Chapter V (part 2 of 2)

Chapter V (part 2 of 2)

But conceding the unity of the species, science has, at least, proved that the several races or varieties in the same species could not have all sprung from one and the same original pair. Where has science done this? It can do it only by way of induction from facts scientifically observed and analyzed. What facts has it observed and analyzed that warrant this conclusion against the Adamic origin of all men? There are, as we have just said, no anatomical, physiological, intellectual, or moral facts that warrant such conclusion, and no other facts are possible. Wherever men are found, they all have the essential characteristic of men as distinguished from the mere animal; they all have substantially the same physical structure; all have thought, speech, and reason, and, though some may be inferior to others, nothing proves that all may not have sprung from the same Adam and Eve. Do you say ethnology cannot trace all the kindreds and nations of men back to a common origin? That is nothing to the purpose; can it say they cannot have had a common origin? But men are found everywhere, and could they have reached from the plains of Shinar continents separated from Asia by a wide expanse of water, and been distributed over America, New Holland, and the remotest islands of the ocean, when they had no ships or were ignorant of navigation? {339} Do you know that they had, in what are to us antehistorical times, no ships and no knowledge of navigation, as we know they have had them both ever since the first dawn of history? No? Then you allege not your science against the Christian dogma, but your ignorance, which we submit is not sufficient to override faith. You must prove that men could not have been distributed from a common centre as we now find them before you can assert that they could not have had a common origin. Besides, are you able to say what changes of land and water have taken place since men first appeared on the face of the earth? Many changes, geologists assure us, have taken place, and more than they know may have occurred, and have left men where they are now found, and where they may have gone without crossing large bodies of water. So long as any other hypothesis is possible, you cannot assert your own as certain.

But the difference of complexion, language, and usage which we note between the several races of men proves that they could not have sprung from one and the same pair. Do you know they could not? Know it? No; not absolutely, perhaps; but how can you prove they could and have? That is not the question. Christianity is in possession, and must be held to be rightfully in possession till real science shows the contrary. I may not be able to explain the origin of the differences noted in accordance with the assertion of the common origin of all men in a single primitive pair; but my ignorance can avail you no more than your own. My nescience is not your science. Your business is by science to disprove faith; if your science does not do that, it does nothing, and you are silenced. We do not pretend to be able to account for the differences of the several races, any more than we pretend to be able to account for the well-known fact that children born of the same parents have different facial angles, different sized brains, different shaped mouths and noses, different temperaments, different intellectual powers, and different moral tendencies. We may have conjectures on the subject, but conjectures are not science. If necessary to the argument, we might, perhaps, suggest a not improbable hypothesis for explaining the difference of complexion between the white and the colored races. The colored races, the yellow, the olive, the red, the copper-colored, and the black, are inferior to the Caucasian, have departed farther from the norma of the species, and approached nearer to the animal, and therefore, like animals, have become more or less subject to the action of the elements. External nature, acting for ages on a race, enfeebled by over-civilization and refinement, and therefore having in a great measure lost the moral and intellectual power of resisting the elemental action of nature, may, perhaps, sufficiently explain the differences we note in the complexion of the several races. If the Europeans and their American descendants were to lose all tradition of the Christian religion, as they are rapidly doing, and to take up with spiritism or some other degrading superstition, as they seem disposed to do, and to devote themselves solely to the luxuries and refinements of the material civilization of which they are now so proud, and boast so much, it is by no means improbable that in time they would become as dark, as deformed, as imbecile as the despised African or the native New Hollander. {340} We might give very plausible reasons for regarding the negro as the degraded remnant of a once over-civilized and corrupted race; and perhaps, if recovered, Christianized, civilized, and restored to communication with the great central current of human life, he may in time lose his negro hue and features, and become once more a white man, a Caucasian. But be this as it may, we rest, as is our right, on the fact that the unity of the human species and its Adamic origin are in possession, and it is for those who deny either point to make good their denial.

But the Scriptures say mankind were originally of one speech, and we find that every species of animals has its peculiar song or cry, which is the same in every individual of the same species; yet this is not the case with the different kindred and nations of men; they speak different tongues, which the philologist is utterly unable to refer to a common original. Therefore there cannot be in men unity of species, and the assertion of the Scriptures of all being of one speech is untrue. If the song of the same species of birds or the cry of the same species of animals is the same in all the individuals of that species, it still requires no very nice ear to distinguish the song or the cry of one individual from that of another; and therefore the analogy relied on, even if admissible, which it is not, would not sustain the conclusion. Conceding, if you insist on it, that unity of species demands unity of speech, the facts adduced warrant no conclusion against the Scriptural assertion; for the language of all men is even now one and the same, and all really have one and the same speech. Take the elements of language as the sensible sign by which men communicate with one another, and there is even now, at least as far as known or conceivable, only one language. The essential elements of all dialects are the same. You have in all the subject, the predicate, and the copula, or the noun, adjective, and verb, to which all the other parts of speech are reducible. Hence the philologist speaks of universal grammar, and constructs a grammar applicable alike to all dialects. Some philologists also contend that the signs adopted by all dialects are radically the same, and that the differences encountered are only accidental. This has been actually proved in the case of what are called the Aryan or Indo-European dialects. That the Sanskrit, the Pehlvi or old Persic, the Keltic, the Teutonic, the Slavonic, the Greek, and the Latin, from which are derived the modern dialects of Europe, as Italian, French, Spanish, Portuguese, English, Dutch, German, Scanian, Turk, Polish, Russian, Welsh, Gaelic, and Irish, all except the Basque and Lettish or Finnish, have had a common origin, no philologist doubts. That the group of dialects called Semitic, including the Hebrew, Chaldaic, Syriac, Coptic, and Ethiopic, have had an origin identical with that of the Aryan group is, we believe, now hardly denied. All that can be said is, that philologists have not proved it, nor the same fact with regard to the so-called Turanian group, as the Chinese, the Turkish, the Basque, the Lettish or Finnish, the Tataric or Mongolian, etc., the dialects of the aboriginal tribes or nations of America and of Africa. But what conclusion is to be drawn from the fact that philology, a science confessedly in its infancy, and hardly a science at all, has not as yet established an identity of origin with these for the most part barbarous dialects? From the fact that philology has not ascertained it, we cannot conclude that the identity does not exist, or even that philology may not one day discover and establish it.

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Philology may have also proceeded on false assumptions, which have retarded its progress and led it to false conclusions. It has proceeded on the assumption that the savage is the primitive man, and that his agglutinated dialect represents a primitive state of language instead of a degenerate state. A broader view of history and a juster induction from its facts would, perhaps, upset this assumption. The savage is the degenerate, not the primeval man; man in his second childhood, not in his first; and hence the reason why he has no growth, no inherent progressive power, and why, as Niebuhr asserts, there is no instance on record of a savage people having by its own indigenous efforts passed from the savage to the civilized state. The thing is as impossible as for the old man, decrepit by age, to renew the vigor and elasticity of his youth or early manhood. Instead of studying the dialects of savage tribes to obtain specimens of the primitive forms of speech, philologists should study them only to obtain specimens of worn-out or used up forms, or of language in its dotage. In all the savage dialects that we have any knowledge of, we detect or seem to detect traces of a culture, a civilization, of which they who now speak them have lost all memory and are no longer capable. This seems to us to bear witness to a fall, a loss. Perhaps, when the American and African dialects are better known, and are studied with reference to this view of the savage state, and we have better ascertained the influence of climate and habits of life on the organs of speech and therefore on pronunciation, especially of the consonants, we shall be able to discover indications of an identity of origin where now we can detect only traces of diversity. As long as philology has only partially explored the field of observation, it is idle to pretend that science has established anything against the scriptural doctrine of the unity of speech. The fact that philologists have not traced all the various dialects now spoken or extinct to a common original amounts to nothing against faith, unless it can be proved that no such original ever existed. It may have been lost and only the distinctions retained.

Naturalists point to the various species of plants and animals distributed over the whole surface of the globe, and ask us if we mean to say that each of these has also sprung from one original pair, or male and female, and if we maintain that the primogenitors of each species of animal were in the garden of Eden with Adam and Eve, or in the Ark with Noah. If so, how have they become distributed over the several continents of the earth and the islands of the ocean? Argumentum a specie ad speciem, non valet, as say the books on logic. And even if it were proved that in case of plants and animals God duplicates, triplicates, or quadriplicates the parents by direct creation, or that he creates anew the pair in each remote locality where the same species is found, as prominent naturalists maintain or are inclined to maintain, it would prove nothing in the case of man. For we cannot reason from animals to man, or from flora to fauna. Nearly all the arguments adduced from so-called science against the faith are drawn from supposed analogies of men and animals, and rest for their validity on the assumption that man is not only generically, but specifically, an animal, which is simply a begging the question.

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Species again, it is said, may be developed by way of selection, as the florist proves in regard to flowers, and the shepherd or herdsman in regard to sheep and cattle. That new varieties in the lower orders of creation may be attained by some sort of development is not denied, but as yet it is not proved that any new species is ever so obtained. Moreover, facts would seem to establish that, at least in the case of domestic animals, horses, cattle, and sheep, the new varieties do not become species and are not self-perpetuating. Experiments in what is called crossing the breed have proved that, unless the crossing is frequently renewed, the variety in a very few generations runs out. There is a perpetual tendency of each original type to gain the ascendency, and of the stronger to eliminate the others. Cattle-breeders now do not rely on crossing, but seek to improve their stock by selecting the best breed they know, and improving it by improved care and nourishment. The different varieties of men may be, perhaps, improved in their physique by selection, as was attempted in the institutions of Lycurgus; but, as the moral and intellectual nature predominates in man and is his characteristic, all conclusions as to him drawn from the lower orders of creation, even in his physical constitution, are suspicious and always to be accepted with extreme caution. The church has defined what no physiologist has disproved, that anima est forma corporis. The soul is the informing or vital principle of the body, which modifies all its actions, and enables it to resist, at least to some extent, the chemical and other natural laws which act on animals, plants, and unorganized matter. The physiological and medical theories based on chemistry, which were for a time in vogue and are not yet wholly abandoned, contain at best only a modicum of truth, and can never be safely followed, for in the life of man there is at work a subtiler power than a chemical or any other physical agent. We do not deny that man is through his body related to the material world, or that many of the laws of that world, mineral, vegetable, and animal, are in some degree applicable to him; but, as far as science has yet proceeded, they are so only with many limitations and modifications which the physician--we use the word in its etymological as well as in its conventional sense--can seldom determine. The morale every physician knows has an immense power over the physique. The higher the morale, the greater the power of the physical system to resist physical laws, to endure fatigue, to bear up against and even to throw off disease. Physical disease is often generated by moral depression, and not seldom thrown off by moral exhilaration. What is called strength of will at times seems not only to subject disease to its control, but to hold death itself at bay. In armies the officer, with more care, more labor, more hardship, and less food and sleep, will survive the common soldier, vastly his superior as to his mere physical constitution. These facts and innumerable others like them justify a strong protest against the too common practice of applying to man without any reservation the laws which we observe in the lower orders of creation, and arguing from what is true of them what must be true of him. Tear off the claw of a lobster, and a new one will be pushed out; cut the polypus in pieces, and each piece becomes a perfect polypus, at least so we are told, for we have not ourselves made or seen the experiment. But nothing of the sort is true of man, nor even of the higher classes of animals in which organic life is more complex. {343} We place little confidence in conclusions drawn from the assumed analogies between man and animals, and even the development of species in them by selection or otherwise, if proved, would not prove to us the possibility of a like development in him. We must see a monkey by development grow into a man before we can believe it.

But why, even in the case of animals that can be propagated only by the union of male and female, we should suppose the necessity of duplicating the parents of the species is more than we are able to understand. The individuals of the species could go where man could go. Suppose we find a species of fish in a North American lake, and the same species in a European or Asiatic lake which has no water communication with it, can you say the two lakes have never been in communication, you who claim that the earth has existed for millions of ages? Much of what is now land was once covered with water, and much now covered with water it is probable was once land inhabited by plants, animals, and men. Facts even indicate that the part of the earth now under the Arctic and Antarctic circles once lay nearer to the Equator, if not under it, and that what are now mountains were once islands dotting the surface of the ocean. No inductions which exclude these probabilities or indications are scientific, or can be accepted as conclusive.

Take, then, all the facts on which the naturalists support their hypotheses, they establish nothing against faith. The facts really established either favor faith or are perfectly compatible with it; and if any are alleged that seem to militate against it, they are either not proved to be facts, or their true character is not fully ascertained, and no conclusion from them can be taken as really scientific. We do not pretend that the natural sciences, as such, tend to establish the truth of revelation, and we think some over-zealous apologists of the faith go further in this respect than they should. The sciences deal with facts and causes of the secondary order; and it is very certain that one may determine the quality of an acorn as food for swine without considering the first cause of the oak that bore it. A man may ascertain the properties of steam and apply it to impel various kinds of machinery, without giving any direct argument in favor of the unity and Adamic origin of the race. The atheist may be a good geometrician; but, if there were no God, there could be neither geometry nor an atheist to study it. All we contend is, that the facts with which science deals are none of them shown to contradict faith or to warrant any conclusions incompatible with it.

Hence it may be assumed that, while the sciences remain in their own order of facts, they neither aid faith nor impugn it, for faith deals with a higher order of facts, and moves in a superior plane. The order of facts with which the sciences deal no doubt depends on the order revealed by faith; and no doubt the particular sciences should be connected with science or the explanation and application of the ideal formula or first principles, what we call philosophy, as this formula in turn is connected with the faith; but it does not lie within the province of the particular sciences as such to show this dependence or this connection, and our savans invariably blunder whenever they attempt to do it, or to rise from the special to the general, the particular to the universal, or from the sciences to faith. Here is where they err. {344} What they allege that transcends the particular order of facts with which the sciences deal is only theory, hypothesis, conjecture, imagination, or fancy, and has not the slightest scientific value, and can warrant no conclusions either for or against faith. There is no logical ascent from the particular to the universal, unless there has been first a descent from the universal to the particular. Jacob saw, on the ladder reaching from heaven to earth, the angels of God descending and ascending, not ascending and descending. There must be a descent from the highest to the lowest before there can be an ascent from the lowest to the highest. God becomes man that man may become God. The sciences all deal with particulars and cannot of themselves rise above particulars, and from them universal science is not obtainable.

He who starts from revelation, which includes the principles of universal science, can, no doubt, find all nature harmonizing with faith, and all the sciences bearing witness to its truth, for he has the key to their real and higher sense; but he who starts with the particular only can never rise above the particular, and hence he finds in the particulars, or the nature to which he is restricted, no immaterial and immortal soul, and no God, creator, and upholder of the universe. His generalizations are only classifications of facts, with no intuition of their relation to an order above themselves; his universal is the particular, and he sees in the plane of his vision no steps by which to ascend to science, far less to faith. Saint-Simon and Auguste Comte both understood well the necessity of subordinating all the sciences to a general principle or law, and of integrating them in a universal science; but starting with the special sciences themselves, they could never attain to a universal science, or a science that accepted, generalized, and explained them all, and hence each ended in atheism, or, what is the same thing, the divinization of humanity. The positivists really recognize only particulars, and only particulars in the material order, the only order the sciences, distinguished from philosophy and revelation, do or can deal with. Alexander von Humboldt had, probably, no superior in the sciences, and he has given their résumé in his Cosmos; but, if we recollect aright, the word God does not once appear in that work, and yet, except when he ventures to theorize beyond the order of facts on which the sciences immediately rest, there is little in that work that an orthodox Christian need deny. Herbert Spencer, really a man of ability, who disclaims being a follower of Auguste Comte or a positivist, excludes from the knowable, principles and causes, all except sensible phenomena; and although wrong in view of a higher philosophy than can be obtained by induction from the sensible or particular facts, yet he is not wrong in contending that the sciences cannot of themselves rise above the particular and the phenomenal.

Hence we do not agree with those Christian apologists who tell us that the tendency of the sciences is to corroborate the doctrines of revelation. They no more tend of themselves to corroborate revelation than they do to impair it. They who press them into the cause of infidelity, and hence conclude that science explodes faith, mistake their reach, for we can no more conclude from them against faith than we can in favor of faith. The fact is, the sciences are not science, and lie quite below the sphere of both science and faith. When arrayed against either, their authority is null. {345} Hence we conclude, á priori, against them when they presume to impugn the principles of science as expressed in the ideal formula, or against faith which is, considered in itself objectively, no less certain than the formula itself; and we have shown, à posteriori, by descending to the particulars, that the sciences present no facts that impugn revelation or contradict the teachings of faith. The conclusions of the savans against the Christian dogmas are no logical deductions or inductions from any facts or particulars in their possession, and therefore, however they may carry away sciolists, or the half-learned, or little minds, greedy of novelties, they are really of no scientific account.

All that faith demands of the sciences as such is their silence. She does not demand their support, she only demands that they keep in their own order, that the cobbler should stick to his last, ne sutor ultra crepidam. Faith herself is in the supernatural order, and proceeds from the same source as nature herself; it presupposes science indeed, and elevates and confirms it, but no more depends upon it than the creator depends on the creature. The highest science needs faith to complete it, and in all probability never could have been attained to without revelation; but neither science nor the sciences, however they may need revelation, could ever, without revelation, have risen to the conception of a divine and supernatural revelation. It is idle, then, to suppose that without revelation we could find by the sciences the demonstration or evidence of revelation. Lalande was right when he said he had never seen God at the end of his telescope, and his assertion should weigh with all natural theologians, so-called, who attempt to prove the existence of God by way of induction from the facts which naturalists observe and analyze; but he was wrong and grossly illogical when he concluded from that fact, with the fool of the Bible, there is no God, as wrong as those chemists are who conclude against the real presence in holy eucharist, because by their profane analysis of the consecrated host they find in it the properties of bread. The most searching chemical analysis cannot go beyond the visible or sensible properties of the subject analyzed, and the sensible properties of the bread and wine nobody pretends are changed in transubstantiation. None of the revealed dogmas are either provable or disprovable by any empirical science, for they all lie in the supernatural order, above the reach of natural science, and while they control all the empirical sciences they can be controlled by none.

But when we have revelation and with it, consciously or unconsciously, the ideal formula, which gives us the principles of all science and of all things, and descend from the higher to the lower, the case is essentially different. We then find all the sciences so far as based on facts, and all the observable facts or phenomena of nature, moral, intellectual, or physical, both illustrating and confirming the truths of revelation and the mysteries of faith. We then approach nature from the point of view of the Creator, read nature by the divine light of revelation, and study it from above, not from below; we then follow the real order of things, proceed from principles to facts, from the cause to the effect, from the universal to the particular, and are, after having thus descended from heaven to earth, able to reascend from earth to heaven. In this way we can see all nature joining in one to show forth the being and glory of God, and to hymn his praise. {346} This method of studying nature from high to low by the light of first principles and of divine revelation enables us to press all the sciences into the service of faith, to unite them in a common principle, and do what the Saint-Simonians and positivists cannot do, integrate them in a general or universal science, bring the whole intellectual life of man, as we showed in our article on Rome or Reason, into unison with faith and the real life and order of things, leaving to rend our bosoms only that moral struggle symbolized by Rome and the World, of which we have heretofore treated at length.

