in magnificent vestments of black silk trimmed with silver; an assistant priest; and a master of ceremonies, or ceremoniarius. The service commenced with the introit "Grant them eternal rest, O Lord." After the epistle the Dies Irae was chanted in Grergorian melody, as the gradual. When choir and congregation assembled after communion in the college quadrangle, there to form themselves into a procession, one of the clergy repeated the prayer, Deus, qui nobis sub sacramento mirabili, which is always chanted in the Catholic church at the benediction of the blessed Sacrament. In the procession, besides clerks, chanters, acolytes, and cross-bearer, appeared the "sisters of the third order;" novices; "sisters of the second order" in white veils edged with blue; "professed sisters;" the mother superior, assistant mother, and mistress of novices of Dr. Neale's convent; superiors of other orders; "brothers associate;" etc. The corpse "was vested in cassock, surplice, and black stole; a crucifix was in his crossed hands, the same one which he was in the habit of having before him when hearing confessions." In an appendix to a virulent little treatise against ritualism by the Rev. Robert Vaughan, D.D., [Footnote 8] there are descriptions of services in several of the advanced churches; and the author says: "This is the course of things in a large number of our city and suburban churches over the kingdom; and not a few churches in our smaller towns, and even in our villages, do their best, as before intimated, toward imitating the example set them by their more fashionable and wealthy neighbors. The editor of The Church Times filled some thirty columns of that journal with such reports as we have cited, relating to the celebrations of last Easter, and stated that the accounts he had published were 'only a small selection from the overwhelming mass' which had reached him," Proof enough that the movement, as we said before, is very widely extended and essentially popular.

[Footnote 8: Ritualism in the English Church in its Relation to Scripture, Piety, and Law. By Robert Vaughan, D.D. 12mo. London: 1866.]

Everybody remembers the commotion raised a year or two ago by an enthusiastic gentleman named Lyne who called himself "Brother Ignatius," and made a very foolish and unfortunate attempt to establish a Protestant order of Benedictines in England. But other efforts to introduce religious communities into the Church of England have been more prosperous, and there are now at least 400 or 500 members of various sisterhoods, who take vows, some for life, some for three years. [Footnote 9]

[Footnote 9: Sisterhood have obtained a precarious footing in the United States. There is one in New York, whose members wear a costume suggested somewhat of the cloister and somewhat of the mantua-maker's shop. They have neat little things, between caps and veils, on their heads; make-believe rosaries hanging from their girdles; and black bombazine gown's distended to fashionable dimensions by means of hoop-skirts.]

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In all cases there is a novitiate of one or two years, and it is said that women who take the vows almost always adhere to them. Brotherhoods are not at all flourishing, but there is a loud call for them among the ritualists, and we see no reason to doubt that they will soon follow in the general progress of the Catholic revival. Of the number of congregations in which ritualistic practices are followed, we have no exact account; but a disinterested authority in which we have confidence estimates the number of the clergy who entertain the advanced views at about 2000. Among them are a few of the bishops, the most prominent being Dr. Wilberforce, bishop of Oxford, and Dr. Hamilton, bishop of Salisbury. Indeed, the rapid progress of the new ideas seems to have thrown the thorough-going Protestants into a fever of alarm. Courses of lectures are got up to counteract the growing spirit, and monster petitions and memorials are presented to the bishops by the clergy and people of their dioceses. A remonstrance with five hundred signatures has been laid before the Bishop of Salisbury; a memorial with two thousand and three hundred names has been presented to the Bishop of Gloucester; and four hundred and twenty-three of the clergy of London have united in a protest. Colored vestments are worn in twelve of the London churches, incense is used in six, and colored stoles have been introduced in three, which have not yet adopted the full "Eucharistic vestments."

Not very long ago a grand exhibition of ecclesiastical ornaments and vestments from churches of the establishment in various parts of the kingdom was held at Norwich. Eucharistic (that is, colored) vestments were contributed by a hundred churches, and it was estimated that there were two hundred and fifty or three hundred other churches in which they were habitually used. The number is probably now larger. Many of these vestments were of extraordinary richness. There were silks and velvets covered with delicate and elaborate embroideries, and bedecked with a literal profusion of diamonds, pearls, and various precious stones. One chasuble, not jeweled, was valued at £220, Or $1,100. There were crosiers, mitres, stoles, and superb crimson copes--all in use at the present day--not to speak of numerous relics of antiquity, even relics of the saints and the twelve apostles, and a fragment of the true cross.

The confessional in the Anglican Church is not an innovation by any means; but under the protecting wings of ritualism it is assuming much greater prominence than it has ever enjoyed before. In St. Alban's, New-York, you will not find a confessional box; but you may make a confession there, if you feel so disposed, and the reverend pastor is ready to absolve penitents with the usual formularies. At St. Alban's in London, however, they do things in a much more complete style, with a box and a grating, and all the other Catholic accessories--with the trifling exceptions of sacerdotal character and jurisdiction on the part of the confessor. An Anglican minister of Protestant proclivities, named Ormiston, recently made an experimental visit of investigation to the Rev. Mr. Mackonochie's confessional at St. Alban's, and at a meeting of the National Protestants Institute on the 28th of January last, was cruel enough to tell all that happened there. He went on one of the days set apart for receiving the confessions of men, took his turn with a number of others who were waiting, and in course of time found himself in the confessional box, peering through a hole at the Rev. Mr. Mackonochie, who was vested in a surplice and purple stole. Mr. Ormiston stated that he wished to make a "special" confession, and was thereupon requested to kneel. He could not bring himself to do this, but he made believe do it--probably he squatted--and then proceeded to his unbosoming. The Rev. Mr. Mackonochie must have been rather unpleasantly amazed by what followed. {59} Pulling out a written paper Mr. Ormiston read, in a loud tone so as to be heard by the people outside, this humble confession of sins: "I have but too imperfectly discharged my solemn ordination vow of being ready with all faithful diligence to banish and drive away all erroneous and strange doctrines contrary to God's word,' and especially the damnable doctrine now maintained by those priests in the Church of England, commonly called 'Puseyites,' together with their popish practices, whereby they are seeking to dethrone the blessed gospel of God's free grace, and to set up in its stead the 'burning lies' of anti-christ." He asked for absolution, but Mr. Mackonochie could not be persuaded of his penitence (though the sinner vowed that he never was more sorry in his life), and refused to give it. So Mr. Ormiston handed his card to the confessor, and came away, "bowed down and crushed," as he said, "with a sense of the evil which this awful system is working."