But this can never be done by induction from the facts observed and analyzed by the several empirical or inductive sciences. We think we have shown that the pretension, that these sciences have set aside any of the doctrines of Christianity, or impaired the faith, except in feeble and uninstructed minds, is unfounded; we think we have also shown that they not only have not, but cannot do it, because they lie in a region too low to establish anything against revelation. Yet as the sciences are insufficient, while restricted to their proper sphere, to satisfy the demand of reason for apodictic principles, for unity and universality, there is a perpetual tendency in the men devoted exclusively to their culture to draw from them conclusions which are unwarranted, illogical, and antagonistic both to philosophy and to faith. Against this tendency, perhaps never more strongly manifested than at this moment, there is in natural science alone no sufficient safeguard, and consequently we need the supernatural light of revelation to protect both faith and science itself. With the loss of the light of revelation we lose, in fact, the ideal formula, or the light of philosophy; and with the light of philosophy, we lose both science and the sciences, and retain only dry facts which signify nothing, or baseless theories and wild conjectures, which, when substituted for real science, are far worse than nothing.

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My Meadowbrook Adventure.

"No, no, Tom; that is out of the question. I can't afford to go away just now. I am getting into a fine practice; the courts open in ten days; and besides, I am in the midst of an essay on the Law of Contracts which I promised for the next number of a certain law magazine. Your prescription is a very pleasant one; but really I can't take it. You must give me a good dose of medicine instead."

"I tell you what it is, Franklin, I don't let my patients dictate to me in that style. You have been fool enough to throw yourself into a nervous fever by working in this nasty den all summer, instead of taking a vacation-run to the country as you ought to have done; and now, if you don't follow my directions, I swear I won't cure you! Go off to some quiet farm-house for a week or two, and, if your essay on contracts weighs upon your mind, take the stupid stuff with you. I'll risk your working much at it after you get within scent of the fields."

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I could not stand out very long against the bluff orders of my friend and physician Tom Bowlder. I knew, too, that he was right. I had overtasked myself. I had been dangerously ill; and, eager as I was to get on with my work, I could not help feeling that rest and change were absolutely necessary for me. So I packed my portmanteau, not forgetting my precious essay and a liberal supply of writing-paper, and the next morning saw me on the way to Meadowbrook.

It was a quiet, sleepy little village, nestling at the foot of a beautifully wooded ridge, and looking out from its shelter, across a slope of green fields, to a little stream which ran purling over the stones a quarter of a mile distant. Majestic old elm-trees shaded the grassy roads and swung their branches over the roofs of the trim little cottages. There was only one house in the place which pretended to be anything better than a cottage, and that was a rather stately villa, a good hundred years old at least, which stood a little way out of the village, surrounded with trees, and shut in from the public gaze by an enormous hawthorn hedge which ran around the extensive grounds. Meadowbrook House, or "the house," as it was generally called by the villagers, was the property of an old maiden lady named Forsythe, the daughter of a retired merchant who long years ago had chosen this quiet spot as a retreat for his old age. Mr. Forsythe was a Catholic, and one of his first actions after removing to Meadowbrook was to build the pretty stone church in the main street of the village, and to pledge a certain sum annually from his ample income for the support of the priest. When, after a long life of usefulness, he died and was buried by the side of his wife, leaving all his property to his daughter, who had already long passed the period of youth, the generosity of Miss Forsythe continued to supply what the poor little Catholic congregation was unable to give, and the excellent spinster was still the mainstay of the church. Poor Father James, an old man now of nearly seventy, would have fared ill but for her assistance.

So much I learned in an after-supper chat with my landlady on the night of my arrival. I cannot say that I was much engrossed at the time by the good woman's garrulous narrative, but after-events were to give me a deep interest in Meadowbrook House and in everything connected with it. I had taken lodgings in the village inn, a neat, quiet, respectable establishment, where there were few guests except the villagers who used to drop in of an evening to enjoy a little gossip and a pipe, and with whom, after a days' ramble, I used often to sit and smoke my cigar. I led an idle but most delicious life during my ten day's holiday. I ranged through the woods, with my gun on my shoulder, bringing home now and then a bird or so, but caring in reality more for the walk than the shooting. I whipped the brook for trout. I searched the fields for botanical specimens. I wandered about with a volume of Tennyson or Buchanan in my pocket, stopping at times to lie down and read under the trees. I did almost everything, in fact, except work at my essay, which remained in the portfolio where I had originally packed it.

One sunny afternoon I was dozing on my back in the shade of an apple orchard, when a strain of music was borne to my ears, beginning like the distant hum of bees, and gradually swelling on the air with slow and majestic cadences. I had never heard such music in Meadowbrook before. {348} Curious to know whence it came, I followed the sound, and was not long in discovering that some practised hand was touching the wheezy little organ in the village church. Not the same hand which was accustomed painfully to struggle with the keys there on Sunday, and wring from them broken and doleful sounds to the distress of all nervous listeners. The person who was playing now had the touch of a master; and as the plaintive phrases of the Agnus Dei from Mozart's First Mass broke upon the solitude of the church, the rickety organ seemed infused with a new spirit. I could not have believed that so much pathos and such exquisite delicacy of tone could be drawn from the wretched instrument whose laborious whistling and puffing had set my teeth on edge the previous Sunday. I sat down in a pew under the gallery, and listened. It was not until twilight approached that the playing ceased. I heard the organ closed; the player was silent for a few moments; "He is saying a prayer," thought I; and then a soft step began to descend the stairs. Thinking it possible the performer might feel annoyed at perceiving a stranger in the church, I sat quietly in my place, confident that the growing darkness and the shelter of one of the pillars would screen me from observation. I could see very well, however, though I could not be seen, and my surprise was great when a slender female figure issued from the gallery staircase, and came within the light of the open street door. She was young--not more than eighteen, I should think--with a face of rare beauty, a pretty form, a light and graceful carriage, and the unmistakable air of a gentlewoman. Small, regular features, light brown eyes, cheeks like a peach, blooming with health, a profusion of dark hair, and an expression of remarkable simplicity and sweetness made up a picture of loveliness such as I had never seen before. She wore a fascinating little round hat, and when I first caught sight of her was just drawing on her gloves, and I could see that her hands were small and shapely. She bent her knee as she passed before the altar, and when she went out into the street the church seemed suddenly to have grown darker. My first impulse was to follow her; but I stopped, feeling that it would be an intrusion, and trusting that she would return the next day, if she supposed herself to be unobserved. So I kept still until she had been gone several minutes, and when I left the church she was nowhere to be seen.

I determined to ask my landlady about the fair musician, and that evening, when worthy Mrs. Brown brought me my supper, I detained her a few minutes in conversation--an amusement to which she was in noway adverse.

"It's been an elegant day, hasn't it, now, Mr. Franklin?" said the old woman, as she placed on the table the smoking rasher of ham and the pile of buttered toast; "and it's plain to see what a world of good this tramping about the country is doing you. I wouldn't say you were over-strong yet; but, Lord bless me! when you first came here, you were little better than a ghost. Well, well, sir, and I hope you won't find our little village too dull for you!"

"Dull! Mrs. Brown. Not a bit of it. I wish I could stay here a year. By the way, who is it plays the organ so beautifully in Meadowbrook church? I heard the music, and stopped awhile to listen."

"Plays the organ, sir? Well, you know there's Mr. Thrasher, the schoolmaster; he's the organist on Sundays, and very like you heard him practising--though why he should be out of school to-day, and this not a holiday--"

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"Mr. Thrasher, Mrs. Brown, thumps on the organ as if he was thumping his pupils, and his singers scream as if they felt the blows. This was not Mr. Thrasher. It was a young lady!"

"Well, sir, I never knowed of no young lady playing the organ except it was Betty Cox, the butcher's daughter. They do say she has a wonderful talent for music, and Mr. Thrasher, he has been giving her lessons this last month, and I wouldn't wonder if it was her!"

Now, it had been my privilege to hear Miss Betty Cox finger the keys one day after Mass, and a more doleful performance I never had listened to. Even if I had not seen the performer, I should have been sure it was not Miss Betty; but, quite apart from her musical proficiency, I felt a little bit indignant that the beautiful girl who had made such an impression upon me should be mistaken for a Betty Cox. No, she was not one of the village damsels; that was clear. And unfortunately it was equally clear that Mrs. Brown knew no more about her than I did myself.

I fell asleep that night humming the Agnus Dei, and dreamed of angels with round hats and brown kid gloves, playing on rickety organs, and hurling legions of musty school-masters out of the clouds.

The next day I took my book to the church-yard, and chose a shady spot where I could hear the first notes of the organ. I waited a long while, reading little, for I could not fix my attention on the page. At last she came, as I had hoped. For more than an hour I listened to the exquisite tones which seemed to flow from her agile fingers. Then she went away without perceiving me.

I need hardly say that I made many another visit to the church, for the pursuit of the fair organist had now become a genuine passion with me. Sometimes I waited all the afternoon without seeing or hearing her. Then I used to go to my room and be moody and miserable all the evening. A rainy day would throw me into despair, and I watched the clouds with the eagerness of a schoolboy on a holiday. My readers will not need to be told that I was falling desperately in love. Once or twice I met her walking, and had an opportunity to notice more particularly the singular beauty of her form and countenance, and the refined and quiet air which pervaded her whole person. Once I met her by accident at the crossing of a brook. I gave her my hand to help her over, and she took it with the modest frankness of a true lady, saying, "Thank you, sir," in a voice which seemed to me as sweet as her face. Yes, I was certainly in love.

I might easily have found out all about her by asking a few questions in the village, where the shopkeepers, at all events, would hardly be as ill informed as my landlady; but since my conversation with Mrs. Brown I had become, I know not why, unwilling to speak of her. I had grown to look upon her as my secret, which I was disposed to guard pretty jealously. A bit of mystery, be it ever so little and unnecessary, is one of the most charming things in the world to a young lover, and I have always thought that Sheridan displayed great knowledge of human nature when he made Lydia Languish refuse to be married without an elopement. At some time in our lives almost all of us give way to more or less of the same sort of nonsense.

{350}

There came a sudden end at last to my mooning and dreaming, and it came in a way with which even Lydia Languish herself could not have quarrelled. I had been off one day on a long ramble among the hills, and, missing my way, did not get back to Meadowbrook until close upon evening. As I came near the village, I was made aware of some extraordinary commotion in the place. Men and women were hurrying through the streets, and voices were shouting in excited tones. I ran after the crowd, and as I turned into the main street a glance in the direction of the church revealed the cause of the disturbance. Flames were bursting through the gallery windows, and a dense smoke poured through the open door. Nearly the whole population of Meadowbrook had gathered around the scene of disaster. The men, and some of the women with them, had formed lines leading to one or two of the nearest wells, and were passing buckets with all the speed they could; but it was too evident with but little prospect of subduing the conflagration. I have already mentioned that the building was of stone, so there was little fear of the walls falling; but the woodwork of the interior was old, and burned almost like tinder. The organ-gallery was, of course, of wood, and inside the tower, which stood at the front of the edifice, there was a wooden staircase, forming the only means of access to the gallery. It was in the tower, I saw at once, that the flames were burning most fiercely. The rear of the church was as yet untouched. I need hardly tell what my first thought was when I saw the cruel glare that lighted up the approaching twilight. A sickening sensation crept over me. If the fair musician was in the gallery when the fire broke out, her escape seemed effectually cut off. I ran forward but there was little need to ask questions. The distressed expression on every face, the eager eyes fixed upon the windows of the gallery, the frantic but vain efforts of one or two of the boldest of the crowd to penetrate the doorway, out of which the smoke was rolling in great black clouds, told me that my worst fears were true.

"Ah! sir," said one of the men "it's a dreadful thing to see a pretty young creature like that burned to death before our very eyes. But we can't get to her!"

A cold perspiration broke out upon my forehead, and for a moment I reeled like a drunkard. "Good heavens!" I cried; "have you no ladders?"

"Yes, we have two; but look at the tower, sir. There's no window except in the belfry, and both the ladders together would not reach that."

"Take the ladders into the church by the back way," I cried, "and get up the front of the gallery! Here," I added, pulling out my purse, "this for the first man who reaches her."

"We wouldn't want your money, sir, if we could get at the young lady," answered one or two voices together; "but there's little use in trying. Three men have gone into the church already."

They were still speaking when there was a stir among the crowd at the side of the building, and the three men reappeared. Their clothes were scorched, and even their hair was slightly singed.

"Can't do it," said one; "the gallery front is burning like a furnace. We got the ladders up, but we could not climb them and hardly got them away again."

"Did you see anything of her?"

"No, and didn't hear a sound. If she has not been choked already by the smoke, she must have gone up into the tower."

{351}

It was a slight hope, yet there was something in it after all. Behind the organ there was, as I knew, a door opening into a sort of lumber-room in the tower, from which a rude flight of steps, terminating in a ladder, led up to the bell. It was possible that when she found the gallery staircase in flames, (I afterward learned that it was here the fire broke out; it was supposed to have been caused by a coal dropped on the stairs by a tinker who had been repairing the roof that afternoon)--it was just possible, I say, that she might have retreated up these steps in the hope of being rescued through the belfry window. For a moment or two after the failure to reach her through the interior, there was a pause of awful suspense. Whatever was to be done, however, must be done at once. The flames were making rapid headway, and in ten minutes nothing would be left of the tower but the bare stone shell. Already it was doubtful if any one could survive even in the upper portion of it. The men were still throwing bucketfuls of water into the burning porch with frantic speed; but this, of course, did little good, for the fire was spreading high above their reach. Others were running helplessly about with coils of rope. Suddenly a thought seized me. Just in front of the church, but on the opposite side of the road, stood an enormous elm-tree. Some of its upper branches reached within fifty feet of the top of the tower. Was it not possible to bridge across that chasm?

"Is there any opening," I cried, "in the tower roof?"

"No, sir; none at all."

"Give me an axe and some rope."

Two or three axes were thrust at me. I took one, and tied it round my waist with a long coil of rope. Then I chose out another coil, and, throwing it over one of the lower limbs of the elm-tree, clambered with some difficulty into the branches. It would have been very hard climbing without the rope; but as I could throw it from limb to limb where I could not reach, and as I was a sufficiently expert gymnast to pull myself up by it, a few seconds saw me on one of the upper branches which had caught my eye from below. There was a battlement around the top of the tower, and I thought if I could secure one end of the rope to one of the projections of this battlement, I might contrive, by tying the other to the tree, to work my way across. I made a large slip-noose, gathered up the line like a lasso, and cast it with all my strength. The first attempt failed. The crowd below saw my object now, and gave a tremendous cheer. I tried again, and this time the noose caught upon the battlement. I drew up the rope as tight as I could, tied it fast to the tree, and, clasping it with my legs and hands, began the most dangerous and difficult part of my enterprise. There was a breathless silence below as I pulled myself across the awful chasm. I could hear the roar and crackling of the flames, and the hot air and acrid smoke were driven into my face until I thought I should have fainted and fallen to the ground. At last I reached the battlement. With much trouble I clambered upon the roof, and while the excited villagers were screaming themselves hoarse and hurrahing like madmen--I hardly heard their cries at the time, but, with other incidents of that memorable afternoon, they came to me afterward--I plied my axe so vigorously that in a few minutes I had stripped off a section of the roofing, and made an opening two or three feet square. It was too dark now to distinguish anything in the interior, but I knew that the platform on which the bell rested must be some twelve or fifteen feet below me. {352} Fastening the second coil of rope to the battlement, I let myself down through the hole until I felt the solid planking under my feet. There was a suffocating odor of fire, but the air was still pure enough to be breathed without serious inconvenience, groped about in the dark until I found the ladder leading below, and, trembling with apprehension, hurried down as fast as I was able. I shouted, but there was no answer. I reached the landing-stage where the ladder stopped and the rough steps, already mentioned, began, and at this moment some barrier which had kept the flames confined below seemed to give way, and a flood of light streamed up the staircase. I hurried on with the energy of desperation. When I reached the lumber-room, the door-way leading into the gallery was wrapped in fire. Through it I could see the old organ blazing, the planks dropping off one by one, and the metal pipes melting under the intense heat. The lower staircase was nearly consumed, and the floor of the room itself had caught in several places. The dreadful glow reflected upon the rough stone walls and rugged beams showed me in a moment what I had come to seek. There, in a remote corner which the fire had not yet reached, was a female form stretched senseless on the floor. A round hat was lying beside her, and her rich brown hair fell in graceful waves over her neck. Her white arms, from which the sleeves had fallen back, were stretched out before her, and her fingers clasped a rosary, as if her last conscious act had been a prayer. I seized her by the waist, and, with a strength at which I even now wonder, rushed with my burden toward the steps which I had just descended. She was still living. I could feel the beating of her heart and the heaving of her breast, and my joy at this discovery gave me fresh energy. How I got her up the steps I never clearly knew; but in a short space of time I had reached the top of the ladder and burst open the single window which looked out from the bell-chamber. The cool air revived her almost instantly. I held her up for a moment by the window, and, as she opened her eyes with a bewildered stare, I tried to say a word to calm her. She gazed at me an instant and then burst into tears, and her head fell forward on my shoulder.

"Fear nothing, dear lady," said I, "you are safe now. Collect your strength as much as you can. I am going to let you down through this window."

"And yourself!" she asked, staggering to her feet.

"Oh! make yourself easy about me. I shall follow you by the same way. You have only to keep calm, and there is little real danger."

The rope by which I had descended from the roof was still hanging there. I whipped out my knife, and cut it off as high as I could, there was still enough left to reach within fifteen feet of the ground. I tied it around her waist, wrapping my coat about it, so that it might chafe her as little as possible, gave it two turns around the windlass of the bell to strengthen my hold, and then shouted to the crowd below to put up their longest ladder under the window. A cheer told me that I was understood, and, before the preparations for the descent were quite finished, I saw a ladder raised against the wall, and two or three stout fellows standing ready to receive my burden.

{353}

"Now," said I, "you have only to be careful to keep yourself clear of the stones with your feet; grasp the rope by this knot to diminish the strain on your waist, and trust me for the rest."