The question of the legality of the ritualistic innovations, or, to speak more accurately, of these restorations of ancient practice, has been before the law courts and the houses of convocation, but thus far without decided result. The Church Union in England, have published the opinions of nine eminent lawyers to whom the matter was referred, including Sir R. Phillimore, Sir Fitzroy Kelly, Sir W. Bovill, and Mr. Coleridge, all of whom are in favor of the legality of the "Eucharistic vestments," six in favor of two lights on the altar during the communion service, four in favor of wafer bread, and all more or less against the incensing of "persons or things." A committee of the lower house of convocation made a report on these subjects, which was presented to the upper house last June; and in view of the position taken by the authors of this report, and of the legal opinions above referred to, as well as the opposition of Dr. Tait, bishop of London, to the practices therein condemned, the rector of St. Alban's, Holborn, has felt himself compelled to discontinue, under protest, the objectionable manner of using incense, and the elevation of the bread and wine at the consecration. In an address to his congregation on the feast of the Epiphany, be declares his persuasion that the house of convocation is wrong, but he thinks it better to yield. "I must tell you," he adds, "for your own satisfaction, that the less obtrusive elevation indicated in the words of the prayer-book, 'here the priest is to take the paten into his hand,' and 'here he is to take the cup into his hand,' is quite sufficient for the ritual purpose, that, namely, of making the oblation of the holy sacrifice to God. The use of incense will now be discontinued at the beginning of the service, at the gospel, and at the offertory. Before the consecration prayer the censer will be brought in. At the consecration, incense will be put into it by the thurifer, but it will not be used, as at present, 'for censing persons and things.' This is a mode of using incense allowed by the ecclesiastical opinion, and not disallowed by the legal one."

Some time ago a number of prominent clergymen and laymen of the American Episcopal Church, addressed a letter to Bishop Hopkins of Vermont, asking his opinion "whether an increase of ritualism would be advisable," or whether it was best to be satisfied with "the ordinary average of present parochial practice"? The reply of Bishop Hopkins is contained in a little volume published last year.[Footnote 10] It is an elaborate defence of the lawfulness and reasonableness of the ritualistic practices, though it deprecates any authoritative infringement on the liberty which the Episcopal body has heretofore exercised in such matters. {60} "I incline to regard it as most probable," the bishop says, "that this ritualism will grow into favor by degrees until it becomes the prevailing system. The old, the fixed, and the fearful, will resist it. But the young, the ardent, and the impressible will follow it more and more. The spirit of the age will favor it because it is an age of excitement and sensation. The lovers of 'glory and of beauty' will favor it, because it appeals with far more effect to the natural tastes and feelings of humanity. The rising generation of the clergy will favor it, because it adds so much to the solemn character of their office and the interest of their service in the house of God." And as for the effect of the movement upon the low churchmen, he believes that it will only become a more marked distinction between parties which have long existed, and which might well be allowed to appear in a more decided form without danger to the peace and prosperity of the denomination.

[Footnote 10: The Law of Ritualism. By the Rt. Rev. John Henry Hopkins, D.D., LL. D., Bishop of Vermont. New York: Hurd & Houghton.]

As might be supposed, Bishop Hopkins says a great many sensible things about ritualism in general, though their application to the particular case before him is not always of the clearest. The ceremonial part of divine worship is not, he declares, a matter of indifference. God gave the most explicit instructions for the performance of public worship under the Levitical law. He described the tabernacle that was to be erected in the wilderness and the temple of Solomon which succeeded it, giving minute directions for the fashioning of all their parts; for the incense, the golden censers, the candlesticks, and the rich priestly vestments that were to be used when the descendants of Aaron approached his presence. And under the new dispensation this beautiful and elaborate system, so often pronounced by Almighty God "an ordinance for ever," was not swept wholly out of existence, though certain parts of it passed away into a higher and more extensive form of divine arrangement. The animal sacrifices ceased, because they were only types of the great sacrifice which the cross of Christ fulfilled. The restriction of the priesthood to the family of Aaron was abolished, because the new covenant was not restricted to a single nation, like the old, but was made with all the peoples of the earth. The rest of the Mosaic law, Dr. Hopkins argues, remained in force. His argument is not a good one, for it would lead him to absurdities. If the old ritual was not abolished, why do modern Christians not observe it? What authority have they for omitting all the more onerous parts of the ceremonial, and retaining only the rich garments and lights and fragrant incense, which please the senses without imposing any particular burden? If ritualism had no better argument in its favor than the book of Leviticus, there would be little to say in its defence. Dr. Vaughan, who reasons that ritualism is unlawful in the Christian church, because there is no book of rites in the New Testament corresponding to the book of Leviticus in the old, is as logical as Dr. Hopkins. The Bishop of Vermont, however, is apparently sensible that there must be some authoritative enactment on the subject; that God, either by his church or by some other inspired mouthpiece, must have abolished or modified the Jewish ritual, and substituted a new one, or else we ought still to observe the full Mosaic ceremonial, on the principle that laws are binding until they are repealed. To us, Catholics, the case is clear enough. We have the authority of the church of God for all we do; she abolished the old Jewish rites, and she ordained the Christian ceremonial. And Dr. Hopkins is sensible enough of the importance of this authorization, for he tries to apply it to his own denomination, and thereby, of course, admits that the church has uniformly followed the rightful practice, and that the Protestant sects have been all wrong. {61} He shows, from the writings of the early fathers and from other ancient documents, that the term "altar" was constantly used in primitive times in connection with the celebration of divine services; that the altars were both of wood and or stone, and that hence there is no reason for the restriction which many Protestants would lay upon the Lord's Table; that it should be "an honest table, with legs to it;" and that candles and incense were habitually used at the celebration of the divine mysteries. A much more important matter, Bishop Hopkins says, is the use of oil or chrism in confirmation; and this, he admits, "is plainly stated by Tertullian to have been the established practice in the year 200." And he quotes a remarkable passage from Bingham's" Antiquities of the Christian Church" (a Protestant work), to the effect that "it was this unction at the completion of baptism to which they [the early Christians] ascribed the power of making every Christian, in some sense, partaker of a royal priesthood, which is not only said by Origen, but by Pope Leo, St. Jerome, and many others." His remarks on the subject of sacerdotal vestments are not less striking. He mentions the proofs brought forward by Baronius, that St. James the Just, first bishop of Jerusalem, and St. John the Evangelist "wore the golden ornament which was prescribed for the mitre of the high priest in the Mosaic ritual." He refers to Constantine's gift of "a rich vestment, embroidered with gold," to Macarius, bishop of Jerusalem, to be worn by him in the celebration of the sacred offices. He cites ancient decrees concerning the orarium, or stole, and the different manner in which it was to be worn by priests and by deacons; mentions the ring and staff prescribed for a bishop; and especially refers to the fact that black, as the symbol of sin and mourning, was everywhere excluded. Bishop Hopkins brings forward these things by way of showing the multitude of points of conformity between the early Christian and the ancient Jewish ritual; but they do not seem to have awakened in his mind the question, "Which, then, is the true Christian church?" nor does he perceive that, however strongly they may support the Catholic practice, they do little good to the Episcopalians. The first Church of England men understood the propriety of ritualistic magnificence a great deal better than their descendants do. When they cast off faith and obedience they did not at the same time cast off the rich priestly robes, nor put out the altar lights, nor stop the swinging of censers and chanting of psalms. The ritual of the primitive Protestants was hardly less gorgeous than that of mother church herself. When Archbishop Parker was consecrated in the reign of Queen Elizabeth, he wore "a long scarlet gown and a hood, with four torches carried before him: Bishop Barlow had a silk cope, being to administer the sacrament; four arch-deacons, who attended him, wearing silk copes also." And a puritanical Protestant, Thomas Sampson, complained to Peter Martyr in 1550 that the ministry of Christ was banished from the English court, because the image of the crucifix was allowed there, with lights burning before it. Dr. Hopkins is at pains to show that the custom and unrepealed law of the Church of England justify the use of a processional cross, two lights on the altar, incense, surplice, alb, girdle, stole, dalmatic, tunicle, chasuble, cope, amice, cape or tippet, maniple, hood, and cassock; that the use of oil in confirmation and extreme unction, and of prayers for the dead, which are found in the first Prayer-book of Edward VI., though they were subsequently omitted from the liturgy, has never been prohibited and is still lawful. We suspect that to many Protestants this statement will be a little startling.