The window was so near the floor that there was little difficulty in her getting out. I braced my feet firmly against the windlass, and lowered away carefully, but as fast as I dared, for the increased roaring of the flames below warned me that I had not a second to lose. The openings I had made in the roof and window had, of course, created a strong draught in the tower, and the fire was now burning in it like a furnace. Her feet touched the topmost round of the ladder just as I had got within a yard of the end of the rope. A pair of brawny arms received her, and at that moment the floor of the lumber room and gallery fell in with an awful crash; there was a lull for an instant; then a dense mass of smoke, flame, and cinders burst forth, as if belched from a volcano, and in less than a minute the outside as well as the interior of the tower was wrapped in flame. Not soon enough, however, to touch what I had fought so hard to save. I thank God I had the presence of mind, when I heard the crash, to know what was coming; and, that no precious moments might be lost in unfastening the rope from her waist, I threw the other end out the window the instant I saw her foothold was secure, and the men hurried her down the ladder just in time. I heard her utter a cry of horror as I sacrificed my own means of escape, and, looking out, I saw her carried senseless away. Terrible as my danger was, I could not help noticing the awful grandeur of the scene. Twilight had given way to night, but the red glare illuminated the surrounding objects, and threw a flickering, unearthly light upon the upturned faces of the crowd. I saw women running to and fro, wringing their hands in despair, and men looking up at the window where I stood, with an expression of mingled fright and pity. But, if I had had a mile of rope, it would have been of little use to me now. The burning timbers had fallen outside the door of the tower, and I could not have let myself down without falling into the midst of them. I thought of the bell-rope; if I could get back to the roof with that, I might let myself down at the side. It would not be long enough to reach near the ground, but, if I escaped with a broken leg, that would be better anyhow than being burnt to death. I seized the rope where it was attached to the bell, and began to pull it up through the hole in the floor; a few feet of it only came away in my hand; the rest had been consumed. The smoke by this time was pouring through every crack, and the heat of the small chamber in which I stood was so intense that I knew that, too, must soon fall in. The roof was about twelve feet above me. My last hope was to reach it, and return by the same frightful bridge by which I had worked my way over. I shuddered to think of trusting myself again upon that dizzy crossing, with my hands already torn and bleeding, my brain reeling, and my eyes half-blinded. I sprang, however, upon the windlass, and made one desperate leap for the hole in the roof. I just grasped the rafters, and as I did so the planks upon which I had been standing gave way, and the bell and its platform sank into the ruins. I never can forget the horror of that moment when, as I made my leap, I felt the timbers crack and fall under my foot into the blazing abyss. For the present, however, I was safe. I had got a firm hold, and with much exertion, nerved by the strength of desperation, I succeeded in drawing myself up and getting upon the roof. The rope-bridge was still there. {354} I staggered toward it, and as I showed myself over the battlements a hearty cheer went up from the crowd, who had given me up for lost when the belfry fell in. I heard, yet hardly heeded them. In the act of climbing over the parapet, my eye fell upon the fragment of the second rope which I had cut away. Scarcely reflecting upon what I did, yet with a sort of providential instinct, I loosened it from the wall, tied one end around my body, and passed the other around the rope which had to support me across the dreadful chasm, making it fast with a noose which would slip easily as I pulled myself along. Thus the whole weight of my body would not have to be borne by my disabled hands. This precaution, I believe, was all that saved me. I made the crossing with great pain, dizzy from excitement and over-exertion, and suffering intensely from the smoke and flames which the wind was now driving upon me. Ten or twenty yards of the distance were yet to be passed, when I was dimly conscious of a sudden swaying of the crowd, a suppressed groan from many voices at once, then a quick slackening of the rope, a thundering crash as of falling walls, and a quick rush of air that took away my breath. Mechanically I tightened my grasp. Without seeing, I knew what had happened. The tower had fallen in. It has often been mentioned how in a moment of deadly peril the memories of years will rush across the mind with the speed of lightning. Now, in the instant while I was falling through the air, I had time to notice the excitement of the people, to comprehend what had taken place, to breathe a short prayer, and to calculate my chances of being dashed to pieces against either the trunk of the tree or some of the lower branches. But the same good Lord who had saved me before was again on my side. The rope swung free of obstructions; I was jerked once or twice back and forth; I lost my hold; there was a sharp pain as if some one had struck me a tremendous blow, and I knew no more.

When I came to my senses again, it was with a feeling of bewilderment inexpressibly painful. I recognized nothing about me; I remembered nothing that had happened. I was lying in bed in a large, cheerful room, so bright and pretty that it was comfort even to look at it. The sun was struggling through the closed blinds, two or three logs of wood blazed in the capacious fire-place, and two luxurious, great, chintz-covered armchairs stood before the hearth. The walls were hung with a neat flowered paper, and the mantel-shelf was decorated with curious old china vases and various knick-knacks. Everything was the perfection of cleanliness and order, yet nothing looked prim. The coverlid on the bed was of warm, harmonious tints; the linen was, beautifully soft and white; there was a table in the middle of the room, covered with a bright cloth, and bearing a number of books and a dish of luscious-looking fruit; and on a little stand by the bedside was a bouquet of rare hot-house flowers. Here was a pleasant scene to open one's eyes upon; but where was I? I threw myself back upon the pillow, and gradually the events I have narrated in the preceding pages shaped themselves in my memory. I felt very weak, but I was not long in satisfying myself that I had broken no bones. I looked at my wounded hands. They were covered with scars, but the wounds were healed. I knew then that I must have been lying there a pretty long time. I was still wondering, when the door opened softly, and a tidy-looking elderly woman, whose dress indicated that she was some sort of an upper servant, came into the room. {355} She uttered an exclamation of pleasure when she caught my eye, and came up to the bedside.

"Well, sir," said she, "it does my heart good to see you looking so much better. You've had a hard time of it, that's the truth; but we'll soon have you up, now."

"You're very kind," I answered; "anybody might get well in this room; but please tell me where I am."

"O sir! you're at Meadowbrook House. Miss Forsythe had you fetched here right after the fire." "How long ago was that?" "About two weeks." "So long! I must have been very sick. You are very good."

I thought she seemed a little surprised at the fervor of my gratitude; but I took no notice of it, and was going on to ask her further questions when she very peremptorily shut me up.

"Now, that will do," said she; "don't say another word. You must keep quiet for a while; if you talk, I'll go away and not come near you again."

"Just one thing more. Who brought those flowers?"

"Well, if you must know, Miss Forsythe herself. She brings them every day. I suppose she'd scold if she knew I told you. But now, keep quiet till the doctor comes, and, if he is willing, I'll chat with you as much as you please."

So saying, the good-natured nurse to ensure my silence, left the room. But, indeed, I felt little desire to talk any more just then. I had asked about the flowers with a vague hope that they might have been culled by the hand which I had learned to prize so dear, and I am ashamed to say that, when the name of the excellent old lady, whose hospitality I was receiving was mentioned, I turned my head with a sigh of disappointment. I fell to worrying about the fair organist; wondering whether she had suffered any harm from the perilous occurrences of that memorable night; whether I should ever meet her again, and how we should meet; how I could approach her without seeming to presume upon the service I had rendered; and, finally, why Miss Forsythe should have lavished so much care and kindness on a total stranger. I was in the midst of such reveries when my nurse returned and ushered in the doctor.

"Well, Franklin, old fellow! Got your wits again, have you?" exclaimed a cheery and familiar voice. "That's right; now we'll soon get you on your legs."

The doctor was no other than my old friend Tom Bowlder. He had heard of my accident, hurried down to Meadowbrook, taken entire control of me, established a close friendship with the lady of the mansion, put himself on the best of terms with the housekeeper, Mrs. Benson, and installed her as nurse, and, thanks to his skill and tenderness, I had passed safely through a dangerous crisis. After putting a few professional questions, he sat down by the bedside, and indulged me with a little conversation.

"Well, old boy," said he, "I suppose you want to be told first about yourself." (I did not; but I let him go on.) "You've had an ugly time of it--brain fever and that sort of thing, you know--and it's a wonder you weren't killed outright. But you are all right now, and you can have the satisfaction of knowing that you saved one of the prettiest girls that ever breathed, and I do believe one of the best."

{356}

"She is not hurt, then?"

"Not a bit."

"And you have seen her? Is she still in Meadowbrook?"

"Seen her! Why, of course I have. How could I help it? I see her every day."

In spite of my previous perplexity how I should conduct myself if I ever met her again, I was now so eager for the meeting that, weak as I was, I wanted to get up at once. But to this, of course, Doctor Tom would not listen.

"Yes; but, Tom, you mustn't keep me here for ever. I want to--to see"--I stammered and broke down--"to see Miss Forsythe, you know, and thank her for taking care of me."

"All in good time, Franklin. I don't mean to keep you in bed much longer; and the moment you are able to leave the room, I promise you shall see her, and make as many acknowledgments as you want to. For the rest of the afternoon, however, you must keep quiet. There, now, you have talked enough for one day. Good-by." And so saying, Tom left me to myself.

Mrs. Benson soon came back, bringing a tray covered with a snow-white napkin, a bowl of gruel, and a glass of wine. Tom had evidently given her instructions; for I could not draw her into conversation, and, as soon as she had seen me comfortably fixed, she went away again.

The next morning, Tom paid me an early visit, and doled out a few more scraps of information. I learned that Miss Forsythe had caused all my luggage to be brought from the inn, and that, as long as I could be persuaded to remain in Meadowbrook, I was to make her house my home. "You need not look surprised," added Bowlder. "I satisfied her that you were a very respectable person; and, indeed, I believe the old lady knows some of your family."

"Well, see here, Tom; when I was out of my head, did I talk much?"

"Talk! I should think you did! Chattered like a magpie; raved about round hats and little brown gloves, talked a good deal of lovers' nonsense, and sometimes hummed a few bars of music--Miss Forsythe said it was a bit out of one of Mozart's Masses. One day you grabbed a hold of me, and asked if I knew you had been listening under the gallery, and 'if she knew about your loving her.' Miss Forsythe blushed like a rose, and went out of the room."

"Did she?" said I, blushing now in my turn. "I don't see what difference that ought to make to her."

Tom opened his eyes at this remark in a very curious way.

"Well," said he, "I thought it might make a good deal of difference; but I suppose you two know best. Now I must be off. Old Doctor Jalap, who physics the villagers, has fallen sick himself, and I have to take care of him and his patients, too. I mean to let you get up tomorrow, though I would not advise you to go into the streets till you have got all your old strength, and some to spare. The people down here have got the preposterous idea that you're a sort of a hero, and whenever you show yourself, they'll shake you to death with congratulations."

When Tom had gone, I thought a great deal over his remark about Miss Forsythe, but I could not comprehend it. The old lady had certainly been very kind to me; but, even if she did know my family, it was unreasonable to suppose that she should take a very warm interest in my love affairs. And what did Tom mean by saying that "we two knew best?" {357} The more I reflected, the more I got puzzled. Possibly, said I, Miss Forsythe knows this young lady. At any rate, I'll lose no time in seeing her. I can't lie here, muddling my brains, any longer. So I got up, found my clothes, dressed, and made my way down-stairs. Mrs. Benson met me in the hall, and, of course, began to scold; but she had to admit that I seemed stronger, after all, than anybody suspected me to be, and, now that the mischief was done, I might as well see Miss Forsythe. "You'll find her in the parlor, sir; she's just come in from the garden."

There was no one in the parlor when I entered it, but at the further end of the room was an open door leading to a conservatory, and there I caught a glimpse of somebody moving among the flowers. I went forward, and saw a lady, whose back was toward me, in the act of plucking a flower to add to a bunch in her hand. She did not hear me until I spoke:

"Miss Forsythe, I don't know how to thank you properly for--"

I stopped in amazement, for, as she turned, I beheld not the good old spinster, but that sweet, innocent young face which had so long haunted me. She started at my voice. A deep blush suffused her features. She hesitated a moment; she cast down her eyes; and then, with a frankness which was even more charming than her maiden modesty, she sprang forward to meet me, and placed both her little hands in mine.

I have no purpose of repeating all the foolish things we said in the next half hour. This was the Miss Forsythe who had watched over my sick-room, and had run away when I raved about her in my delirium. It never occurred to me, when Tom Bowlder made his last puzzling remarks, that there could be any other Miss Forsythe than the mistress of Meadowbrook House. My Miss Forsythe was the niece of that good lady, and, when I first met her, had just arrived in Meadowbrook on a visit for the first time in her life. The aunt came into the room, after a while, and I then had an opportunity of making my interrupted acknowledgments in the right quarter, and beginning a friendship with her which I look upon as one of the blessings of my life. Tom came back, too, before long, and, though he pretended, at first, to scold me for breaking out of bounds before I had been regularly discharged by my physician, he must have seen, by the sparkle in my eyes and the elasticity which happiness imparted to my whole frame, that my rashness had been of a vast deal of service to me.

"Doctor," said the old lady, "I think you and I must let him alone. Mr. Franklin seems to have changed his physician, and I dare say Mary, there, will do him more good now than all the medicines in the world."

"Upon my word, Miss Forsythe, I believe you're right; and, if Miss Mary will take care not to lead her patient through any more fiery furnaces, I'll trust the case to her hands."

I have only to add to my story that the essay on the Law of Contracts was never finished, business of a very engrossing nature (including a contract of a peculiarly interesting kind) absorbing all my spare moments during the next few months. By the liberality of the elder Miss Forsythe the little church was soon restored, and the asthmatic organ which had played such a memorable part in my life was replaced by a new and excellent instrument. {358} The flames, fortunately, had spared the sanctuary and all the rear portion of the building. As soon as the repairs were finished, there was a merry wedding at Meadowbrook, and Father James gave us his blessing as we knelt together in the sacred place where we had so narrowly escaped together from a horrible death. The little side-altar, which has since been put up in the church, was built by my wife and me to commemorate our deliverance. Once or twice a year we make a visit of a week or so to dear Aunt Forsythe at Meadowbrook. Mary and I never fail at such times to say a prayer of thanksgiving in the church. Then we stray together into the organ gallery, and, while the old familiar strains flow from her touch, I sit by her side, and thank God in my heart for blessing me with so sweet a wife.

--------

Joy In Grief.

From The French Of Marie Jenna.

"Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted."

Friend! in vain thy bosom hides the sharp and cruel sword that wounds it. I have understood thy silence, and my prayer hath still been for thee. Cast away the foolish pride that shuts thy heart against my friendship; Come, and weep before me.

Well I know that there are days of heavy grief and lonely suffering, When the soul doth find in solitude a grim and bitter pleasure; And the thoughtless world beholds its shrouded majesty pass by it Pale, and wrapped in silence.

Then the friendly hand, uncertain, stops and hesitates before it, Fearing lest too rudely it may draw aside the veil of mourning: There are griefs so great and sacred that all human thought and language Dies upon the threshold.

Now, however, days are past; and it is time I came and sought thee. Oh! permit a friend to share the heavy burden of thy sorrow. Put thy hand in mine, thy weary head upon my heart, and rest thee: I have suffered also.

I will not approach thee with those vain and heartless words of fashion, Words which grief receives and spurns as mocking echoes of its wailing; No, I have a word to whisper that will bring a holy comfort: 'Tis a heavenly secret.

{359}

If I might, as from an urn, before thy feet pour out my treasures, Hope and peace would fill thy soul now groping in despairing darkness. Light would shine upon thy pathway; sweet repose would mark thy slumbers, Dreams of happy moments.

There are pure and lofty summits where the soul of man reposes. 'Tis the sword which cleaves our hearts asunder opens up the pathway. Friend of mine, believe me that the loss of all things counts as nothing If those heights be mastered.

Silly bees, we flit from flower to flower in this world's pleasure-garden; Drinking in their rich perfumes and tasting of their honeyed sweetness. Resting there, and living on its passing charms as if its beauty Were enough for ever.

There we dream away our life, and precious moments pass unheeded; Placing all our joys in pleasures fleeting as the summer sunshine, Joys that vanish when the evening casts its shadows o'er the garden Gone before the moonlight.

'Tis when robbed of human love; when seated desolate and lonely On the wide and arid desert, with no kindly eye to greet us; When the howling tempest rages, and the frightful darkness thickens, Comfort has a meaning.

Then the brow defeat has humbled, and the heart grown sick with sorrow, Find an arm and hand divine to lean upon and bear its burden: And the spirit wrung with anguish, crushed by cruel disappointment, Sings a hymn unspoken.

When before the lost one's footsteps opens an abyss of horror, Then appears a bridge of safety stretching o'er the gulf's dark passage: There, where danger threatens most, and death menaces, God is standing Open-armed to meet him.

When the fitful joys of human passion are consumed within us, Other joys begin their reign of which the soul as yet knew nothing. Ah! what matter, when a brilliant star appears in heaven above us, If the lamp burn dimly?

O thou mystery of suffering, deep abyss for human wonder! Since that day when on a shameful cross love gained its greatest triumph, We begin to sound thy awful depths, and catch at least faint glimpses Of thy hidden meaning!

Come, for there the lesson may be learned which only He, the Master, teaches From his throne of truth and wisdom. At the feet of Jesus seated, Words will fall upon our ears that human lips have never spoken Words of heaven's language.

{360}

Sword of sorrow, minister of peace, I bless thee for thy wounding! Pleasing is the pain of sacrifice, and sweet the tears of martyrs Shed for too much joy when from the eyes all earthly sights are fading In the light of heaven.

Of those melodies divine, those flames of love and joy celestial, Of those floods of rapture springing from the lonely plains of sorrow, Ye, poor, thoughtless souls, know nothing, nor have ever dreamed their presence, Ye who ne'er have suffered.

Man of sorrows! he who never trod the road of desolation, He who hath not borne a cross and followed thee to crucifixion, He who hath not passed through death unto the day of resurrection-- He hath never known thee.

Blessed are the mourners! From the mouth of Truth these words have fallen. Blessed! Yes, it must be true indeed, my God, when thou hast spoken. Welcome, then, be suffering, welcome! Happy they above all measure Who in thee find comfort!

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Translated from the French of L. Vitet.

The Present Condition Of Christianity In France.

That the men for whom the Christian faith is but an ordinary belief, a purely human work, and therefore mortal and perishable, should consider that their object is to be best attained by separating it from the living portion of our society and keeping it sequestered, so to speak, within the circle of retrogressive ideas; that such should be sarcastic at the expense of liberal Catholicism, and, looking upon its plans as chimerical, should triumph on learning of its defeats, nothing can be more natural: in so doing, they but carry out their policy and sustain their cause. But that true Christians and sincere believers should form an alliance with them or follow the same rut; that they should strive to attain the same end by opposing harmony and reconciliation with the spirit of the age, jesting at peace-makers, and objecting to their endeavors, not only on the plea of the impracticability of the schemes, but on the ground that the attempts made are culpable, impious, and sacrilegious; this is worse than an error, worse than blindness, and constitutes for the future of Christian beliefs a grave and alarming symptom.

There would be little cause for anxiety if a small portion of the faithful, a few chagrined beings, a few morose old men were the only obstinate adherents to these views, for time would be the best remedy in such a case; but do not be deceived, the masses are inclined to the adoption of similar opinions. {361} Conciliatory ideas are as yet only within the reach of a certain élite. The group in whose midst they were born upward of thirty years since is scarcely more numerous now than then, and is, perhaps, less favorably thought of and less sustained by the public. Yet how many reasons are there for its more general recognition! Is not the party under a better guidance than in earlier days? Whom can it terrify by its temerity? In politics it only aspires to the possession of the most harmless liberty; in religion its tendencies are ultramontane only to the extent prescribed by faith. What, then, does it lack? Is its cause obscure, badly defined, ill-defended? Never were its traits given more brilliant prominence. God has bestowed upon it defenders of wondrous might. When an idea is fathered by the indefatigable energy and overwhelming eloquence of the Bishop of Orleans, by such masters of speech as M. de Montalembert and Father Lacordaire, by writers such as M. Albert de Broglie and Father Gratry; when young and valiant champions, such as Charles Lenormant, Frédéric Ozanam, and Henri Perreyve have died in its service; if it attract not; if it make not great and speedy conquests; if it secure not at once the approval of the competent, and obtain from the people naught but sterile applause, there can be no misunderstanding, its time is not come, and men's minds are not prepared for its reception. But does it follow that opinion has espoused the opposing cause, and that hostility and warfare against modern laws and ideas are generally favored? that all other Christians accept unreservedly the doctrines of certain violently retrogressive journals that do religion the injury of being regarded as its confidants? No; the masses, by their own instinct, escape the contagion of extremists' opinions; but, without breaking off entirely from modern ideas, the great majority of the faithful hold them to be dangerous and avoid their contact. Between civil and religious society there is a marked coldness and restraint; there is a want of confidence and sympathy; the least that can be said is, that they live in two separate camps.

This should not be. We cannot calculate upon a new uprising or upon a complete awakening of Christian belief, unless sincere concord between the church and society be reestablished. The present disagreement, if prolonged, would seem to indicate a decline of Christianity; it might be said that religion was losing, for the first time, the knowledge of the needs of the epoch, as well as that power of rejuvenation that for eighteen centuries has endowed it with such unexampled longevity. That the prediction that preceded its birth may be realized, that it may live as long as this earth, upon which nothing lives and endures without change or modification, must it not submit to the common law, and, while remaining fundamentally the same, be transformed and renewed, superficially at least? To sentence it to immovability lest some change take place in its elements; to petrify it that its purity may be greater, is to proclaim its ruin and announce its death. A cessation of life and a life of lethargy are about the same.

How comes it, then, that, despite so many causes of alarm, in the depth of our soul we are calm, and our fears are mingled with so much hope? Do faith without reasoning and pure instinct comfort us? No; it is Christianity itself, and Christianity of today, that reassures us by its acts. {362} Notwithstanding the disagreement with the age that hinders its progress, notwithstanding the wounds from which it suffers, the coldness with which it is treated, the hearts that are closed to it, whithersoever it penetrates it is still so brimming with life and light, so lavish of compassion and love, it still causes one to shed freely such soothing tears, and gives birth to so many deeds of self-devotion, that it is most evident that its vigor is unsubdued. The tree about to die does not put forth such boughs and fruits. The sap flows, the roots spread; an eternal youth betrays itself by unmistakable signs. Seek not these consoling symptoms elsewhere but by the domestic fireside, or under the shadow of the altar, in the retirement of the house of God. Ask not for an official and public explanation; neither institutions, nor laws, no monuments, nor outward indices would assert it. In this respect, the contrast between the days we live in and the centuries gone by is most striking. Eighty years since, while Christians, isolated and apart from each other, estranged themselves more and more from God, whilst the belief in Voltaire reigned at the bottom of all hearts, society remained outwardly Christian, religion presided over all the acts of every-day life, and hallowed them by its presence and its blessings; everything was done in its name, and its sovereign authority was proclaimed everywhere. Now, it is only at distant intervals and in certain ceremonies in which, out of mere force of habit and for purposes of adornment, it is made to figure, that some shadow of its former prestige is allowed it; for the remainder of the time no allusion is made to it, it is set aside as a superfluity and avoided as a hinderance to action. Judging by this, you would think, perhaps, that it has fallen into oblivion, that it is forsaken, lifeless, and unhonored. But it is only dead in appearance: look more closely, uplift the veil, and you will behold a wholly different condition of Christianity. While the outer world escapes its dominion, the world of men's consciences is being regained. That which institutions refuse to yield to it, souls commence to accord. How numerous the rebellious or perplexed spirits that gradually bow to it and bravely summon its aid! How many tired hearts are indebted to it for rest! Do you not see whole families, hitherto all but ignorant of the blessings of faith, almost transformed by a new baptism? It is most generally to the influence of children that these metamorphoses are due. The Christian education which through their medium obtains access to the fireside instills itself into the minds of their parents. The mother learns the truths that are explained to her daughters, and becomes attached to them in understanding them more thoroughly and acting in accordance with their precepts, the better to inculcate them; even the father feels the necessity of not interfering with the belief of his sons by the contradiction of his own example, and, having become a Christian from a sense of duty, remains a Christian out of affection.

Thus, without noise or éclat, by a latent process whose results alone are discernible, faith diffuses and propagates itself. Certain it must be that its ranks are swelling, and that the rising generations, in furnishing their respective contingents, more than fill the vacancies caused by death, for almost all churches in large cities are becoming too small for the assembled worshippers. Without speaking of the holydays, of the solemn occasions, the spectacular character of which attracts perhaps as many idlers as they do believers, and confining ourselves to the consideration of the gatherings at ordinary services, can you deny that year after year the attendances are larger and that the attention paid is more zealous? {363} Do you not observe, also, how many men mingle with the women? At the commencement of this century the appearance of a man in church was an event. Now it is not even a subject of astonishment; and certainly we note no mediocre triumph of faith over human respect when we record the return of men to the asylum of prayer. Many other novel incidents of similar purport seem no less extraordinary, such as students in our schools and soldiers in our camps publicly asserting their faith; practical Christians having a majority in the councils of large cities and in faculties of physicians, this latter instance being a most exceptional occurrence. If there were aught to be gained nowadays by passing for a Christian, if men were living in the age of the Restoration and had some chance of bringing themselves into notice, and being of good service to their family by proclaiming their piety, we might not take into account either this increase of apparent fervor, or the crowded houses of worship, or the numerous communions. Such, however, is not the case; and is it not now a better policy, if one wish to obtain advancement, to become a Free-Mason, in preference to committing one's self by figuring in some conference of a St. Vincent de Paul's Society? That there are still hypocrites and false devotees, we all are agreed. Such there always will be; but hypocrisy and feigned piety are not fashionable vices. In our time, to enter a church one must really experience a desire to pray. We challenge the most sceptical, giving them the privilege of broadly criticising and pruning as they please, not to recognize as genuine the progress, limited no doubt, but, nevertheless, incontrovertible, of modern Christianity. Besides, there can be applied a test that will dispel all doubts on the subject: of the three divine virtues, the most difficult of imitation is that which depletes our purse and compels us to be generous. Inquire of the clergy, the treasurers of the poor, what charity is at present; ask if it slumber or decay; or rather, if day after day it gain not new powers of existence in proportion as, in certain classes of society, Christian sentiments are awakening. Ask of the clergy if these tokens of largesse are only entrusted to it for reasons of vanity, and if the most modest are not those who give most liberally, an evident sign that the source whence the gifts come is a Christian one. No doubt, men can bestow much in charity without believing--the former act is easier of performance than the latter; but true charity is, as it were, inseparable from the two virtues whose sister it is: he who gives liberally, hopes and believes.

Be ye, then, reassured, for Christian faith still endures. It lives, labors, and wins over souls; it has not forgotten its old secrets, and can once again become youthful and associate itself with the destinies of the world. All that is needed is to give it time. If there be hesitation on its part to accept modern ideas, it is not owing to lack or indolence of spirit. The fault is first to be ascribed to the age itself, whose explanations are so obscure and whose aspirations are so unintelligibly expressed. "The principles of 1789" are most elastic words. What sense can be given them? How can they be applied? Does the century intend to belong to liberty and its severe duties, to the caprices of demagogues, or would it be fired by the military spirit? The second day of December, that period of inaction in our apprenticeship to free institutions, complicated events and added to the perplexity and uncertainty of religious minds. {364} What were the intentions of the new empire? Was it to follow the example set by its predecessor, and was the world to behold for the second time the papacy closely guarded by gens d'armes? Was it not rather the traditions of Charlemagne it proposed to conform with, and was it not to prove a veritable Eldorado for Christian beliefs? This latter intention had been so definitely announced, that most men were deceived by the promise. But the horizon is now becoming clearer; there is neither hope nor gratitude to burden the faithful and render them incredulous as to the blessings of liberty. Awhile longer and there will be light. If, as we must believe, the true destiny of the age, made apparent to all, be conciliated with the great principles constituting Christianity; if it mark new progress in the advance of humanity, fear not. Christianity will not rebel, but will promote the movement. If it still live, and otherwise but nominally--and we have had proof that life was not wanting--it will not lack intelligence.

Know you the true cause of alarm, the true peril? It is that Christianity does not progress alone. It certainly marches on and labors; its advance is apparent; and more apparent, perhaps, are the conquests, the ardor, and the faith of those who struggle. By a strange contradiction, visible in the case of the two opposing forces, when one should gain what the other loses, the strength of neither is affected. On both sides the numbers increase and the armies proceed onward. Which shall win the victory? whose gains are the most genuine? Despite this seeming equality, we do not entertain the slightest doubt but that the Christians, if they will, are the masters of the future. But how are they to secure their triumph? Concerning that we must speak candidly.

Ere we come to this, however, let us, with M. Guizot, enter the anti-christian camp, estimate the forces of the enemy, and examine the formidable host we are called upon to defeat.

The distinctive trait nowadays of the war waged against Christianity is the number and the diversity of the opposing doctrines. Formerly its adversaries confined themselves to seeking to destroy it: now they are more ambitious; they attempt to provide for it a substitute. Hence the multitude of systems, each of which, in more or less vague or contradictory terms, is intended to elucidate the great natural problems that humanity, since its birth, has evolved, and that Christianity has explained with such simplicity, completeness, and clearness. These systems do not claim to be religious; they merely flatter themselves that they will become satisfactory guides for man; that they will read to him the enigma of this world, and supply all the wants of his heart and mind. As they exact neither sanction, practice, nor responsibility, as they are indulgent in the matter of human weaknesses, their popularity can be easily understood. They have believers, adepts, and, we may say, devotees of their own. One of the characteristics of modern incredulity is that it denies and affirms simultaneously. Nothing is rarer in these times than a true unbeliever, placing credence in literally nothing, combating the faith of others, and wholly devoid of faith himself. The unbelievers of the age all believe something: besides the antipathy they have sworn to entertain for Christianity--an antipathy constituting a common faith--each has a belief of his own; some acknowledge pantheism, others rationalism, positivism, materialism, or the countless ramifications of these principal doctrines, each of which has its faithful adherents. {365} We do not mean to advance that all antichristians have espoused the doctrines of philosophy, that each has a sect, a banner, or a _cred_o of his own. We shall even be convinced very shortly that the most dangerous opponents are those who do not dabble in philosophy, and who stand up against the progress of holy truths by indifference and indolence; but the simultaneous birth of all these antichristian systems is nevertheless a strange fact, and one deserving of attention. Taken apart, they can pass by unheeded their fundamental principles are neither novel nor consistent! When seen together, however, theirs is a battle array of a rather imposing magnitude. We understand, therefore, all the more readily, that M. Guizot, wishing to estimate the strength of the antichristian forces, should have taken these systems one by one, and submitted each to a careful examination. We would, however, misconstrue, we apprehend, his most obvious intention, if we were to look upon his sketches as regular refutations and ex professo treatises. He has only proposed to give the measurement of their different systems by comparison with the measuring-rod of common sense. To enter into more thorough discussions would have been unnecessary; better work was left undone, and M. Guizot's preface has clearly expressed his views on that point. It matters little, after all, how these systems are criticised; the result is the same, whether one examine them superficially, master their secrets, or fathom their scientific mysteries. There can be little difference of opinion in regard to their value. It is to their advantage if they be only glanced at. The more searching the investigation, the more conclusive the proof as to the frailty of their formations and deficiencies, pettiness, impotence, and vanity. We repeat what we said, that we have little to dread on this score. A few minds may be won over, but the contagion, in this country, cannot spread. The darkness of pantheism, the dreams of idealism, the dryness of positivism, or the coarseness of materialism will never seduce the mass of French minds. The alarm is greater than the real danger; yet, when gathered together, these systems, however discordant among themselves, however much opposed to each other, constitute, from the very fact that all are equally hostile to Christianity, a power which must be taken into account. They form a fasces; theirs is a coalition, a league that belongs only to our age.

Is it to be supposed that we assert that Christianity has ever lacked enemies, and enemies acting in concert in their attacks? Without looking far back into its history, was not the concentration of all the wits of the age clustered under the leadership of Voltaire for the purpose of freeing the world from religious superstition, an anti-christian league, if ever there was one? Perhaps even the movement of the eighteenth century seemed, at first, more violently antichristian than that undertaken in our days. Its determination was more evident; it proceeded direct to the objective point. Its weapons were light, but they were ever in use, and there was no truce to the warfare. It was a sharp fire of irony, a shower of sarcasm; nothing could withstand it, no one could retort; the dread of ridicule silenced the boldest; the panic was followed by a general rout, and terror was engendered by laughter. And what sad results! what a disaster! {366} The altars were overthrown, religion was annihilated, the clergy scattered, hunted down, or put to death, a whole nation left without temples, without pastors, without any perceptible connecting link with heaven! Was not this enough? What more was desired?

There can certainly be extant no wish to do better; but it is intended that the work shall endure, that the invalid shall be finally disposed of, and that any chance of cure or resurrection shall be done away with. Even as after 1848 the fiery demagogues, who had thought an excellent opportunity had arrived to demolish society, found consolation for their failure by proclaiming aloud that, should a similar series of events ever occur, they would know better how to act, and would not again be unsuccessful in the accomplishment of their purpose, so the destroyers of religion take great care not to imitate the example of their fathers, whose work, they say, was only half done. Mockery and irony are worn-out weapons that wound but do not kill; they are useful in commencing a war, but other and more destructive engines are needed to end it. Besides, within the past sixty years the character and habits of the public have undergone a decided change. The community has become, by lessons taught it at its own expense, of a more reflective and sober turn of mind; it is less easy to provoke its laughter, and it does not always consider a jest an argument. Moreover, deriding all things excites its suspicion, and, in lieu of being won over, it often comes near being shocked. Its new mood must be complied with, the public's foibles must be consulted, and its present foible is, that it shall be treated as a man, and not as a child.

Science is the great agency! Science is the only guide, the only authority whose aid modern minds willingly accept. This can be readily comprehended; each day science works so many miracles, lavishes upon humanity such genuine gifts, opens to mankind so vast a future, and confirms in so incontestable a manner its right of sovereignty over this world, that men, in return, must bow to its decrees, and do it all honor without blushing at the homage rendered it. But, in the hands of those who would keep mankind separate from any other belief, who would prevent the recognition of any higher authority and of the invisible might of the Creator, how terrible a weapon is a faith in science! Therefore it is that nowadays to rank honorably with the adversaries of Christian belief, to play an important part, to act upon the minds and disturb consciences, it is not sufficient merely to possess some talent and a graceful and caustic style. It is necessary to be erudite, or, at least, to be held as such, the latter alternative being less difficult to achieve, less rare, and for that very reason, much more dangerous. For, if Christianity had to deal with truly learned and truly great men only, she and science would never be in absolute opposition to each other. The so-called contradictions, the irreconcilable facts 'disappear, when the disputants attain a certain height, as soon as words being no longer taken in their literal sense, their spirit is understood, and when analysis is brought to bear upon the starting-point of the misunderstanding. Science, when applied to such ends, is not only inoffensive to Christianity and the Scriptures, but comes to their aid and proffers testimony in their favor, sometimes giving to certain facts of fabulous appearance an almost historical character. {367} Thus it came that Cuvier confirmed by a most rigorous process of inductive reasoning based upon irrefutable facts, some Biblical narratives which believers only had, until then, accepted out of motives of pure obedience, and which indifferent persons viewed with suspicion, and the great doctors of the eighteenth century laughed to scorn. Evil fortune, however, wills it, that for every one of these conciliatory, because clairvoyant minds, for a Cuvier, a Kepler, a Leibnitz, and a Newton, there are thousands of men who see the outward semblance only, who stumble over inconsistencies, and who, often without ill-will, make use of their small share of knowledge in accomplishing the ruin of the holy truths. Indeed, they enjoy the credit of the masses as much as, and perhaps more than, the real masters; the public is continually brought into contact with them; they are numerous, ubiquitous, and have associates in all professions; the race of half-learned men is the foundation of humanity, without taking into account the more skilful persons who, seeking to win success at any cost, and even at the risk of scandal, borrow from science the varnish required to give popularity to their productions. These stratagems constitute a new fashion of checkmating Christianity, a method rejuvenating the traditions of Voltaire. Those whose intentions are worthiest are deceived by it; the lure thrown out is that which they need, a sensible lure; their reason alone is appealed to, and they fancy that they are surrendering to proven evidence. What would you have them do? They are not entertained with mere stories and epigrams, they are not made the objects of jests or hoaxes; the facts submitted to them are palpable. So much the worse for Christian beliefs if these facts annihilate them! Can the laws of science be denounced as forgeries? Is not science truth?

Such are modern tactics; neither mockery nor impatience, and great apparent impartiality; it is no longer a skirmish, a sudden attack, but a siege in accordance with all the rules of war; the citadel is surrounded, the enemy advances, with the authority and under the protection of science. This is not all. The experience of the past century has suggested other precautionary measures, other strategic movements. It is now recognized that our poor human nature has not made sufficient progress, not even in France, to feel happy and proud because of a belief in absolutely nothing. This is a weakness for which time will work a cure, but one which must be taken into due consideration. For instance, can it be brought about that most women's hearts will not yield to the necessity of praying and believing? Does not man himself, when bowed down by great affliction, feel that a woman's heart is being born and awakening within him? When death separates him from those he loves, when he survives and suffers, can it be that he will not seek, with eyes upturned to heaven, a little strength in hope? These inclinations and instincts may seem strange and absurd, if you will; but they are indestructible, and to think of doing away with them is a sheer loss of time. This is known in our age, and the skilful profit by their knowledge. To make havoc for a second time, to tear down the altars, and persecute the priests, would be to enact the parts and do the work of dupes! Such a course would prepare an inevitable reaction, and a certain resurrection of all it was proposed to destroy. There are none but a few madmen, a few lost children who would resort to such superannuated measures. {368} Instead of attacking openly the need for belief, better to conquer it by flattery and the tender of fascinating compromises. Why these onslaughts on Christianity? Why overtly batter its walls? To please the libertines? Is it not quite certain that they will side with the antichristians? It is urgent to please the simple-hearted Christians only.

Instead of exhibiting the slightest after-thought of opposition to Christianity, better to dwell upon its beauties, to draw an admirable portrait of its Founder, to recognize him as the model of all the virtues, as the type of all perfection, to speak of him in impassioned and eloquent tones, and in exchange for these gentle concessions to ask--what? A trifling sacrifice, a modest erratum to the text of the Evangels, a simple change of the value of a word, or rather the politic and reasonable yielding up of a valueless title, a worn-out parchment, a purely nominal letter of nobility, the so-called divinity of that admirable man? Why cling to that fiction? Renounce it, and we shall all be agreed. Reason will have nothing more to say on the subject. With yourselves we will do homage to that wonderful mortal, and, if you will, call him divine without attaching too much importance to the condescension. We will overlook the epithet if you concede us the dogma.