It will not be more startling, however, than a view of what the liturgy of the Church of England was in the first years of her heresy, and what, according to the ritualistic party, it ought rightly to be now. {62} It seems to be generally admitted that what is known as the first Prayer-book of Edward VI., published in 1549, is the standard to which the ceremonial of the Establishment ought to be referred; that whatever was sanctioned or permitted under the rubrics of that work may be lawfully used or done now; and that the subsequent revisions of the Prayer-book, inasmuch as they have authoritatively condemned none of the ancient forms and expressions of doctrine embodied in that earlier ritual, have no restrictive force upon the liberty of the modern revivers of old Catholic practices. Let us see, then, what the first Prayer-book of Edward. VI. was, in its order of the communion service, the present battle-ground of ritualism.

This portion of the liturgy was entitled, "The Supper of the Lord and the Holy Communion, commonly called the Mass." It is divided into "the Ordinary," and "the Canon." The first part begins with the Lord's Prayer; and then follow the Collect for purity, the Introit (now omitted), the Kyrie Eleison, the Gloria in Excelsis, Dominus Vobiscum, Collects for the day and for the king, the Epistle, Gospel, and Nicene Creed, the sermon, Exhortation, Offertory, and Oblation; Dominus Vobiscum, Sursum Corda, the Preface, and the Sanctus. The canon now consists of one long prayer of consecration, but in the Prayer-book of 1549 it comprised many other parts copied pretty closely from the missal; and the confession and absolution, which are now transferred to an early part of the ordinary, came in their proper place immediately before the communion. After communion were the Agnus Dei and Post-Communion, the Collects, and other prayers and ceremonies, very much as we have them in the mass. The rubric of 1549 says: "When the clerks have done singing the Sanctus, then shall the priest or deacon turn himself to the people and say, 'Let us pray for the whole state of Christ's church;'" to which the present office adds the words, "militant here on earth." An able paper in a collection of essays by advanced ritualists, published in London last year, [Footnote 11] argues from this that prayers for the dead formerly had place and are still allowable in the English liturgy. If this be not so, the author says, "we shall find ourselves placed in a dilemma which to a Catholic mind is inexpressibly painful. For.... it follows that the liturgy of the English Church is the only living liturgy, the only known extant liturgy which is wanting in remembrance of its faithful departed. From which dilemma we may devoutly say, Good Lord, deliver us."

[Footnote 11: The Church and the World: Essays on Questions of the Day. By various writers. First series. Edited by the Rev. Orby Shipley, M. A. Longmans, Green, Reader and Dyre. 1866.]

In the consecration prayers there is an important part found in the book Of 1549, but now left out, of which the same writer says: "We can scarcely too deeply deplore the loss, or earnestly desire that it may be restored to us." This is the invocation of the Holy Ghost, and it reads as follows: "Hear us, O merciful Father, we beseech thee, and with thy holy spirit and word vouchsafe to bl+ess and sanc+tify these thy gifts and creatures of bread and wine, that they may be to us the body and blood of thy most dearly beloved son Jesus Christ." Here we have not only an authorization but an explicit direction for the use of the sign of the cross, at which many good Episcopalians shudder nervously as at a diabolical popish invention. It was left out of the later Prayer-books, but never prohibited.

Before the communion there is a formula of invitation which the minister is to read to the people, bidding them to the Lord's table. In the present Prayer-book it contains nothing which calls for special remark; but in that of 1549 it embraced the following passage: "And if there be any of you whose conscience is troubled and grieved in anything, lacking comfort or counsel, let him come to me, or to some other discreet and learned priest, taught in the law of God, and confess and open his sin and grief secretly .... that of us he may receive comfort and absolution," etc.

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The writer of the essay above quoted favors not only a return to the old Edwardian liturgy, but a revival of various other usages to which we need not more particularly refer than by saying that they all have a genuine Catholic flavor. He sees no reason, apart from prejudice, why Anglicans should not call their communion service by "the old English word 'Mass;" and he deprecates the Protestant custom of consuming at once all the bread and wine which are blessed for the Lord's Supper, without reserving any for the visitation of the sick. "Those who minister among the lowest poor in missionary work," he says, "can bear witness how distressing oftentimes are celebrations in the crowded and sick rooms of a town population." And he quotes an instance in which the Eucharist had to be consecrated for a dying man who occupied one corner of a crowded room tenanted by several other families. In another corner crouched a woman of the vilest class, and during the consecration unclean insects were crawling over the "fair white linen cloth" upon which the elements were laid. Can we wonder that to a minister who believes in the Real Presence, and in his own power to consecrate, a celebration such as this must seem like profanation?

If there were nothing in this ritualistic revival but an attempt to borrow the rich robes of faith and dress up in them the shrunken form of heresy, it would hardly be worth our attention. It is little to us whether the human laws of the realm of England permit the ministers of the Established Church to stand with their backs to the congregation or not; whether they may legally burn candles in daylight, or swing censers, or chant their prayers instead of saying them, or wear colored and embroidered vestments instead of the plain surplice and the black gown. Since they have taken the liberty to discard faith and obedience, one would think it of little matter that they should discard ceremonies also. After they have lost the substance, why should they care for the form? If they could abolish, for instance, the celibacy of the clergy, they had surely as good a right to abolish a red or green chasuble. Indeed, to be logical, they ought to ordain, alter, and abolish just what they please. But it is impossible not to see that there is a great deal more in this movement than a mere striving after beautiful and impressive forms. There is first a reawakening of the Catholic idea of public worship, and a rejection of the common Protestant theory. It is the Protestant principle, not always expressly acknowledged, but practically acted upon, that the primary object of a religious service is the edification of the people; it is the Catholic idea that the chief purpose of that service is the worship of Almighty God. The Englishman, Thomas Sampson, whose complaint to Peter Martyr touching lights and crucifixes, we quoted just now, says in the same letter: "What hope is there of any good when our friends are disposed to look for religion in those dumb remnants of idolatry, and not in the preaching of the lively word of God?" And what is it but a recognition of this principle which causes most of the Protestant sects to lay such stress upon sermons as to make them the predominating feature of every service, and often gives their public prayers such a doctrinal and exhortatory character that they can hardly be distinguished from sermons except by the substitution of the phrase "Almighty God" for "Beloved brethren"? Now, the ritualists, whatever their shortcomings, are at any rate free from this absurdity. Sermon-hearing or meditation, says one of their late writers, may be salutary enough in its proper time and place, but it is not worship. Here, no doubt, is a great advance in the right direction. But this is not all. {64} An essay "On the Eucharistic Sacrifice" in The Church and the World gives the Catholic doctrine still more explicitly, and acknowledges "that Christian worship is really the earthly exhibition of Christ's perpetual intercession as the sole high priest of his church, the sole acceptable presenter of the one worship of his one body in heaven and in earth, and that as such it culminates in his own mysterious presence, in and by the sacrament of his most precious body and blood."

In this recognition of the true functions of the Christian ministry, the true character of the worship which ought to be offered in God's holy temple, we may suppose the ritualists to be pretty well agreed. But doctrinally, they may be divided into two classes. With the one class, a gorgeous ritual is merely the gratification of an aesthetic or antiquarian taste; with the other it is the logical development of an advance in doctrine. The one class would bring back the practice of the Anglican Church to what it used to be in old days; the other would imitate the rites and ceremonies which were followed in the Catholic Church ages before Anglicanism was heard of.

The second class is, we believe, the more numerous, as it certainly is by far the more important of the two. Its views are set forth with frankness and decided ability in the volume which we have already quoted; and we are certain that no one can read these essays without feeling that the ritualists are legitimate successors of the tractarians of thirty years ago, and that there is promise of as much good from the agitation which they are leading as came from the great movement of Dr. Newman and Dr. Pusey. "Ritualism," says one of the essayists, "is not employed as a side-wind, by which to bring in certain tenets surreptitiously, but as the natural complement of those tenets after they have been long and sedulously inculcated." The burning of candles and incense is of very little moment, considered as a mere form, but it is of great moment when it is done as the ritualists do it for the sake of rendering honor to the real presence of our Lord. It is of no consequence what order of words or what gestures or what dress the Anglican minister uses in reading the communion office, because he has not the priestly character, and if he followed literally the missal itself, he could not celebrate a valid mass. But if he comes as close to the missal as he can, by way of testifying that he believes in the doctrines stated and symbolized in the missal; if he imitates the ceremonies of the daily Christian sacrifice, in order to show his belief in the sacrificial character of the Eucharist, that fact becomes of serious importance, and indicates a genuine progress toward truth, at which every good Catholic ought to rejoice. The practice of auricular confession is not new in the Anglican Church; but it acquires additional significance when it is spoken of, as it is in the Church and the Word, by the name of "the sacrament of penance," for the Church of England recognizes no sacraments except baptism and the supper of the Lord.

If there is any name which a genuine ritualist really hates it is that of Protestant. The avowed purpose of the advanced school is to unprotestantize the Church of England; and the writer just quoted speaks of having found comfort at a time of spiritual doubt and trial, in the belief that the English Church was still a part of the Catholic Church, "unless she sinned sufficiently at the reformation to justify Rome in cutting her off." "Our place is appointed us," says the same essayist, "among Protestants and in a communion deeply tainted in its practical system by Protestant heresy; but our duty is the expulsion of the evil, and not flight from it, any more than it is a duty for those to leave the Roman Church who become conscious also of abuses within her system." The Church of England indeed, has but a weak hold upon the faith or affection of the ritualists of this school. {65} We find the XXXIX. Articles spoken of as "those Protestant articles tacked on to a Catholic liturgy, those forty stripes save one, as some have called them,

laid on the back of the Anglican priesthood;" and in the same book we are told that "the universal church, and not the Church of England, is becoming the standard to which doctrine and practice must be conformed, and the advantages in many respects of other divisions of it over our own are becoming recognized." Prepared as many of these men are to accept the doctrines of the church in every particular except the supremacy of the Pope and the immaculate conception of the blessed Virgin, and to follow her discipline even to clerical celibacy, religious vows, and sacramental confession, can we doubt that there is hope of their overcoming the remaining obstacles to their conversion, and that the London Weekly Register is right when it calls this "the most important religious crisis that England has witnessed since the so-called Reformation."