Thus, with skill and a certain commingling of philosophic scepticism, mystic reveries, and a feigned zeal for Christian ideas, men hope nowadays to undermine Christianity. The plan of action is by no means novel. In that very year during which Constantine, by his omnipotence, seemed to have ensured the peace and security of the church, in that very year one single man, with a few words, threw the church into far greater perils than were indicated by the lictors and executioners of its fiercest persecutors. He, too, pretended he only waged war against Jesus Christ out of love for his doctrine, and despoiled him of his divinity to guarantee his triumph, propagate his blessings, and, while rendering faith less difficult to acquire, to satisfy reason. The compromise was the same as that which is now put forward. And such is the power of these enervating doctrines that, even in the days when faith was still young and full of life, the world fell a victim to the deception. Scarcely half a century had gone by since the death of Arius and the contagion had extended throughout the Orient, spread over a part of the west, and reached, beyond the limits of the Roman empire of old, all the recently converted barbarian nations. Look back to that hour of crisis when the destiny of the world was at stake; seek to guess what was to happen. After a consultation of human laws, after a calculation of probabilities, did not Christianity appear doomed? Its adversary had won for himself Constantine's favor, the ardent adhesion of the emperor's son, the support of all the forces of the empire, all the powers that still governed the world. To preserve faith, to save from shipwreck the divinity of Jesus Christ, a miracle, a new revelation, another preaching of St. Paul were needed. The miracle was performed; what a man had done a man undid; Athanasius conquered Arius. But Christianity had, nevertheless, seemed about to perish, and modern Arianism can well flatter itself that it will now have better fortune, and that an Athanasius, a Basil, a Gregory, or a Jerome will not ever be at hand to crush its arguments and conquer the world for the benefit of truth. Its threats, its sinister predictions are not, then, mere boasts; the danger is genuine; modern heresy has auxiliary aids that double its might. {369} It no longer stands in the arena, face to face with orthodoxy, and uses purely theological weapons; the struggle is general; everybody participates in it; all weapons are effective. A formidable coalition attacks faith most persistently; the natural sciences when half understood, the metaphysical sciences conducted with pride, historic criticism skilfully romanticized, are forces that unite for the benefit of the new Arianism. Can it not be readily seen that the league is far more powerful and inflicts more serious wounds than the ironical frivolities brought into play in the last century? The progress made is not only evidenced in the tactics and armament; the ground of the struggle itself has changed, to the enemy's advantage. From a Christian stand-point, it may be said that Christianity is now dismantled. Of all the places of shelter, of all the positions which belonged to Christianity a hundred years ago, in the state, in the institutions and customs, of all the means of credit, influence, and legitimate resistance won for it by a right of ages, and of which its adversaries, while deriding its belief, had no thought of robbing it, nothing remains. The levelling power of the times has passed over them. The attack must now be withstood in an open field. If under such circumstances and in presence of such perils Christians opened not their eyes, if an instinct of self-preservation did not induce them to come to an understanding upon the essential points of their faith, if they sought to oppose so many joint efforts while divided and disagreeing, we say, without hyperbole, that we would have to bow our heads and consider this world at an end, and civilization, despite its apparent triumphs and proud hopes, stricken to the heart and menaced with a prompt decline. But have we reached that point? No, a hundred times no, if our will be against it, and if we understand the magnitude of the danger, its real novelty, and the novelty and youth needed to conquer it.

And at the outset let there be no misunderstanding between Christians. Do not believe that Catholicism is alone involved, and the sole excitant of anger and object of the warfare. It is Christianity itself, Christian faith in its entirety, and in every shape, that it is intended to annihilate. Any Protestant sect that accepts the Evangels, without reserve or restrictions, is at least as open to suspicion as pure Catholicism. Tolerance and amnesty are withheld, save from that Christianity which believes not in Jesus Christ, and in which certain pastors, from evangelical pulpits, now profess a belief. Enlightened and sincere Protestants entertain no longer any doubts on that point. They have progressed since the sixteenth century: without being less zealous or less ardent in their belief, they no longer proclaim that Antichrist and the Catholic Church are one and the same thing. In our age the Antichrist is the common foe; if you would resist its onslaughts, close up the ranks; this is no time for discord among brethren. The Protestants who are friendly to the Evangels, however numerous they may be in certain states of Europe, know what they lack as regards cohesion and unity; they feel that that powerful church so persistently attacked nowadays, will ever be the true rampart. While all the blows dealt fall upon her, they breathe freely, for she protects them; if her walls were overthrown, they would be left defenceless. {370} Hence arises among the more farseeing that solicitude which is felt for all Christian interests without distinction, and that defensive alliance which seems to be suggested in the minds of those whose convictions as to the essence of things are identical. Unfortunately, this wholly modern blessing, one of the few conquests which, in the moral order of affairs, might do honor to our age, is not yet very widely disseminated. Even in the opinion of the persons who are horror-stricken at the antichristian coalition, the idea of helping each other, of forming an alliance, of postponing intestine strife and lending a helping hand to each other, wakes but little headway. Habit, prejudices, and a sectarian spirit are so powerful! If some men cast off their yoke, if a chosen few who see events from a higher stand-point take delight in putting into practice these tolerant ideas, do the masses follow an their footsteps? and do the chosen few themselves always set generous examples only? If it were only among Catholics that the tendency to exclusion, the aversion to schism carried to a forgetfulness of the actual interests of faith, were observable, many persons would confess that they were less surprised than grieved; for excuse can ever be found for the Catholic, in whose defence it can be argued that, if he went too far in that direction, it was because he may have believed that, by holding aloof and avoiding the contact of error, he exhibited his obedience and rendered himself more acceptable unto God! But for the Protestant, what apology can be offered? He who asserts so boldly his right to believe what he thinks cannot take offence because his neighbor does likewise. The same intolerance that, in the one case saddens us without causing astonishment, shocks us in the other. Can you understand how it is that an educated, an erudite Protestant, good-hearted, endowed with sound sense, glorying in generous principles, and carrying to very energy his love and respect for right, as soon as it is suggested that he concede to Catholics that which he believes to be just and true for all humanity, the privilege to worship with the liberty and the surroundings their mode of worship requires, cries out in dismay, appeals to brute force, admits unhesitatingly that it decides all similar questions, and sanctions and renders legitimate in advance all sentences which maybe passed? Though his views are sensible on all other points, on this subject they are devoid of reason, and the man speaks of the Catholic Church in the nineteenth century as an inquisitor of the sixteenth would have spoken of heresy! What a strange spectacle, and how humiliating a lesson! Does there exist a more overwhelming proof of the poverty of our intellect?

Yet the part to be taken by a modern Protestant, who would serve Christianity and combat its true enemies, is a glorious one! All things unite to give him influence; everything is in readiness to bestow upon his words an increase, as it were, of authority. He would ignore and forget all petty passions and jealousy. He would seek to bring about the triumph of the divine word, to demonstrate its eternal truth, its transmission through centuries. Why attempt to wrest from the Catholic Church the rights to which she lays claim? Why beset her with invidious questions and excite captious quarrels? Instead of giving vitality to these endless suits, would it not be better to seek to ascertain on what points an agreement subsists, what dogmas have escaped all controversy and survived all strife? He would become attached to these same dogmas; in his eyes they would be the heart, the basis of a Christianity of peace and concord, which no true Christian can avoid defending, since necessarily he must profess allegiance to its doctrines. {371} Because there was alarm for the existence of the Reformation three centuries ago, because the Reformation was the spur which, to save faith, was to rouse the church from slumber, does it follow that now, the times having changed, actions should be the same? Must it be that, to preserve in the present that same Christian faith, a Christian, because he chances to be a Protestant, must espouse his fathers' hates, fight only against the men and ideas with which they strove, and remain idle when beholding the outbreak of the conflagration which threatens Christianity, for the sole reason that Catholicism appears to be especially imperilled by the flames? Let him repudiate that absurd inheritance, let him break with such routine views. Not only must he abstain from attacking, even indirectly, the Catholic Church, and feel no bitterness toward her, for the simple reason that he undertakes a campaign in cooperation with her, and because we must not fire upon one's allies; he owes her still more, more than respect, more than mere courtesies; he must do her full justice. His duty be it to give prominence with frankness and loyalty to the great features, the beauties, the splendor of the traditions from which he stands apart. Strictures and reservations will be mingled with his praises; better still, for his testimony will be all the more valuable. Whether he recall the services rendered or refute vigorously all calumny, by telling the unalloyed truth, even if it be attenuated, he will do more for Catholicism than a professional panegyrist.

This is not all: to keep the false philosopher spirit at bay, no position could be better than that which he holds. He has not to struggle against the antipathy engendered by a supposed obedience to the principle of authority; and when he confesses unreservedly his belief in supernatural facts, his words are fraught with far more importance than if he who uttered them were not trammelled in the matter of free investigation. How different, too, the case when to this superiority are added personal advantages, when the Protestant is a man of powerful mind, accustomed to deal with the most weighty matters, and retaining, in the autumn of life, besides the treasures garnered by experience and learning, the fecund ardor of youth. This explains the characteristic trait of M. Guizot's Meditations; it is not a religious work like so many others. The best priests, the most eloquent preachers, the profoundest theologians are afflicted with a disability for which there is no remedy; they are professional defenders of religion; the truths they affirm seem to constitute their patrimony, and, while pleading the holiest of suits, they seem to argue in their own behalf; while a historian, a philosopher, a statesman, and, above all, a free and independent mind, who, after ripe examination and prolonged reflection, and not without a struggle and an effort, has become a Christian, and who proves in broad daylight that neither his intellect nor his reasoning powers have suffered in the least, and that the thinker and Christian live within him in perfect concord, by his testimony gives courage to many men, dispels many doubts, and inspires the faltering with firmness; his example is the best of sermons and the most reliable mode of propagating faith.

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Be assured, nevertheless, that remarks of disapproval will be heard amid the kindly greetings. There will be opposition manifested from the very first, and principally by the reformed worshippers. The broad views and extreme tolerance of the author will not be acceptable to all. The writer will be told, You forsake us; you are a Catholic in spirit and intention, why not be wholly a Catholic? A poor quarrel, indeed, a singular fashion of returning thanks for the most faithful devotedness and the most signal services! In the matter of ingratitude, the sectarian spirit stands in the foremost rank. There is, therefore, no cause for surprise that the Protestants of Paris, when occasionally gathered about the ballot-box, should not always care to express to M. Guizot, by a unanimous vote, their just and respectful pride at numbering him among their forces. But then, let us not forget that, if in the opinion of a few Protestants these Meditations are a trifle too Catholic, certain Catholics would have them still less Protestant. We do not assert that the Catholics, even the most exclusive, are not at heart filled with esteem and gratitude for a work of such evident usefulness to the cause of Christianity; the esteem and gratitude exhibited are, however, wrested from them. They praise aloud the intentions and courage of the author; as for the work itself, they do not restrict themselves to prudently leaving in obscurity the points in discussion, but involuntarily allow inopportune objections to arise. We venture to state that in doing this they do not appreciate the circumstances surrounding us, and the greatness of the need of alliance and concord forced upon Christianity by the formidable war waged against it. That in ordinary times, when the only struggle in progress concerns the form and not the foundation of things, believers should resolve only to accept and extol the productions resonant with the pure and faithful echo of their faith, nothing can be better; in such times each citizen of the Christian republic may be permitted to be watchful of the interests of his province rather than of those of his country; but, when an invasion is imminent, other emergencies are to be looked to: the common safety is the first law. Then is the time to welcome recruits, whoever they are, provided their reinforcement will be productive of good results. Do not deceive yourselves; the Christian community, even if united and agreed on all points, will only just be equal to the task: for its members must not only repel the assailants a merely defensive attitude would be equivalent to a partial defeat but must advance and invade, and subjugate souls. The world is to be reconquered, and a more giddy, frivolous, and somniferous world, perhaps, than the world of nineteen centuries ago. Again, we say that we have not to be alarmed at the antichristian war. Its horde of systems, its dreams and chimeras, its wily contrivances and philosophic disorder do not frighten us. The spectacle is a sad one, but it is not a state of slumber. Upon feverish activity you can bring to bear a healthful action; your very adversaries favor your cause and deaden the weight of the blows they would deal you. What timidity underlies their audacity! How they retreat before the most direct and inevitable consequences of their doctrines! How they complain of misrepresentation when shown a mirror reflecting the deformity of their doctrines! Let them continue to speak and write, they but call forth overwhelming replies; let them alter history and the Scriptures, for they but alter their own authority and credentials: they fall into the pit themselves have digged. {373} All things that agitate and startle men's minds, and awaken even in irritating them, aid the triumph of truth; indifference, torpor, the numbness of souls only are profitable to error, and constitute the true malady of the age. Let us not seek to conceal it, its ravages are too plainly discernible. While impiety, properly speaking, despite its apparent progress and the brazen boasts of its cynicism, makes but few proselytes in our midst, indifference increases, extends, and becomes acclimatized. It is a contagion; whosoever is affected leads a mere earthly life, and is engrossed by nothing save mundane cares, business, and pleasure; the great problems of our destiny, the wondrous mysteries constituting our torment and our honor, exist not for him; he only recognizes and cultivates his coarse and frivolous instincts; the divine portion of his being is in a state of utter lethargy. Here and there, among the indifferent, you meet a few agitated hearts and perplexed spirits. Perplexity is to indifference as twilight to darkness, an uncertain light that struggles with the gloom, sometimes conquering and sometimes conquered. Nothing can be less decisive than a victory won over such a spirit. The escape of perplexed minds is effected as quickly as was accomplished their capture. Never mind; would to God that even such a condition of souls were the greater evil! It is toward indifference, that is to say, toward nothingness and death, that all things incline our footsteps.

Inquiry was made, a short time since, as to the present condition of Christianity in France. Number those who occupy the two hostile camps in which a remnant of life still asserts itself, in one camp for the purpose of attacking, in the other for the purpose of defending, Christian faith; then, beyond the limits of the two, behold, what remains? There, are gathered crowds unnumbered, inert, inanimate, forming, as it were, a great desert, a Dead Sea uninhabited by any living thing. There lies the world to be reconquered; such are the men who are to be reclaimed. How act upon them? how move their hearts? how gain mastery over them? In these questions lies the secret of the future.

Seek, then, and try to ascertain the most reliable means of acting upon these thoughtless mortals. Is the work to be accomplished by practices of high piety and by productions intended for the edification of skilled believers? Think you that at once you will change them into thoroughly faithful Christians? that you will instantly inspire them with a holy fervor? Only to speak the language of pure devoutness, to keep in unison with the utterances of the vestry-room, is to waste time. Climb the heights, display the brilliancy of those universal truths in whose presence every being gifted with reason and accessible to reflection feels compelled to bend the knee. It is by exhibiting in all their grandeur, in all their primitive beauty, the bases of our faith, that souls can be attracted to seek them for shelter. The work to which we allude excels in this respect. M. Guizot's Meditations throw light upon the mysterious summits which, in the eyes of the torpid, appear overhung by thick and impenetrable fogs. They give these men a desire to examine them more closely. In a word, though the work may not satisfy simultaneously, in each communion, all who are possessed of a definite belief, it is endowed with a more precious virtue upon the excellence of which we can dwell the more conscientiously, as having viewed its effects: it moves the indifferent.

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More than this, however, must be done. However powerful in style and thought a book may be, it can only, in the present crisis, clear the road. To make greater headway, to effect a more decisive advance, to act upon the masses and rouse them from their slumber, other agencies than books are necessary, and deeds, examples, striking evidence, and incontestable proofs of abnegation, devotedness, charity, and sacrifices are required. These are the sermons that awaken souls; these the weapons that triumph over the world, however careless, frivolous, and hardened it may be. In days by-gone, they conquered the men who wore the Roman toga and the rough habits of the barbarians; in this century, they are still the only means of conquest.--What do we ask? What are we thinking of? Preaching by deeds! The apostleship of the early ages! Real apostles, heroic confessors, if needed, martyrs! In our times! Is it possible?--Why not? What contradiction and surprise but can be looked for nowadays? Is it not the destiny of the age to carry everything to extremes, to be zealous for evil and even for good, to be swayed in turn or simultaneously by all currents, and to subscribe to the most irreconcilable principles? Just because the world appears to have fallen almost to the lowest degree of depression, just because it sinks more deeply from day to day, there is a chance that a sublime and immediate reaction may occur. Was imperial Rome less corrupt, less effeminate, less docile while the avengers and restorers of human dignity, the future masters of the world, were at work beneath her foundations? Be reassured, even in these days of doubt and egotism, a true and great resurrection of Christianity in France is not a Utopian vision. Not only is such a miracle possible, but we may declare it necessary.

Either we must suppose that we are nearing the last phase of the development of humanity; that the now commencing decadence will be the last; that, unlike so many declines that have preceded it, this latest decline will have no place of stoppage, no new birth; that an unbroken slope is leading irresistibly to the ruin and debasement of our race, or we must without delay find means of restituting to the masses religious faith. What has democracy gained by triumphing and being about to become the sovereign mistress of the whole world, if it cannot maintain and hold sway over its conquest simply because it cannot rule and govern itself? Democracy, without the brake of religion, without other protection than that afforded by independent morality, is a swollen torrent, anarchy, despotism, and a return to barbarism. But when the brake is old and shattered, how replace it? No one can create a religious faith, it were folly to attempt it. Such chimerically created things could never be aught but impotent parodies. But why seek so far that which is near at hand? The new faith whose advent is awaited, and hoped, and called for with such eagerness is here; we possess it; it is Christianity itself, ever novel if we but know how to comprehend its eternal light, and if we know ourselves how to be novel. It is not the object of the belief that is to be remodelled, but the routine of believers. Christianity, in itself, is as youthful as at its birth; that which is superannuated is that which does not belong to it, that earthly rust with which it has been incrusted by its interpreters, its ministers, and its servants in all ages. Of this it must be rid; its original appearance and power must be restored. By what process? By using for its reestablishment the means which were formerly employed with success to lay its foundation. {375} The determination is a violent one, yet there must be no half measures; an attempt in any other direction would be illusory and vain. To proceed halfway, to spare abuses, flatter habit, and improve the surface of things only, would be to make Christianity one of those edifices which are kept standing by props and by cementing the cracks in the walls: it would be as well to let it totter and fall to the ground at once. To give it back true power, true stability, that it may defy the shocks of a long series of years, there is but one course to adopt: to begin the work anew.

Let the church, then, be courageous; let her begin again, even as she commenced, and with the same modesty and holiness; let her be chaste, austere, laborious, learned, intelligent, and free; without taste for honors, without care for wealth; lavish of her pains, her blood, and her tears; as independent toward the mighty as she is indulgent and tender for the weak. Let her advance, thus armed, step by step, approaching souls, and souls only, and the world will again be hers. There is no miscalculation to be feared, the same causes will have identical effects; but hasten, lose not an hour, the moment is a solemn one. Let the cry, "The church is beginning anew," be not a vain word, and let not its results be tardy. Think not of honoring God by raising to the heavens proud cupolas, and making for him a dwelling in palaces glittering with gold and marble; it is around the manger, in the grotto of Bethlehem, that the pastors should be convoked. Let all true Christians, all sons of the church, know and proclaim it: on them everything depends, through them all things are possible, upon them all things rest; in their hands lies not only the fate of their beloved and venerated belief, but the future of the civilized world.

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Ritualism And Its True Meaning.