And even in the vagaries of the other branch of ritualists, the church milliners, if we may be allowed the expression, who imagine they are bringing back their errant sect to the honest life of old, when they copy the forms and ceremonies, the lights and vestures, the incense and the chants of the primitive liturgy, without conforming to the doctrines which these observances are intended to symbolize; who set up as their standard of conformity not the universal church as she has been through all ages, but the Anglican establishment as it was in its infancy, before it had quite forgotten Catholic truth and propriety; even in the hollow ritualism of this school, we say, there is cause for gratification. Unlike the builders of material temples, who must work up from base to summit, these ecclesiastical architects can sometimes construct their foundation after the superstructure is finished. The mere copying of sacred forms is apt to lead them to the sacred faith and spirit; and, any way, it is something gained to know that one can bend before a crucifix without breaking the commandments, and that frankincense is not an abomination in the sight of the Lord.

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Original.

The Cross.

O Tree, how strong thy branches are, To bear such wondrous, weighty fruit! "He strength imparts."

Than all, thy fruit is sweeter far. What genial soil doth feed thy root? "Men's loving hearts."

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Translated from the French.

Robert; Or, The Influence Of A Good Mother.

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Chapter VII

"To be an artist . . . . It is his hope, his faith, his ambition."

Genius, however great, will not make a man famous unless he works for fame. Robert felt this and had strength, perseverance, and courage to labor, for he was poor and of obscure name, and he knew what he could do, and was determined to do it. But, like all who struggle through this life, he had his depressions and his griefs, which he bore bravely; and if discouragement ever glided into his soul, he instantly resorted to prayer, and peace and repose would then spread their wings over him. He imposed upon himself the strict obligation of never wasting a moment of time, and chained himself to his work, as a galley slave is chained; accepting his present life, mercenary and prosaic as it is, with perfect resignation and happiness, feeling that God has made it thus, and that he must be thankful for it. Existence was a happiness to him, for his heart was good, and duty was to him perfect joy; and knowing he was necessary to the happiness of Madame Gaudin, he devoted himself to her as a son. By degrees her strength returned, and at last she was able to resume the management of the household, which placed more time at Robert's disposition, and his mind, rid of these cares, regains its elasticity and primitive vigor. Artistic reveries come back, the fire of creative inspiration fills his soul, and he stands before his canvas, on which the faint outlines of the Virgin are traced. Then another dream seizes him, and hours and days and weeks of patient labor are necessary to faithfully bring out his ideas, and at first all is chaos; but slowly the canvas becomes animated, and finally Robert, like Pygmalion, stands in ecstasy before his work. His body trembles with enthusiasm, his eyes moisten, his knees give way under him--and why this emotion? He has faithfully presented the scene where, between God and his mother, his happy childhood was passed. The picture is astonishingly and wonderfully true. Here stands out boldly the savage grandeur of Ecorcharde, with its rugged sides and deep ravines--there the valley through which the silver waters of the Dordogne run--the village of Bains--the church spire, the rectory--and all the crowning glory of this mountain, its woods and sombre verdure. There the little house where Robert had lived for twelve years, and, at the extremity of the valley, the peak of Sauci, which majestically crowned the whole. The memory of the young artist is faithful, and he forgets nothing. Standing on a clearing on the mountain side is a woman, and a child is playing near her; it is Robert and his mother. The sun is just sinking below the horizon, and sheds upon the scene the glory of its waves of gold and purple. Each day Robert gave many hours to this picture, in which he relived his childhood's days; and, when completed, it was a perfect masterpiece of grace and taste, and finished with much care. His touch was fresh and bold--the animals that reposed in the valley were perfect, the trees of exquisite foliage, and the lights and shades of delicious harmony.

One morning the young painter was at work, bringing out a stronger effect of light on his picture, when a loud knock at the door drew him from his work. He opened it, and standing before him was his late master.

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"Where have you been, my dear Robert?" asked the illustrious artist; "I have been so uneasy about you. Tell me why you have not been in my studio for so long a time?"

Robert, touched by this mark of interest, given with so much affability and simplicity, replied by a recital of the painful position in which he had been thrown by the sickness of Madame Gaudin, and told in such warm terms of her generous conduct to him, that the artist did not know which to admire most--the lively gratitude of the one, or beautiful devotion of the other.

The artist grasped his hand, and, pressing it warmly, said, "You have done your duty, and can never reproach yourself with ingratitude." Then, turning toward the picture, he explained, "Can this be your work? It is wonderful?" After a few moments, in which he was perfectly absorbed, he said, "Robert, you are ignorant of your talent; you know more than I do, and must be a great painter ere long." Then, clasping the stupefied young man in his arms, be pressed him to his heart in a generous transport of admiration.

Madame Gaudin, who had gone out to buy provisions for the day, stopped at the open door to ask what it could all mean; and when she understood what they were speaking about, she felt a great joy, and exclaimed, "I knew it; I knew he would be a great painter." Her excess of happiness made her steps a little trembling and uncertain; and, without caring for the presence of the stranger, she said to Robert, "God will bless thee, my boy; God will recompense thy Christian virtues, and all the affection thou hast had for a poor old woman like me." Then, noticing the artist, she said, "I cannot help it; excuse me, sir, but I must embrace him, I must press him to my heart, and then I will be content."

Robert yielded to her caresses in a manner which attested better than words the sincerity of his attachment for the worthy woman.

The approbation and praises given his work by his master made a profound impression on the mind of Robert.

"My dear boy," said the artist, "I will buy your picture at a good price. Each one of us should aid others to find the road on which he has gathered the flowers of fortune. God has blessed my work and made me rich, but I cannot enjoy the favors of fortune alone; I must aid others, and share with them the riches that God has loaned me. My purse, my credit, my protection are yours to-day, and I want you to use them without hesitation, for I cherish you as a pupil and love you as a friend. When I pay the debt of life, I hope to endow a great painter. Work, then, my boy; work for glory; you are now on the road to fame, and it will lead you to fortune." Before leaving he put in Madame Gaudin's hand a well-filled purse, and said, "Keep silence; say nothing of this to Robert."

Robert had another joy on this eventful day. Toward night he was going on an errand for Madame Gaudin, and near the Pont Neuf, by the Place Dauphine, he heard the voice of a man uttering a kind of lament for Napoleon. The voice was loud and strong, and in its modulations there was so much sorrow that he hastened toward the man, to see if his features verified a suspicion that came across his mind. He knew he had seen this man before. He was a street singer; and the longer he listened to him, the more convinced was he in his belief. Soon his eyes were fixed on a large wound in his forehead, and, no longer doubting, he called out, "O Cyprien! my good Cyprien!" at the same time holding out his hand.

"Pardon--excuse me--I do not know you."

"But are you not Cyprien Hardy, ex-grenadier of the Imperial Guards?" said Robert.

"I am no other person; but I can't remember to have seen you before."

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"I remember you," said Robert, with expression. "The little orphan that you took before the palace at Fontainebleau and conducted to Paris, although eight years ago, has not forgotten his protector and friend, and now wishes to shake hands with him; you will not refuse me that pleasure surely?"

"Ah! truly no--a thousand times no--I cannot refuse. Touched there," said he, putting his hand on his heart, "I know it is Robert who speaks to me; my little Robert, grown to be a man. You have changed much, young man, and so have I; but that does not matter; I have suffered cruelly. Oh my loved emperor! if I could only go to him."

"Come with me," said Robert; "we can talk entirely as we please when alone; come with me and I will take you to a person who knows you already, and who, I am certain beforehand, will be glad to see you."

The idle and curious people who were standing by when this touching recognition took place all walked off and left the place clear to our friends.

"A thousand thunders, Mister Robert, you are no prouder now in Paris than when we came in together, but you walk too fast for my old legs."

"Pardon me, Cyprien," said he, stopping quickly, "but I am so anxious to get you home that I forget you may be fatigued and may need my arm. Take it, my friend, for it is sure, like my affection for you; take it and we can walk faster. I am afraid Madame Gaudin will be uneasy if I stay out so long, and I do not like to give her the least uneasiness."

"Oh!" said the soldier, stretching up, for he was bent more by grief than years, "you are a worthy young man, and not proud at all. You do not blush to give your arm to a brigand of the Loire; for that is what we poor soldiers who regret our emperor are called. But tell me, who is this Madame Gaudin--what in the deuce do you call her?"

"Gaudin, my good Cyprien."

"Gaudin! Oh! well, I suppose she is some particular person, is she?"

"She is a good and excellent woman, to whom I owe all that I am, and who has made every sacrifice for me, and whom I love with all my heart."

"Ah! I understand; it is a widow that wants to catch you?"

"Oh! no, my good Cyprien," said Robert, laughing; "it is a person that you know, the old housekeeper of the lamented Abbé Verneuil. You know the priest who gave me so sweet a welcome when I arrived in Paris, and who placed me at the house of Madame de Vernanges?"

"Yes, yes; it comes back to my memory now, and I took a bitter hatred against her the day I pulled the door bell at the curé's. She looked at me with a pair of eyes that shone like balls of fire, because I twisted my mustache when I spoke to her. Well, what has become of the priest?"

"Alas! he is dead, and much too soon for me. Oh! it was one of my dark days, Cyprien."

"The same as mine for my emperor. I weep for him as you weep for the curé."

"We have good reason, my friend, to remember such men, and to forget them would be to forget ourselves."

"So you tell me, old Gaudin is living with you?"

"No, no; I should have told you I lived with the dear, good woman; for since the death of the abbé this generous woman has provided for all my wants, spent for me her hard savings, and in every way tried to console me for what I had lost. Yes, my friend, this good Madame Gaudin pushed forward my taste for drawing and painting; and I thank her from the depths of my heart, and can say without vanity that these sacrifices have not been lost. I am rejoiced that I can give her some happiness, and it may be that in the turning of the wheel of fortune I may gain wealth, and all that I have and all that I may ever have shall be hers, for she has done everything for me."

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"Certainly," said Cyprien, "and I embrace the good woman with my heart," mounting slowly as he said it, the four steps that led to their house. Robert had gone in ahead of him and returned with Madame Gaudin, who received the old soldier kindly, and feasted him as a friend, making his lonely and bruised heart feel happier than it had for a long time. After supper Robert asked him to tell them all that had happened him since they last met.

"There is but one subject for me, my dear Robert," said he, "and that is my emperor. I have so much joy and so much sorrow when I pronounce this cherished name; I am so moved when I recall the days when fortune abandoned him, that it is almost better for me not to revert to the subject; but, since you wish it, I will commence. When we had seen the last of the Little Corporal, and I found I could do nothing more for him, I commenced singing his praises through the streets, even at the risk of being imprisoned; and now he is dead," said he, with a melancholy air--"died on that lonely rock where he was held a captive, and the only hope I have left is in heaven."

He looked so tired now that Robert made him go to bed, and before he was up in the morning ran out and brought him suitable clothes, so that when he awakened he found new ones instead of the rags he had laid on his bed. "I want Cyprien to stay with me," said Robert, "for he has been a faithful soldier, and I am young, and can work for us both;" but it was a difficult matter to get his consent for this arrangement, and he had to tell him many times that he would be so useful to him, and that he really needed him before he would accept the offer. Finally he agreed to become an inmate of the modest household. He mixed colors for the young painter, rendered little services to Madame Gaudin, who did all she could to aid Robert to make him happy. From this time God seemed to open to him the treasures of the choicest favors, and to spread them in profusion on the head of the young painter. Warmly recommended to the world by the great artist who had been his master, esteemed for his excellent conduct, and justly appreciated for his talent, which was now burning in all its lustre, he could look forward to a happy future. His mother's prediction was being gradually accomplished, and this aided him. Whenever he sat down to composing, he first implored the assistance of God, with the firm belief that it would not be refused; and it was not, for the blessed Lord crowns with benefits those who serve him with love. Nothing gives courage like the certainty of success; and, full of an indefatigable ardor for his art, he worked hard, disdaining the vain pleasures of the world, and his labor was recompensed. As he advanced in age, the love of his art consumed him the more, and in place of the wild enthusiasm he felt at first he was filled with a deep and serious sentiment, and wanted to study the old masters under the bright sky of Italy. The only drawback he had ever had to his dreams of studying there was the thought of leaving Madame Gaudin alone; but now that Cyprien was with her, he would keep her company during his absence. He was too firmly convinced of the old man's affection to doubt for a moment that he would fail to fulfill any instructions he might give him; but before leaving France he wished to visit his native mountain, and pray on the grave of his mother. He was now twenty-one years of age, and had not forgotten the package he was to receive when he attained his majority, and which he felt sure contained some instructions from his well-beloved mother, which it would he a pleasure for him to obey. After quieting his fears about Cyprien and poor Madame Gaudin, he wiped away the tears of the good woman, embraced her tenderly, and, after receiving Cyprien's promise to take good care of the charge confided to his friendship, Robert set out for l'Auvergne.