We have had the pleasure of reading an article on the subject of ritualism by the Rev. Dr. Dix, rector of Trinity church in this city. This article, which appeared in the July number of the Galaxy, suggested to our minds some very interesting and practical reflections. It is understood that the respected doctor who holds so important a position in his own church is one of the principal supporters of the movement in regard to which he writes. Although he does not yet introduce into Trinity church and its chapels the external observances of the ritualists which he commends, still it is his desire to do so at the first practicable moment. The weight of his character and influence is given to the restoration of those rites and ceremonies which were dropped at the Protestant Reformation through the undue force of Calvinism and what he calls religious radicalism. Whether he will succeed is a question which the ministers and influential laymen of his own church can better answer than we can. In examining his article carefully, we think there is a slight want of candor on one or two points, and some misunderstanding upon others. {376} For example, he disclaims the popular use of the word "ritualism," and says, "It has lost its respectability, and has become a slang expression. The unlucky word is bandied about till it must have lost all perception of its own identity. Hence, we respectfully decline the attempt to say what the word 'ritualism' means, as now lost and merged in the category of cant and slang." Now, as far as we are able to judge, we really believe that the majority of people call things by their right names, and that the public can have no end to gain by any other course. It may be that the Episcopalians are not forbearing enough toward those of their brethren who would innovate upon their established forms of worship; but they cannot be found fault with if they are surprised and offended at changes which are so radical. If they use harsh language in the controversy, they are not to be excused, for no good ever arises from acrimony, or the forgetfulness of the decencies of life. Yet can any honest man say that he does not know what they mean to attack, or that he cannot explain what "ritualism" is? The definition which the reverend doctor gives is hardly adequate, because it includes all mankind, since, according to his terms, there is no one who is not a ritualist. There is no necessity of proving that all religions have had their rites and ceremonies, for there is no one who will deny so well received a fact. We must take the word in its popular acceptation; and it simply refers to those who are now endeavoring to introduce great changes in the worship of the Protestant Episcopal Church, who are using vestments never known in their communion for at least three centuries, and who, in doctrine and outward observance, are approaching as nearly as possible the time-hallowed ceremonial of the Catholic Church. Whether they are in the right or in the wrong is another question; the name by which they are called may be appropriate or not, but it has a plain signification. Every one can understand it, and we do not see in it anything abusive or uncharitable.

After objecting to the term "ritualist," Dr. Dix proceeds to defend at some length the course of those who bear this name, and his view is easily summed up, and we hear it now for about the thousandth time in our life:

"The Christian dispensation is bounded, on the one side, by the magnificent ritualism of Israel, and, on the other, by the analogous and not less glowing ritualism of heaven. For fifteen hundred years (after Christ) there was no ritualistic controversy deserving the name. In general features, divine worship was the same throughout the world. But errors and abuses crept into the church, and these became symbolized in novel rites and practices, by which ritual became, in some respects, defiled and corrupted. Then came the Reformation in the sixteenth century. That movement did not affect the Eastern portions of Christendom; in Greece and Russia the old traditions may be traced, although under a load of useless ceremonies, back to the commencement of the Christian era. ... Looking about the world, we see, in the Eastern part of Christendom, an ancient ritual in use, very ornate, very symbolical, and full of reminiscences of the old church of Israel; the mitre, the iconastasis, the veil, the lamps, the incense, are direct heirlooms from that venerable past. In the West, the Roman Catholic Christians exhibit in their ritual a system essentially modified by later ideas, and expressing the dogmas which by degrees have accumulated around their once pure creed."

Here the reverend doctor seems to labor under a strange misunderstanding, and evidently has taken no pains to examine for himself the oriental liturgies. There is no substantial difference whatever between the liturgies of the East and those of the West. All contain the same essential parts, and are probably of apostolic origin. {377} Whatever corruption belongs to the Roman rite, in the Protestant sense of the term, belongs likewise to the Eastern rites. As for the ceremonies now in use in regard to the sacraments and popular devotions, there may be some difference, but it is in favor of the West, even from the Protestant point of view. The Eastern churches pay as much honor to the Blessed Mother of God and to the saints as we do, and in their expressions are fully as fervent. The attempt, therefore, to make a distinction between the East and West, as if the oriental churches were more in sympathy with the reformed doctrines than the Catholic Church, is singularly futile, because not supported by the least shadow of fact. Besides, as we shall see in this article, the ritualists draw all their own rites and ceremonies from us, and recommend for the use of their own church the very words of the Roman Missal. If in their view we had become so corrupt, why have they taken for themselves the ritual which the doctor says is essentially modified by later ideas? We are convinced that the assertions we have quoted will never stand the test of examination or of honest common sense.

Again, Dr. Dix says that there was a perceptible variance of opinion between the English reformers and the Lutheran and Calvinistic communities. To use his own words: "The movement of the Reformation in England was in the most cautiously conservative channel. What they aimed at was, to retain all that was truly Catholic, and to reject only what was distinctively Roman." We do not believe that these assertions can be made good by the most ingenious interpretation of history. The English leaders of the reform were certainly in close connection with the continental teachers, and drew their inspiration from them. That in England more of the exterior of the ancient church was retained was, we think, owing to the pertinacity of the court, more than to the conservative views of Cranmer and his co-laborers. Henry VIII. was inexorable on many points during his singularly exemplary life. Edward VI. was pliant enough, but the church and parliament were not sufficiently advanced to follow all lengths in the wake of Luther and Calvin; and the truth, is that the English Church had nothing to do with the Reformation but to bear it, and by it to lose all its liberties. It is a patent fact that the voice of convocation, the only one which could speak for the ecclesiastical body, was hushed by Henry VIII., and that the reform was carried on by the king and his parliament. If the first prayer-book of Edward VI. was so perfect, why did not the "cautiously conservative" movement stop with "that most perfect specimen of a reformed Catholic liturgy"? why are the poor Calvinists to be blamed for following their own consciences, and for asking for a revision of the liturgy? That they were successful is a proof, at least, that they had great influence in the English Church, and that the Reformation was not so cautiously conservative.

As for the Protestant Episcopal Church, the doctor tells us that it is in an inchoate state, where all its component elements are in fusion. "Only eighty-two years have elapsed since the first American bishop was consecrated; these years have been formative; usages and customs have been undergoing continual changes, and men have been feeling their way, under circumstances in which, since the time of Constantine, no national branch of the Catholic Church has been placed." Is this really the case? Have Episcopalians no settled forms of worship, and no fixed creed? {378} We always were led to suppose that that conservative body of Christians were decidedly fixed in their hostility of heart to Romanism, and what may be called extreme Protestantism. Is it not so? Is the Book of Common Prayer no established rule for the order of divine worship? Are the Thirty-nine Articles, to which every minister effectually subscribes, no rule of faith whatever? Are all Episcopalians feeling their way to something settled in faith and worship? If such is the case, we have been strangely misinformed, and have singularly misinterpreted the decisions of bishops and conventions. The Episcopalian clergy and laity can settle this matter better than we can, and therefore we leave its solution to them. But, to Catholic eyes, these "formative years" seem only like the constant changes which are ever passing over all Protestant bodies, and which inhere in every merely human organization. And we must say that, as far as we know, though the faith of Episcopalians may differ very much, their external worship is plainly enough fixed by rubrics and canons whose meaning can hardly be misunderstood. We pay the highest tribute of respect to Rev. Dr. Dix and his friends, and we give thanks to God for the light and grace he has given them; but truth obliges us to say that their whole movement (if it be sincere, as we are bound to believe) is away from their own church with its rites and ceremonies, and toward the old faith and the old home of Christians. May the divine mercy perfect that which has been begun, and which gives such promise of conversion to the truth. We deeply sympathize with the ritualists, and pray for them continually, that they may not falter on the path they have begun to tread, that they may persevere amid all discouragements and temptations until they reach their Father's house, where the light of faith shines without a shadow.

Having made these preliminary remarks, we proceed to the object of this short essay, and shall endeavor to make manifest what ritualism is and what is its true meaning. We believe it to be a most important movement, which by God's grace will lead many souls to the full possession of the truth. We consider it as simply an honest and sincere attempt to introduce into the English Church and the Protestant Episcopal Church, the most essential doctrines of the Catholic religion, and to restore the worship which passed away at the Reformation with the rejection of the ancient faith. It does not seem to us that any candid person can long be a ritualist without becoming Catholic. Our purpose is, then, to make this evident to the public by the simple presentation of facts. It will be very interesting both to Catholics and Protestants to know the real doctrine and practices of the upholders of one of the most striking movements of our day. We will, for the sake of order and clearness, speak in detail of the sacrifice of the Mass and the blessed Eucharist, of auricular confession, of other sacramental observances, and of religious communities. Before proceeding to these subjects, however, we reproduce and affirm the five points of Rev. Dr. Dix, which we shall have in view as fixed principles:

"First. There must be ritual of some kind where there is religion.

"Second. There is the clearest argument from Holy Scripture and ecclesiastical history in favor of a beautiful and impressive ritualism, as a powerful agency on men for their good.

"Third. Such ritualism must be a teacher; it must symbolize something, and express as forcibly as possible what it symbolizes; a ritualism without a meaning, and representing no truth which the intellect can grasp, is but a piece of trifling and a sham.

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"Fourth. Ritual must teach truth, pure and unadulterated truth; God's truth, which he has revealed to man.

"Fifth. People should try to discuss the subject with calmness. They should not look at it in a party light; they had better keep clear of the agitators, whose aim it is to excite vague fears, and affright the uninstructed with awful disclosures of conspiracy against the simplicity of their faith and the purity of their worship; and especially should they remember that there is superstition in defect as well as in excess."

1. Ritualists are believers in the sacrifice of the Mass and the real presence of our Lord in the holy Eucharist. The Communion service, instead, therefore, of being simply an affecting memorial of Christ's death, is transformed into a true and proper sacrifice, in which he is really present under the forms of bread and wine, and is offered for the living and the dead. The adaptation of the old forms of the prayer-book to a view so Catholic as this requires many alterations in rubrics and in the introduction of new matter. We shall quote from a book called the Notitia Liturgica, which is the received order of service, and contains, according to its title, "brief directions for the administration of the sacraments, and the celebration of the divine service according to the present use of the Church of England." The introductory note explains that the book was drawn up "in order to provide the clergy, sacristans, and others with a small pocket-manual, by which such accuracy, care, and reverence may be attained by those ministering at, or serving the altar, as has been so constantly recommended by such eminent standard divines of our national church, as the Venerable Bede, Archbishop Peckham, Bishop Wainflete, Cardinal Pole, Bishop Cosin, and Archbishop Laud." The Directorium Anglicanum contains more ample directions; but the present work, being briefer, is more suited for our purpose at this moment. It commences with the remark that, "in the interpretations of the Book of Common Prayer, the following cardinal maxim should never be lost sight of, namely, that what was not legally and formally abandoned at the Reformation by express law is now in full force, and should be carefully, judiciously, and firmly restored. This key unlocks many difficulties which would be otherwise both theoretically and practically insurmountable." Then follow the directions for the building and dressing of the altar, and for a "Low and High Celebration." We cannot do better than give them at length:

"The greatest care should be invariably bestowed upon the altar of the church. It should be well raised, of proper proportions, and of costly materials. In size it should never be less than seven feet long, and three feet and a half in height. It should always be raised on a substantial and solid platform of at least three steps. Behind it there should be a reredos of wood or stone, either carved or decorated, or else a hanging of cloth, velvet, satin, damask, or embroidery. Green is the best color for a hanging--unless the church is dedicated in honor of Our Lady, when blue may be used--which can be changed on high festivals for white. The carpet upon the sanctuary floor should invariably be green, as it is a good contrast to the altar vestments. The altar vestments should fit accurately, and not be allowed to hang loosely. On a shelf or ledge behind the altar--sometimes called a retable, and sometimes, but inaccurately, a super-altar--should be placed a metal cross or crucifix; or a painting of the crucifixion should be fixed over the centre of the altar, against the east wall. At least two large and handsome candlesticks for the Eucharistic celebration should be placed one on either side of the cross. Other branch candlesticks for tapers may be affixed to the east wall on each side of the altar, and standards for the same may be added on festivals. Flower vases may be also used for the adornment of the retable of the altar, and pots of flowers and shrubs for the sanctuary floor, which should be carefully but closely grouped against the north and south ends of the altar.

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"The following order should be observed both in the use of the vestments of the clergy and of the altar:

"White.--From the evening of Christmas Eve to the Octave of Epiphany inclusive, (except on the two feasts of St. Stephen and the Holy Innocents;) at the celebration on Maunday Thursday, and on Easter Eve, from the evening of Easter Eve to the Vigil of Pentecost, on Trinity Sunday, on Corpus Christi Day and its Octave, on the feasts of the Purification, Conversion of St. Paul, Annunciation, St. John Baptist, St. Michael, All Saints, on all feasts of Our Lady, and of Saints and Virgins, not Martyrs, at weddings, and on the Anniversary Feast of the dedication of the church.

"Red. Vigil of Pentecost to the next Saturday, Holy Innocents, (if on a Sunday,) and all other feasts.

"Violet. From Septuagesima Sunday to Easter Eve, from Advent to Christmas Eve, Ember week in September, all vigils that are fasted, Holy Innocents, (unless on Sunday.)

"Black. Good Friday and funerals.

"Green. All ferial days.

"PLAIN DIRECTIONS FOR A LOW CELEBRATION.

(BY A PRIEST WITH ONE SERVER.)

Vestments for the Celebrant--Cassock, amice, alb, and girdle, with maniple, stole, and chasuble, of the color of the day.

Vestments for the Server--Cassock and surplice.

"The altar candles being lighted, and the cruets of wine and water being on their stand upon the credence, as well as the altar breads, basin, and towel, the priest, bearing the sacred vessels, duly arranged and covered, preceded by the server, proceeds from the sacristy to the altar.

"Having bowed to the cross, and then spread the corporal and placed the chalice on the centre of the altar, he steps back to the foot of the altar, and begins by saying privately: '+ In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.'

"He then recites Psalm xliii., (which should be learned by heart.)

"Then, going up to the altar, according to the Rubric, he says the 'Our Father' and collect at the 'north side' or gospel corner; after which, turning to the people, and standing in the middle of the altar, he recites the Ten Commandments, the server making the appointed responses.

"Then he turns to the gospel corner, as the Rubric directs, and says the prayer for the Queen, and the collect for the day.

"Then the server moves the book-rest to the epistle corner, where the priest reads the epistle; and then the server replaces it, as before, at the gospel corner, where the priest reads the gospel, at the commencement of which all present cross themselves on the forehead, mouth, and breast.

"Custom sanctions the responses, 'Glory be to Thee, O Lord,' and 'Praise be to Thee, O Christ,' before and after the Gospel: both of which are said by the server.

"The creed is said by the priest junctis manibus in the middle of the altar facing the cross. The server, therefore, should move the book toward the priest. From the words 'and was incarnate' to 'was made man,' the celebrant bows profoundly; and at the words 'life everlasting' makes the sign of the cross on his breast.

"The offertory sentence is read in the same position. The alms (if any) are presented standing. At the offering of the bread, the priest should use privately the following prayer from the Salisbury Missal:

"'Suscipe, Sancta Trinitas, hanc oblationem quam ego indignus offero in honore tuo et Beatae Mariae, et omnium sanctorum tuorum, pro peccatis et offensionibus meis; pro salute vivorum et requie omnium fidelium defunctorum. In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.'

"And at the offering of the chalice:

"Offerimus tibi, Domine, calicem salutaris, tuam deprecantes clementiam, ut in conspectu divina majestatis tuae, pro nostra et totius mundi salute, cum odore suavitatis ascendat. Amen.'

"Here the server should bring from the credence-ewer, water, and towel for the priest to wash his hands. During this symbolical ceremony, the celebrant will say Psalm xxvi., which may be learnt by heart.

"At the 'Ye that do truly,' which should also be learnt by heart, and said without the service-book, the priest turns to the people, still standing in the midst of the altar.

"The server, or 'minister,' as the Rubric terms him, says the confession in the name of the people, the priest standing facing eastward. At its conclusion, he turns round junctis manibus, and gives the absolution, which should also be said without the book, making the sign of the cross with his right hand at the words, 'pardon and deliver you,' etc.

"The 'Comfortable Words' are said in the same position.

"The preface, 'Lift up your hearts,' with its response, is said with hands extended and eyes uplifted. At the words, 'Let us give thanks,' etc., the priest joins his hands, and at 'It is very meet, right,' etc., he turns to the altar, bending down at the words, 'Holy, holy, holy.'

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"The celebrant kneels in the midst of the altar at the prayer of humble access, 'We do not presume.'

"In the prayer of consecration, the priest reverently genuflects after the consecration of the bread, to worship Jesus Christ, truly present under a sacramental veil, and again after the consecration of the chalice.

"Here the following extract from the ancient Sarum Canon, to be said privately, may, according to the suggestion of Bishop Wilson, be profitably introduced:

"'Unde et me mores, Domine nos servi tui, sed et plebs tua sancta, ejusdem Christi Filii tui Domini Dei nostri tam beatae Passionis, necnon et ab inferis Resurrectionis, sed et in caelos gloriosae Ascensionis, offerimus praeclarae Majestati tuae de tuis donis ac datis Hostiam + puram, Hostiam sanctam + Hostiam, + immaculatam: Panem sanctum + vitae aeternae, et + caliccem salutis perpetuae.

"'Supra qua propitio ac sereno vultu respicere digneris: et accepta habere, siculi accepta habere dignatus es munera pueri tui justi Abel, et sacrificium patriarchs nostri Abrahae: et quod tibi obtulit summus sacerdos tuus Melchisedech, sanctum sacrificium, immaculatam Hostiam.

"'Supplices te rogamus omnipotens Deus; jube hac perferri per manus sancti angeli tui in sublime altre tuum, in conspectu Divinae Majestatis Tua: et quotquot ex hac altaris participatione, sacrosanctum Filii tui, + Corpus et + Sanguinem sumpserimus: omni + benedictione coelesti et gratia repleamur. Per eundem Christum Dominum nostrum. Amen.

"'Memento etiam, Domine animarum famulorum famularumque tuarum (N. et N.) qui nos praecesserunt cum signo fidei, et dormiunt in somno pacis. Ipsis Domine et omnibus in Christo quiescentibus, locum refrigerii, lucis et pacis, ut indulgeas, deprecamur. Per eundem Christum Dominum nostrum. Amen.

"'Nobis quoque peccatoribus famulis tuis de multitudine miserationum tuarum sperantibus, partem aliquam et societatem donare digneris cum tuis sanctis apostolis et martyribus; cum Joanne, Stephano, Matthia, Barnaba, Ignatio, Alexandro, Marcellino, Petro, Felicitate, Perpetua, Agatha. Lucia, Agnete, Caecilia, Anastasia, et cum omnibus sanctis tuis: intra quorum nos consortium, non estimator meriti, sed veniae, quaesumus, largitor admitte. Per Christum Dominum nostrum.

"'Per quem hac omnia Domine, semper bona creas, + sanctificas, + vivaficas, + benedicis, et praestas nobis. Per + ipsum et cum + ipso in + ipso est tibi Deo Patri + Omnipotenti, in unitate Spiritus Sancti omnis honor et gloria. Per omnia saecula saeculorum. Amen.'

[Transcriber's note: Some of these words are illegible and are guesses. The plus sign (+) indicates the sign of the cross is to be made.]

"The priest communicates himself standing. Genuflecting before receiving our Lord's Body, he may say:

"'Ave in aeternum sanctissima Caro Christi; mihi ante omnia et super omnia summa dulcede. Corpus Domini nostri Jesu Christi sit mihi peccatori via et vita + In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.'

"Genuflecting before receiving Christ's Most Precious Blood:

"'Ave in aeternum Caelestis Potus, mihi ante omnis et super omnia summa dulcedo. Corpus et Sanguis Domini nostri Jesu Christi prosint mihi peccatori ad remedium sempiternum in vitam aeternam. Amen. + In nomine Patris,' etc.

"After all have communicated, the contents of the paten may be carefully placed into the chalice, the paten placed on the chalice, and the veil put over it.

"The 'Our Father' and the following prayer are said with hands extended, in the centre of the altar, facing eastward, as also the intonation of the 'Gloria in Excelsis.' At the words, 'we worship thee,' the celebrant will bow profoundly; at the words, 'To the glory of God the Father,' he signs himself with the sign of the cross.

"In giving the benediction, in which the sign of the cross should always be made with the right hand, care should be taken by the priest not to turn his back upon the blessed sacrament. The server will here kneel in the centre of the lower step.

"Immediately after this--before the priest uses any private devotions whatsoever and before the people attempt to go away-- the consecrated species should be reverently consumed; and the ablutions (1) of wine, (2) of wine and water mixed, and (3) of water alone should be given to the priest by the server.

"The greatest possible care should be taken that no single particle remains on the paten; and it is always better that the priest himself should consume all that remains of both kinds. The officials of the church and members of the choir should be expressly taught never to rise from their knees until the ablutions have been taken and the priest is about to leave the altar.

"After the cleansing of the vessels, the corporal, purificator, chalice-cover, etc., should be carefully put in their places; and then, bowing to the cross, the priest should return to the sacristy, preceded by the server, and say, according to the Sarum rite, St. John's Gospel, cap. i. 1-14.

"The priest, having taken off his vestments, says his thanksgiving.

PLAIN DIRECTIONS FOR A HIGH CELEBRATION.

(BY A PRIEST WITH DEACON AND SUB-DEACON.)

Vestments for the Celebrant--Cassock, amice, alb, and girdle, with maniple, stole, and chasuble of the color of the day.

Vestments for the Deacon--Cassock, amice, alb, and girdle, with maniple, stole, and dalmatic of the color of the day.

Vestments for the Sub-Deacon--Cassock, amice, alb, and girdle, with maniple and tunicle of the color of the day.

Vestments for the Acolytes Cassocks, (black on ordinary days, but purple or scarlet on great festivals,) with either short surplices, girded albs, or rochets.

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"The directions which have already been given in the case of a 'Low Celebration' are equally appropriate here, as far as regards the actual ceremonies of the Eucharist. Several additional points, however, need to be particularly insisted on:

"(a) The normal position of the deacon will be on the right hand side of the priest, standing on the first step from the footpace; and that of the sub-deacon on his left hand, standing on the second step.

"(b) Both deacon and sub-deacon stand when the celebrant stands, genuflect when he genuflects, and kneel when he kneels.

"(c) At the epistle, the deacon and subdeacon change places, the latter chanting the epistle on his own, the second step from the footpace, from a good-sized book, held by one of the acolytes on the epistle side, so that the sub-deacon may face the east.

"(d) At the gospel, the deacon chants the gospel from his step, near the gospel corner of the altar--the book of the Gospels being held by the sub-deacon, so that the deacon may face the north.

"(e) After the gospel, the celebrant, in the midst of the altar--with the deacon behind him on his own step, and the sub-deacon on his step, again behind the deacon--intones the first sentence of the Nicene Creed. When the choir take up the words, 'the Father Almighty,' the deacon and sub-deacon go up to the altar footpace, respectively to the right and left of the priest.

"(f) During the sermon, the priest, deacon, and sub-deacon occupy the sedilia, or seats placed for them on the south side of the sanctuary, facing the north.

"(g) At the offertory they return to the altar, and the sub-deacon brings the sacred vessels from the credence. The deacon, taking the corporal out of the burse, spreads the corporal, and arranges the sacred vessels. The chalice should be placed immediately behind the paten, in the centre of the corporal and of the altar.

"(h) The plate or box with the altar breads should be handed to the deacon by the sub-deacon, who will receive it from one of the acolytes, in order that the priest may be supplied with the elements required. The same will be observed as regards the cruets of wine and water, and also for the ceremony of washing the priest's fingers. The priest-celebrant should not leave his place at the altar, but should be carefully served by his assistant clergy and the acolytes.

"(i) The confession may be said in monotone, or with suitable inflections, by either the deacon or sub-deacon. During the preface and sanctus, the deacon and sub-deacon stand behind the priest, respectively a little to his right and left.

"(k) At the consecration, the deacon and sub-deacon, standing respectively at his right and left, will reverently genuflect when the priest genuflects, and bend themselves low during the communion of the celebrant.

"(l) At the Gloria in Excelsis, the celebrant--in the midst of the altar, with the deacon behind him on his own step, and the sub-deacon on his step, again behind the deacon--intones the first sentence. When the choir take up the words, 'And in earth peace,' the deacon and sub-deacon ascend to the altar footpace, respectively to the right and left of the priest.

"(m) After the Gloria in Excelsis, one, two, or three of the collects at the end of the communion service may be said--according to the number of the actual collects of the day--as a post-communion.

"(n) In giving the 'pax' and blessing, the celebrant should turn toward the people, being careful not to stand before the blessed sacrament, and, stretching out his arms during the first part of it--from the opening words to 'His Son Jesus Christ our Lord'--will kiss the pax which is presented to him by the deacon; and then, placing his left hand open on his breast, will raise his right hand and bless the people with the sacred sign of the cross.

"(o) The deacon and sub-deacon will immediately serve wine and water for the ablutions, and having rearranged the sacred vessels and their coverings, will place them on the credence, together with the pax and the service-book.

Such is the external rite recommended and practised as far as possible by the ritualists in what they do not hesitate to call the celebration of Mass. That it is conformed, as far as can be, to the Liturgy of the Catholic Church will be evident at first sight to any one acquainted with the Missal. The ceremonies and many of the integral parts are adopted without change from the Western rite, and not from the Eastern, which Dr. Dix thinks more pure. The vestments may be of the Greek pattern, but this is not a material matter. {383} The priest, having placed the chalice on the altar, steps back to the foot of the altar, and begins, according to the Catholic order, by making the sign of the cross, and saying the Psalm, "Judica me Deus." The epistle and gospel are read precisely as we read them; then the creed is said, "junctis manibus," in the middle of the altar, facing the cross. It is also said with the same reverences as our service prescribes, and ends with the sign of the cross. The offering of the bread is made in a Latin form, said to be taken from the Salisbury Missal. The oblation is made in the honor of the Holy Trinity and the Blessed Mary, for the salvation of the living and the rest of the faithful departed. At the offering of the chalice, the priest is directed to say the identical prayer used in our Liturgy. Then follows the washing of the hands, with the recitation of Psalm xxv., "Lavabo manus meas," as in the Catholic rite; and the extracts in Latin from our Missal are directed to be "written out, printed, or illuminated, and then framed and placed against the super-altar as altar cards." At the consecration, the priest reverently genuflects to worship Jesus Christ truly present, after which he is recommended to use privately the exact words of our canon in Latin. It seems that they coincide with the Sarum Canon, and that some years ago Bishop Wilson had the good thought to suggest their use. The remainder of the service will speak for itself; and we think any Episcopalian will find himself strangely puzzled should he undertake to follow with the rubrics of his Book of Common Prayer. He would, it seems to us, be as much at home in a Catholic church. The directions for a "high celebration" are all taken from our rubrics for a solemn Mass, with deacon and sub-deacon, and are conformed to them as much as possible. The saddest reflection which strikes us, is the thought that those who go through with such real and meaning ceremonies have no priestly character, and therefore no power to consecrate Christ's Body and Blood. Such is not only the verdict of the Catholic Church in regard to Anglican orders, but the opinion of every Eastern church which has retained the traditions of the apostolic succession. It is a fearful responsibility for any man to take, to make himself a priest on his own private judgment; for, after all, if the Catholic Church is good for rites and doctrines, she is good for everything.

So far the external observance of the ritualists is in favor of the sacrifice of the Mass, and the real presence of our Lord in the blessed Eucharist. We shall find that they do not hesitate to teach the doctrine which their ritual symbolizes, according to the principles of Dr. Dix. which exact that "ritual must teach truth, pure and unadulterated truth." We have before us several books which are recommended, and, as far as we have been able to learn, in constant use. The books for devotion before hearing Mass and receiving Holy Communion, such as The Altar Book, The Little Sacrament Book, The Supper of the Lord, contain the plainest expressions of belief in the real and true corporeal presence of Jesus Christ in the sacrament. We could quote many pages, but we shall only give a few passages from The Churchman's Guide to Faith and Piety, a work which is quite comprehensive, and is published with directions for all devotions, both in and out of the church. It bears a dedication, by permission, to the Rt. Rev. H. Potter, D.D., LL.D., D.C.L., the Bishop of New York, thus receiving the sanction of the highest Episcopalian authority. {384} The "Instruction on the Holy Eucharist" contains very plainly the doctrine of the Mass: "In this sacrament he (Jesus Christ) has bequeathed to us his Body and Blood under the forms of bread and wine, not only to be received by us for the food and nourishment of our souls, but as a means whereby the same oblation of himself which he offers before the Father in heaven might be offered also by his ministers on earth. They thus commemorate his one atoning sacrifice by a perpetual memorial, representing his death and passion before the Father. ... In this sacrifice Christ himself is the real offerer, though he acts through his priests, whom he appointed as his representatives when he commanded his apostles, saying, 'Do this in remembrance of me.' ... When, therefore, the priests of his church, in his name and according to his commands, rehearse the words of institution in the prayer of consecration, God the Holy Ghost comes down upon the creatures of bread and wine, and they become the Body and Blood of Christ. The priest offers, therefore, on God's altar a sacrifice commemorative of that perfect and sufficient sacrifice once offered on the cross, and at the same time Jesus Christ presents it before the Father, pleading his wounds, and the merits of his passion for the pardon and salvation of his people." During the communion many beautiful devotions are given, all of which speak fervently of Christ's real presence, and the Catholic hymn, "Ave Verum Corpus," is translated for use at that great moment:

"Hail! Christ's body, true and real, of the Virgin Mary born, Truly suffering, truly offered on the hill of scorn. Hail! for man's salvation pierced, gaping wounds and riven side, Whence outflowed with love unstinting, Blood and Water, mingled tide; Now upon that body feed we, now of that sweet fountain drink, Lest, when death relentless seize us, 'neath the Judge's search we sink."

The beautiful hymn of St. Thomas, "Adoro Te devotè," is added:

"Devoutly I adore thee, Deity unseen, Why thy glory hidest 'neath these shadows mean? Taste and touch and vision in thee are deceived, But the hearing only, well may be believed."

The prayer "Anima Christi" is then recommended to be said with the inmost affections and desires of the soul. The manner of receiving is also worthy of notice: "Kneel reverently at the altar, with the body upright and the head slightly bowed." Say to yourself, 'Lord, I am not worthy that thou shouldest come under my roof.' Make thy left hand a throne for the right, which is on the eve of receiving the King, and, having hollowed thy palm, receive the Body of Christ, and convey it carefully to thy mouth." The book called The Supper of the Lord gives the like directions: "When the priest gives you the sacrament, receive it in the open palm of the right hand, and so raise it reverently, lest any portion should fall to the ground; for St. Cyril observes, 'Whosoever loses any part of it had better lose part of himself.'" It is not necessary to quote any further passages, although the same doctrine is contained in the entire book. On page 86, vol. ii., there is the remark, "that the bread and wine are unchanged in their substance;" but we are inclined to think that this comes from inadvertence, prejudice, or bad philosophy. Two substances cannot coexist in the same space; and therefore, if the bread and wine become the Body and Blood of Christ, they cannot still be simple bread and wine. And if the presence of Christ is only in them without changing them, it is a sin to adore them, since they are only creatures still. {385} To lose any part of them would, then, be no crime, as Episcopalians have always believed. The language of the hymns heretofore quoted would be strangely out of place. Lutherans have tried their theories of consubstantiation, and eminent Protestants have defended a kind of impanation; but all these matters may safely be left to the criterions of good common sense. We feel satisfied that any one who desires to hold consistently the doctrine of a real presence of Jesus Christ in the blessed Eucharist must approach the Catholic dogma, and admit a substantial change in the bread and wine.

2. Auricular confession is taught and practised by the ritualists. We say, auricular confession, because the term has been used by Protestants, though it may be considered expletive, since a confession heard by no one is hardly a confession in any proper sense. The books of devotion put forth by the ritualists, both in this country and in England, give the most plain and explicit directions for confession. The ministers who follow their views are always ready to hear their penitents, and, on account of the spiritual relation they hold to their children, call themselves, and love to be called, by the title of "Father," as is customary in the Catholic Church. The Chapter IV. of The Churchman's Guide, vol. ii., is entitled "Of Sacramental Confession." It gives the prayers and questions for self-examination such as may be found in our manuals. The form of confession is thus recommended:

"As soon as the priest is ready, begin your confession after this manner: In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost, Amen. I confess to God the Father Almighty, to His only-begotten Son, Jesus Christ, our Lord, and to God the Holy Ghost, before the whole company of heaven, and to you, my father, that I have sinned exceedingly in thought, word, and deed, by my fault, my own fault, my own grievous fault. Then confess the sins you have noted down as the result of your self-examination, taking them in the order of the commandments, or beginning with your besetting sins, and then proceeding to the lesser sins. Do so simply, sincerely, earnestly, unreservedly, in as plain a manner as possible, remembering that no sin which you have discovered should be held back, that any conscious omission will render the confession nothing worth, and the absolution null and void. In accusing yourself, be very careful not to mention another, unless it is necessary to the completeness of your confession. Answer any questions that the confessor may feel it necessary to ask truthfully and unhesitatingly. When you have completed your confession, say as follows: For these and all my other sins which I cannot at present remember, I humbly beg pardon of Almighty God, and of you, my spiritual father, penance, counsel, and absolution. Wherefore I pray God the Father Almighty, His only-begotten Son, Jesus Christ, and God the Holy Ghost to pity me and have mercy upon me, and you, my father, to pray for me. The priest will then remark upon the confession as he deems most fitting, giving such ghostly counsel as to dispose the soul for the receiving of the great gift. Listen to him with all reverence and care, receiving the advice which he gives you as the message of God to your soul, and determine punctually and exactly to fulfil the penance which he may assign to you. After such exhortation, the priest will pray with you and for you, and then lay his hands upon your head, and pronounce the words of absolution. Doubt not, but earnestly believe that, according to God's sure promise, the sins that are so loosed upon earth are loosed in heaven. After confession, spend, if possible, a quarter of an hour in church, or in private, using one or more of the following acts of devotion."

Then follow some beautiful and fervent prayers and thanksgivings. Catholics will see very little difference between this form and that to which they have been accustomed from their childhood. We have no means of judging how extensive is the practice of confession among Episcopalians in New-York, but we earnestly hope it will increase and become general. {386} Although there is no priestly character, no jurisdiction, and no absolution, still the habit of confessing leads to self-examination and strictness of life, and will in God's good time open the heart to the light of the true faith. We are not aware that confessionals have been erected in any Episcopal church in this country, and do not know whether confessions are heard in the church or at the houses of the ministers. English ritualists are far beyond their American brethren, and therefore we presume that everything will follow in due time.

3. The ritualists are also approaching to the doctrine of the church in regard to the sacraments, and certainly admit more than two sacraments. A sacrament is, according to our catechism, "an outward sign of inward grace, or a sacred and mysterious sign by which grace is communicated to our souls." We need not speak of baptism, in which regeneration is fully admitted, nor allude to the holy Eucharist, already sufficiently spoken of, but will simply mention penance, confirmation, and matrimony, which the Episcopal Church denies to be sacraments. What we have quoted in regard to "sacramental confession" will show that, to all intents and purposes, they believe in penance very much as we do. Confirmation is regarded as a rite having an external sign, and conveying the gift of the Holy Ghost. Special preparation for so great a gift is deemed necessary, and confession is recommended. "White is the color of the vestments of both clergy and altar at confirmation. At confession, the stole should be violet."

The Notitia Liturgica gives the following directions for holy matrimony: "The service for holy matrimony consists of three parts, namely, the address to the congregation, the betrothal, (both of which are to take place in the nave or body of the church) and the more sacramental part, imploring the graces needful for the married state, which is said at the altar. The ring is evidently ordered to be laid on the service-book for the purpose of being blessed. The following is a common form of benediction. (It is the Catholic form.) 'Sanctify, + O Lord, this ring which we bless + in thy name, that she who shall wear it, keeping inviolable fidelity to her spouse, may ever remain in peace and love; and live according to Thy law, through Christ, our Lord, Amen.' In pronouncing the first benediction, the priest should lay his hands upon the heads of the man and woman. White is the color for the vestments of both clergy and altar at the celebration of holy matrimony. The priest should wear cassock, surplice, and stole; and the assistants, clerks, or ministers, cassock and surplices. If the holy communion be celebrated, of course the clergyman will retire to the vestry to assume the proper vestments. Only the bride and bridegroom and their immediate friends should communicate." There can be very little doubt that in all this there is the open profession of belief in an inward sanctifying grace attached to the external rite.

In regard to holy orders, we have no direct evidence before us, because we have only seen books of devotion for the people; but we are quite persuaded that the ritualists believe in the sacramental character of ordination, and that a special grace attends the imposition of the bishop's hands when ministers and priests are solemnly set apart to their office. As for the sacrament of extreme unction, we are not aware that it is practised in England or among the Episcopalians in this country. But from all the advances they have made during the last few years, we have reason to think that it will ere long be introduced. {387} It was in use in the early days of the Reformation, and is very plainly taught in Holy Scripture. (St. James v. 14.)