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Chapter VIII

* * * * * *

"She sleeps--all is silent now, No more heart-beats."

The most touching and beautiful affection in the world is that for parents, for their homes, and their graves. A child who reveres his mother's memory will keep his name free from blemish; for a good name is a precious heritage, and the remembrance of virtues in either father or mother will shield against bad actions like an impenetrable buckler. But, alas! a veneration for the names of our fathers is no longer in honor among men. Family homesteads are ruthlessly destroyed by those who forget that every stone is sacred to some tender memory; and it seems now that cool indifference has replaced that sweet affection which of old united parents and children. How common a thing it is in the present day to see children disrespectful to those who have given them birth; and to what can this perversion of heart, which chills all natural feelings, be attributed but a want of religious training, that sanctifying, purifying power which is based upon God's holy will and divine commandments; and faith, hope, and charity, the celestial virtues which ought to fill all hearts?

With Robert, advancing years had not weakened in his soul the tender veneration be avowed for the memory of his mother and her virtues. It was to the principles she had instilled into his mind that he was indebted for his present prosperity and happiness, for, though genius is the inestimable gift of God, it needs guidance and consecration; and all the pious sentiments which were afterward developed in his soul were from the seeds sown by that angel mother.

Robert took the road to Clermont, and could have flown the entire distance, so eager was he to get to his old home. And again and again doubts would fill his mind as to whether he would find the loved grave; whether pitiless time would not in nine years, have effaced the letters which traced the name of his mother? Clermont at last appeared in the distance, then the village of Bains, and then he was at the door of the rectory, standing with a beating heart to see a loved face, but the door is opened by a strange priest, from whom he learns that the venerable curé whom he sought was dead, but in dying he left instructions to his successor; begging that Madame Dormeuil's grave should not be neglected, which gave Robert but another proof of his imperishable love. After obeying the first wish of his heart and visiting his mother's grave, he obtained the papers which concerned him, and, opening them with emotion, read as follows:

"My dear son: I did not wish you to know the contents of these papers until you were twenty-one, because it seemed to me that before this time you would hardly comprehend them, and I thought it best to wait until you had experience and maturity of judgment. You know we are rarely willing to take the experience of others for our instruction; believing that what shipwrecked them we would have been wise enough to have avoided; that we would have acted better, reasoned better, than those who have preceded us on the perilous sea called the world. The blind lead the blind, and when we fall we are astonished. It is so with all men. Being feeble, they think they are strong; being dependent, they think they are free; being powerless, they think they are creatures of genius. But thou, my dear child, wilt have more strength than those who repose in themselves the care of their conduct, and do not invoke God to light them with his divine rays. In the moment of trial they fall; it happened so to me, my son, when I took my own feeble reason for my guide. But, though I have no grave faults to reproach myself for, it is not the less true that I have compromised thy future, and forgotten my duties as a wife and my duties as a Christian, for I have not been indulgent and forgetful of injuries. {71} To-day, by God's grace, I am calm. I judge myself more severely then he will judge me, and I feel guilty and cannot excuse myself to thy eyes, by my youth, inexperience, and the isolation in which I found myself, when I claimed the right of breaking the links which I ought to have respected for my son. But it was my fault, and I will have the courage to tell you all--to confess all my sins, and then ask for pardon. Dormeuil is not thy name, my child; it is mine, the name of my father, a plebeian name, but without blemish. Thy name is De Verceil, and thy father is the Count Sosthène de Verceil. At ten years of age, I lost my father; my mother died in giving me birth, and I was left to the charge of an aunt who was my only relative. This worthy woman was not rich, but an annuity left her by her husband and the revenue from some savings placed her above want, and her kind heart pitied my orphanage, and she shared everything with me. I owe to her five years of happiness, and oh! that it were more; her counsels and her tenderness would have spared me the regrets I feel at this hour. She had placed me in a school of great renown, wishing, she said, to leave me, in lieu of fortune, a good education. Notwithstanding my plebeian name I had a crowd of friends of rich and noble heritage, for youth never thinks of the differences in rank or the prerogatives of birth; and it was thus that I became the friend of an amiable young girl, Helena de Verceil. Her brother came to see her often, and, as we were inseparable, I was generally present at these visits. I was a simple and candid girl, and these traits made a profound impression on the young count, and when I left the school some months after Helena I continued to see him from time to time, at his sister's house, for she was married immediately after leaving school. Young, ardent, impetuous, and unused to any resistance, the count fell easily into the snare which was held out to his inexperience by an irresistible tenderness. His passion, far from calming, grew stronger each day, and he resolved to overcome all obstacles and ask to marry me, although his age and his tastes were far from this grave determination. With his fortune and hand, he came to beg my aunt's consent, and to pray that she would not defer his happiness. Overwhelmed with joy at so brilliant and advantageous an offer for her niece, she gave her consent, for in all her dreams for the daughter of her cherished brother she had never caressed so sweet an illusion as this. She accepted it with the more gratitude as she knew she had a mortal malady which would soon leave me alone, in the midst of the manifold dangers that assail youth. In taking for his wife an obscure and poor girl the count was alienated from all his family, and his proud and noble parents would not pardon this unworthy mesalliance. He could, they said, have married a woman of rank and wealth, but this unprofitable union to the eyes of people blinded by their titles, whatever may have been the qualities of heart, was nothing and worse than nothing. He could obtain no favor from them, after putting so dark a spot on their escutcheon. These humiliations and insults would have had no effect upon me, could I have been consoled by the tender affection of my aunt, who saw but too late that wealth does not give happiness; and in less than two years after my marriage I was called to mourn her loss. The love of the count was soon extinguished, and men are very apt to be ungrateful and cruel when they cease to love. His conduct soon proved that he had only formed for me an ephemeral attachment, but I loved him above everything, and with all the energy of my soul; and this love increased when I became a mother, and I dared to believe that this title imposed by nature, and so dear to most men, would touch the heart of my husband, but the paternal sentiment could not triumph over the aversion the count felt for her whom, in a moment of insensate passion, he had taken for his wife. {72} For one moment a ray of joy burned in his eyes when he saw that he had an inheritor; it was the pride of having a son, nothing more. He soon left my side, and I saw no more of him, except in the rare moments he consecrated to thee. Carried away in a round of pleasures, stifling in the noise of revelry the cries of conscience, regretting his liberty, furious at finding himself tied to a woman who was the only obstacle to his ambitious desires, be wished to give the half of his fortune to get clear of me; he overwhelmed me with reproaches, and flew into furious rages about my being the cause of his misfortunes.

"One day, after a fit of fury, in which he had treated me most cruelly, he said, 'I do not wish you to nourish this child any more; I am not going to have him raised by you!' These words struck me dumb. I had you in my arms, my dear Robert, and I resolved to keep you there, and fly with you to where he could not find me. I had laid by the sum of four thousand francs, which my aunt had left me, and some savings from my father's pension, with the jewels my husband gave me at our marriage. These I sold, and that, added to the rest, made ten thousand francs. I filled a trunk with the clothing which was absolutely necessary for us, leaving behind all luxuries, and all ornaments and jewels, save a portrait of thy father, which is in a small medallion set in pearls, and may aid you to recognize him. All my preparations being made, I waited until the servants had gone to their evening meal, and then, with a thousand precautions, left by a stairway which led to the vestibule. It was scarcely night when I came out and found a stage to take my baggage and myself. I did not know at first where to go, but I wanted to fly far from the city where I had suffered so much, and to assure myself of keeping my child; this was my only thought, my only desire. In thinking over where I should go, I remembered that my parents were originally of l'Auvergne, and in my childhood I had heard my father describe this part of France, and, above all, the baths of Mount Dore. I hesitated no longer, taking the road to Clermont, but filled with the most horrid fears. Each time the stage stopped I fancied I saw the angry figure of thy father, and that he jerked thee from my arms. What I suffered during this journey I can never express to you. A thousand terrors, shudderings, and anguishes of all kinds agitated me, until I feared I should lose my reason. If anyone looked at me, I thought they knew my secret, and was ready to scream with horror. The gallop of a horse made me tremble and think I was overtaken, and my emotion would have betrayed me had the passengers been interested in watching my movements. Every unknown person I suspected as an enemy, and the remembrance of those hours of my life is still so vivid that they even now fill me with horror. However, I arrived at Clermont without accident, and remained there long enough to inform myself of the chances of being able to find a small house to let, in the neighborhood of the baths of Mount Dore. Here the first years of thy life were passed, and no remarkable event has ever troubled our happy solitude. What I have most dreaded was that I might have to return to the world, but God spares me this; he will take me soon. Thou canst now judge of my anguish at the thought of being separated from thee, and the desolation of my soul, that I know will soon leave thee alone in the world. O my child! in this hour, when my love redoubles its strength and struggles against death to enjoy some moments more of thy sweet society, I weep bitterly at the loneliness I have made for thee. I may, perhaps, exaggerate my wrongs; I may have acted badly; but when the moment comes when I will appear before my sovereign Judge, to render an account for all my actions, if I reproach myself with voluntarily throwing off the yoke which weighed me down, I will say also, with the same frankness, that I rejoice to have raised thee far from the world's corruptions and would rather leave thee alone in life than surrounded by wicked men. {73} I have tried to instil good principles into thy mind, and I know that thou fearest and lovest God and will cherish my memory, and the heart is the talisman that will preserve thee from evil. I have the firm conviction that thou wilt never forget the sublime teachings of religion, and that it will ever guide thee in the right way. Pardon me, my son, for having deprived thee of thy father's caresses and protection; and as I have need of thy indulgence, I will be indulgent to others, and efface all remembrance of what I have suffered, and will think only of the happiness thou hast given me. Then, if it pleases God that thou shouldst ever find thy father, tell him that I pardoned him long ago, but that I never forgave myself for my conduct to him. Tell him that to the last hour of my life I regretted I could not make him happy; and, if remorse should fill his heart, console him, my child, be to him an angel of mercy, be prodigal of thy cares and tenderness, for repentance is a second baptism; it is the regeneration of the soul. When thou wilt read the lines I now trace with trembling hand, it will be long after I have bid adieu to the transitory things of time. Thou wilt be a man and subject to passions. If thou art pure, God be blessed a thousand times; if thou art feeble, repent sincerely and call upon God to assist thee. Respect, above all things, the purity of affection. Hold out thy hand to help all who need encouragement and pity. A word of compassion does more good than severity and reproach. What can I say more, but what thou knowest better than I do? for I have seen little of the world, and what I have seen makes me regard it with horror. Flee from the wicked, from whom nothing can be gained and all lost. Whatever career you may choose, fill it with honor and credit. Happiness consists neither in feasting nor the brilliancy of riches; it is in the life within, in doing good and making others happy, and in laying up treasures in heaven. Recall often the sweet and peaceful joys of thy childhood, the twelve years of thy life which will forever be engraven in thy heart. May these simple pleasures inspire thee with wisdom to choose between the burning, wasting pleasures of a vain world, and the pure joys of retirement."

Thus finished the letter.

"O my precious mother!" cried Robert, raising his eyes toward heaven, "if thou wert living, I would say to thee, with lively gratitude, 'Thou hast done well;' for, if I am exempt from the passions of youth, it is to thy tender care that I owe it; it is to thy love and thy virtues that I am indebted for that peace of mind which makes my whole life happy. O my good mother! thy memory will ever be for me a precious talisman, and thy least desires and wishes will be sacred orders for thy son; and I swear by thy revered memory to try and find my father, if the Lord will permit me."

To the confession of his mother were joined the register of the birth of Robert and the marriage of Mlle. Stephanie Dormeuil with the Count Sosthène de Verceil. Though Robert had the right to take his father's name, be did not wish it. He preferred the more humble one of his mother, and hoped, by his talent, to raise it above the noble one of his father; to efface its original plebeianism under a crown of fame. This was the generous idea of a good son, who wished to avenge the contempt his mother had received from his noble grandparents. He had now but this desire, and determined the maternal name should be cited among the illustrious.

After one more visit to the grave of his mother, and another to his loved mountain, the little house, and all the place, which spoke so eloquently of her, he set out for the classic land of Italy, the cradle of the arts and sciences.

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