4. The vast progress in Catholic ideas which has been made has also led to the establishment of religious communities. In England, there are, we are informed, quite a number of sisters, who live by rule and devote themselves to the works of charity. The Rev. Dr. Neale devoted his life and all his zeal to this most important movement. We have seen some beautiful sermons which were preached by him to the sisterhood of St. Margaret's, in East Grinsted. In them will be found not only the belief of the principal Catholic verities, but the most fervent descriptions of the religious life, and the plainest directions for maintaining its strictness. The movement has gone so far in England that it can afford to defy public prejudice. In the United States there has been a corresponding movement among Episcopalians, though somewhat behind the footsteps of their brethren in the mother country. The Rev. Dr. Muhlenberg was among the first in our city to establish a community of sisters; but we believe that his idea embraced more the relief of the sick and poor than the consecration to God of those who should devote themselves to this charity. Latterly, however, there has been established here a sisterhood on more Catholic principles, under the auspices of Rev. Dr. Dix, which contains now nine members, not counting postulants, who bear the title of "Sisters of St. Mary." This community was instituted three or four years ago, and placed under rules similar to those of the Catholic convents. Postulants to the community have a trial of six months, when they are received by the pastor. One year and a half from this time, that is, after two years of probation, they are set apart to their work by the bishop. The public will recollect the account, which appeared in the journals, of a consecration of sisters by Rt. Rev. Dr. Potter in one of the Episcopal churches. At this service, though we believe they take no vows, the sisters consider themselves set apart for life, and bound to the community, except in special exigencies, when dispensation can be obtained from the pastor or bishop. They have a religious dress of black, with a large black cape, a large white collar, and a white cap. They also wear a cross made of black work, with a white lily in silver set in it, which is hung around the neck. They live strictly, rise early, and work laboriously. They observe several of the canonical hours, and for this purpose use the book prepared and published by Dr. Dix. They have their hours of silence, of recreation, and of community observances. They seldom visit any one, but can go to their homes occasionally, by special permission. They are expected to go to confession and communion monthly, unless they obtain the privilege of going oftener. Rev. Dr. Dix is their spiritual director, although some are permitted to confess to one of the "fathers" at St. Alban's, or to any other Episcopal minister.

These sisters have charge of two houses, the "Sheltering Arms," at One Hundredth street, on the Bloomingdale road, and the "House of Mercy," in Eighty-sixth street, near the Hudson river. St. Barnabas's House, in Mulberry street, near Houston, was at one time under their care, but, as the managers were not sufficiently Catholic in their ideas, they were constrained to leave it. On Sundays and holydays, when there is no service in these private chapels, they attend the neighboring Episcopal churches. {388} Once a month they have an especial service in one of their houses, when their pastor is present, and the holy communion is celebrated. After this service the sisters hold a meeting, which is called a "chapter," in which the affairs of the community are discussed and arranged. They often attend St. Alban's church, where the holy communion is celebrated every Sunday, on all the saints' days, and each day on the octaves of Christmas, Easter, and Ascension. Here there is a "low celebration" on the week-days above mentioned, or "Low Mass," as it is sometimes called by them.

5. In regard to other practical devotions of Catholics, the ritualists have also made great progress. The "Way of the Cross" is used and recommended by them. A beautiful form of this devotion will be found in the book entitled The Supper of the Lord, and Holy Communion. The Churchman's Guide contains some pious litanies, and some devotions to the sacred wounds of our Lord, which are conceived entirely in the tone of Catholic piety. The "Lenten Fast" is also recommended to be strictly observed by abstinence from flesh meat, and even the rules of our own diocese are quoted with favor. We have seen a little book, called The Rosary of the Holy Name of Jesus, to which is added the "Rosary of the Passion of our Lord," set forth for the use of the faithful members of the English Church, with an introduction by Charles Walker, author of Three Months in an English Monastery. In the introduction, beads, adapted to these rosaries, are approved, but how far they are in use we have no means of knowing.

The invocation of the saints certainly is not very prominent in their books of devotion, but they have begun the good work. The first part of the "Hail, Mary" is used in the rosaries, and this is, at least, a step in the right direction. We have been informed that private prayers to the Blessed Virgin and the saints are in use by some; and, as this invocation is founded on the simple principle of intercession, it will undoubtedly, ere long, be generally practised. No objection can be found against it which does not exist against asking each other's prayers in this life. The work entitled Prayers for Children, by Rev. F. G. Lee, gives Faber's beautiful hymn to Our Lady, to be said on feasts of the Blessed Virgin Mary:

"Mother of Mercy, day by day My love for thee grows more and more; Thy gifts are strewn upon my way, Like sands upon the great sea-shore.

"Get me the grace to love thee more; Jesus will give if thou wilt plead; And, mother, when life's cares are o'er, Oh! I shall love thee then indeed."

The hymn to the guardian angel is also given from the same author:

"Yes, when I pray, thou prayest too; Thy prayer is all for me; But when I sleep, thou sleepest not, But watchest patiently."

Prayer for the faithful departed may be found in nearly all the prayer-books of the ritualists, and the burial service is animated with that tender devotion which forms such a characteristic of the Catholic rite. The holy Eucharist is recommended to be celebrated at funerals, and directions for so doing are given in the Notitia Liturgica. The Introit is, "Grant them eternal rest, and let light perpetual shine upon them." The Dies Ires is to be divided and sung at different parts of the service, before the gospel, at the offertory, during the communion, and after the blessing.

The Book of Hours, by Rev. Dr. Dix, has a prayer for the faithful departed, and the "low celebration," already quoted, has the "Memento for the Dead," extracted from our Canon. {389} We give the following prayer from The Supper of the Lord. "O God! by whose mercy the souls of the faithful find rest, grant to all thy servants who have gone before us with the sign of faith, and who now slumber in the sleep of peace, a place of refreshment, light, and peace, through the same Jesus Christ our Lord." At a funeral the following is recommended: "O Lord, look graciously, we beseech thee, upon this sacrifice (the holy Eucharist) which we offer thee for the perfecting of the soul of thy servant N----, and grant that this medicine which Thou hast vouchsafed to provide for the healing of all the living may avail also for the departed, through our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen."

The sacred sign of the cross, as has been observed, is used commonly, in the same manner as Catholics use it, both in private and in public.

The introduction of altar-boys took place some time ago, in this city, when it was said that it was according to the use of the English cathedrals and for the purpose of chanting the service. It appears, however, that they are only a part of an attempt to revive the "minor orders," as we have them in the Catholic Church. At the "high celebration" the priest is attended by a deacon and sub-deacon and by acolytes. We do not know if there be any form of ordaining sub-deacons and acolytes, but it seems that there is a form for the admission of choristers. How many of the boys serving in the Episcopal churches here have been received by this form, we have no means of ascertaining. It will be interesting, however, to Catholics, to see the progress which has been made, and therefore we give the whole form.

"A Form For The Admission Of A Chorister.

"¶ At a convenient time before morning or evening prayer, all the members of the choir assemble in the vestry, robed in their proper ecclesiastical habits: and range themselves on their respective sides, 'Decani' and 'Cantores,' except that the position of the officiating priest is at the upper end of the room and facing the choir. The boy to be admitted remains outside; all present kneeling down, the priest shall say:

"Prevent us, O Lord, in all our doings with thy most gracious favor, and further us with thy continual help; that in all our works begun, continued, and ended in thee, we may glorify thy holy name, and finally, by thy mercy, obtain everlasting life; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

"Our Father, etc.

"¶ Then, as previously instructed, the two senior choristers go out, and bring in the probationer, who, vested in cassock, coming in, and guided by them, stands in front of the priest officiating.

"¶ Then there shall be read the Lesson.

"I Samuel iii. 1-10; and ii. 18, 19.

"¶ The Lesson being ended, the priest shall proceed thus, saying:

"V. Our help is in the name of the Lord:

R. Who hath made heaven and earth.

V. Blessed be the name of the Lord:

R. Henceforth, world without end.

"¶ And then, taking the boy by the right hand, the priest shall admit him, using this form, the boy kneeling:

"N. I admit thee to sing as a chorister in ------ In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.

"¶ Then shall he pronounce this admonition, at the same time presenting him with the Prayer-Book, Psalter, and Hymnal he will use in the choir:

"See what thou singest with thy mouth thou believe in thine heart, and what thou believest in thine heart thou prove by thy works.

"¶ Then, putting the surplice on the new chorister, he shall say:

"I clothe thee in the white garment of the surplice, and see that thou so serve God, and sing his praises, that thou mayest hereafter be admitted into the ranks of those who have washed their robes, and made them white in the blood of the Lamb, and are before the throne of God, and serve him day and night continually.

"¶ Then, laying his hand upon the new chorister's head, the priest shall pronounce the benediction, the boy still kneeling:

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"The Lord bless thee, and keep thee, and make his face to shine upon thee, and be gracious unto thee; the Lord lift up his countenance upon thee, and give thee peace now and for ever. Amen."

We have thus completed the task proposed to ourselves, and have shown from the clearest testimonies what the true meaning of ritualism is. No honest mind will, it seems to us, reject the assertion which we made, when we defined it as a great and most important movement from the doctrines and worship of Protestants toward the ancient and unchangeable faith of the Catholic Church. In other words, it is a return to the dogmas and ceremonies which were cast away by the unsparing radicalism of the Reformation. As such a movement, we look upon it with the greatest interest, and earnestly pray God to bless it to the conversion of many souls. And we say to our ritualistic brethren, be firm and fervent in the profession and practice of what you believe to be true; shrink not from the consequences of any doctrine you hold, and follow on by prayer and perseverance until you reach the portals of that temple which the God-Man erected on earth, wherein there are no shadows. Catholics are your only friends; and when you find that you believe almost every truth which we hold, and that your own church repudiates nearly everything which is to you most sacred, then come home to your Father's house, and take the Bread of life for which your souls are famishing. May the infinite mercy which has done so much for you perfect and accomplish its gracious work. Here is all that you desire in its full proportions, the length and breadth of divine love, in that one mystical body which is the church of God, the fulness of him who filleth all and in all.

We have only one more remark to make. The view of ritualism which we have given is, without doubt, the view of every disinterested mind. The world is oftentimes harsh and sometimes unjust, but in the end it calls things by their right names. Why, then, try to stultify the common sense of mankind by talking of the corruptions of Romanism, when all the time you admit every substantial part of its creed? Why be so dishonest to yourselves as to refuse to see that which is quite evident to every one else? Why talk enigmas and profess devotion to the Eastern churches, as if there were anything there more palatable to Protestants than the undisguised creed of Rome? In this country, the ritualists have endeavored to enlist some of their bishops on their side. Would to God they could gain them all; but even this would not remove Calvinism, Lutheranism, and what Dr. Dix calls Radicalism from the prayer-book. Yet have they gained any? The approbation of The Churchman's Guide, by Right Rev. Dr. Potter, is the only quasi-Episcopal sanction which they have, and this is very cautiously given, and no one can say how far it goes. Several ministers some time ago addressed a letter to Right Rev. Dr. Hopkins, presiding bishop of the Protestant Episcopal Church, asking for his opinions on the subject in question. We fancy the dismay of the advanced ritualists when he gives his opinion in favor of changes in vestments, the introduction of incense and other things of this kind, and then, with an unsparing bitterness, attacks their much cherished doctrines, the sacrifice of the Mass, and the real presence of our Lord in the blessed Eucharist. {391} While this has been done on one side, a large majority of the Episcopalian bishops on the other have delivered themselves of an open protest against the whole movement, condemning it as nothing less than an attempt to Romanize the Protestant Church of England. Is it really so, that the voice of the bishops is of no weight, that it neither declares the sense nor speaks the authority of the Episcopal Church? What thinks the world of the high Anglican position at the present day? The world has said harsh things enough of the Catholic Church, but yet has ever given us the credit of consistency. If it condemn us, it does not declare that we are illogical. On the contrary, there is not one honest writer, disinterested in the question, who does not say that the Anglican position is wholly untenable, that it is neither Protestantism nor Catholicity, and that it can never stand either the test of time or that of reason.

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Translated From The Historisch-Politische Blaetter.

Peter Cornelius, The Master Of German Painting.

Peter Cornelius was born on the 24th of September, 1783, in art-renowned Düsseldorf. Here had been collected for some time, through the artistic taste of the nobles of the Palatinate, those paintings and copies of antique sculpture known by the name of the Düsseldorf Gallery, which was afterward transferred to the Royal Palace of Munich. In the last century a school of art was also connected with this gallery.

Aloysius Cornelius, father of Peter, was inspector of the gallery, and drawing-master in the art school. Thus the boy was born in an atmosphere of art. It is said that, when little Peter was attacked by fits of childish ill-humor and uneasiness, his mother could quiet him by carrying him in her arms into the hall of antique statuary, where the stern and striking forms of the heathen divinities calmed his cries and dried his tears. If it be not historically true, it is nevertheless a poetic fact recorded in verse by his uncle, Peter Cornelius, a distinguished musician, still in Munich, that the boy, on one occasion being offered his choice of a piece of gold and a crayon, took the latter from his mother's hand, and ran immediately to make figures on the wall. This is a characteristic anecdote, though it may not be true; for during his whole life the painter despised money. Mammon had no charms for him; while his pencil, the instrument of his art, and the art itself had for him irresistible attractions. Peter grew up in the pious, stern Catholic family of his parents, and preserved to the end of his life a simple, childlike belief in his religion. Little was then known among the families of Rhineland of opposition to the faith, or of the doubts and objections of the philosophers against it. Cornelius himself, later in life, confessed that he had never read a book of philosophy. Such works were distasteful to him on account of their abstract and unideal character.

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His school education was short and simple. Peter Cornelius went only four years to the primary school of his native city, as his school-fellow, Clement Zimmerman, can still attest. He made little progress; he never learned to spell correctly. Singular phenomenon! Cornelius, who thought so profoundly, and wrote so sublimely, and spoke so eloquently without preparation, like Napoleon I., could never write without blunders! But perhaps freedom from school restraint only made the genius of the artist to take a wider scope. The very fact that he did not spend many years of his life on the school-bench, filling his mind with useless items of knowledge, allowed his nature to expand, and gave him that sound freshness of mind and body, that purity of imagination, that directness and rectitude of feeling and character which are the causes of the beautiful creations of his genius.

Of the mathematics, the favorite science of modern times, he knew almost nothing. He used to say, in his curt manner, of an artistic dunce, "The booby knows as much of art as I do of algebra!" His peculiar talent displayed itself even in the primary school. When the professor of Scripture history described the scenes and persons of the Old Testament, they became real to the eyes of the boy, and on arriving home he was wont to cut their forms out of black paper with a dexterity that astonished every one. He was much in the studio of his father, who painted altar-pieces and portraits; he cleaned the pencils, brought him the colors, and performed other minor services. Soon he became a pupil in his father's drawing academy. Here he rapidly acquired the principles of art, and his father gave him Volpato's engravings of Raphael's masterpieces as models. Hand and eye of the young artist were thus early accustomed to the immortal works of the prince artist of Urbino. At the same time, he visited frequently the gallery of paintings, where the expressive and lively colored pictures of Rubens captivated his fancy. Cornelius copied at a later period several of these. In the year 1805, before the transfer of the collection to Munich, besides others he made a copy of "Diana and the Nymphs in the Chase," which was so well executed that it was very difficult to distinguish it from the original.

Young Peter now passed to the Academy of Art. The Greek classic style ruled in it at that time; and a distinguished artist, Peter Langer, was its director. Here Cornelius prosecuted his studies with the greatest diligence. He made a special study of the antiques which were extant in the collection. Still it appears that even then he had more inclination for the awakening national Christian and romantic school of Germany than for the cold imitations of ancient art.

But this very circumstance threatened to give an unlucky turn to his life. His father, Aloysius Cornelius, died in the year 1809, leaving a wife, five daughters, and two sons, with little resources. The good mother despaired of being able to provide for the support and education of her large family. The director, Peter Langer, misunderstanding the genius of Peter, then advised her to apprentice him to a goldsmith, saying that he would earn his bread more quickly at a trade, for there were too many painters. Cornelius thus experienced the same misjudgment of his superiors as Carstens in Copenhagen, and Schwanthaler in Munich.

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But the maternal eye was sharper than that of the learned director. The mother recognized the decided vocation of her son, and her maternal affection triumphed. She could not determine from worldly motives to tear her son away from his high call and so Cornelius was for ever wedded to his art. How grateful was the youth of eighteen years for this determination of his mother! Cornelius himself writes of it in his celebrated report to Count Raczynski, in which he quotes a saying of his father Aloysius, that, "if we try to make perfect everything that we do, we may learn a lesson from things the most trivial." This expression is like Raphael's: "No one becomes great in art who despises the smallest detail."

In this year, (1809,) Peter Cornelius was introduced into a new society, which exercised great influence on his development and history. He went frequently to the neighboring city of Cologne, the splendidly artistic and Christian mediaeval city of the Rhine. Here he became acquainted with the noble Canon Wallraf and the two brothers Boisserée, who, at this period of Vandalic ravage and destruction, saved all that was to be saved of ancient art, and formed those precious collections which render Cologne and Munich famous. By these means Cornelius obtained a knowledge of the world of old German works of art hitherto unknown to him. They appeared to him in all the simplicity, religiosity, and freshness of the German middle ages, and he found himself drawn toward them by a kindred feeling. He studied and copied them zealously, and with greater affection than he had shown toward the gorgeous masterpieces of Italy. His study of these German works obtained for him his first appointment of any consequence.

Wallraf, who was called by the mayor of Nyon to consult regarding the restoration of the interesting church in that town, recognized in Peter Cornelius, whom he loved, the man for monumental painting. He was commissioned, therefore, to ornament the cupola and choir of the church of Nyon with frescoes. Wallraf, the theologian, who, as practical painter, also possessed wondrous gifts, determined on the character of this circle of paintings.

Cornelius executed these pictures in 1806-1808 on a yellow ground, with water colors. They represented the choirs of angels in the semi-circle; then Moses and David of the Old Testament, Peter and Paul of the New Testament, in the cupola; pictures well expressed, living and characteristic, reminding one more of the Italian than of the German school. Unfortunately these paintings, spoiled by dampness, have been retouched by modern artists, so that they may be considered as entirely lost to view.

Besides the study of the old German masters, Cornelius missed no occasion of making himself familiar with the chefs-d'oeuvre of classic antiquity. He read with avidity Homer and Virgil, and endeavored to make use of the materials of art supplied from these sources. He contended for the prize at Weimar with works from ancient mythology, but without success. He was not fitted to paint the smooth, external attributes of the ancient forms. Hence came this criticism on his works. Through the influence of Goethe he received the following note: "Valuable, good talent, and excellent essays!"

We pass over those episodes in the lives of all men--the first love of Cornelius for Miss Linder, which was unsuccessful, and made him vow never to wed any other than the muse of his art--a vow which he did not keep; his friendship with the eldest son of the merchant Flemming at Nyon, pledged under a linden-tree, and lasting until death with a loyalty like that of David and Jonathan, Orestes and Pylades, Don Carlos and Posa.

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In 1809, we find him in Frankfort, after Napoleon had annexed the Rhine provinces to France and the paintings at Düsseldorf had been removed to Munich. In this centre of Germany, Cornelius having read the Faust of Goethe, and, penetrated with its spirit, represented the creation of the poet's brain on the canvas, Goethe wrote him a letter, thanking him and full of appreciative compliments to his genius. The bookseller, Wenner, in Frankfort, undertook to publish the painter's sketches; and thus enabled him to realize a long-cherished desire of going to Italy, the land of the fine arts.

At this period, in Rome, there was a colony of German artists, like an oasis of peace in a desert of trouble, who devoted themselves to the unshackling of art from the chains of mannerism and French insipidity. Karstens, the Dane, enthusiastically partial to ancient art, may be considered the leader and pioneer of this effort. Thorwaldsen, Koch, Schick, Wächter, and Reinhard followed in his footsteps. Many an artist's noble heart was then also possessed with the love of the romantic school, and inspired with its spirit. Frederic Schlegel, Tieck, Novalis, and Wackenroder aided the movement by proclaiming and teaching that all Christian art was a symbol of the heavenly; that in it all was mysterious and ideal, whilst ancient art merely represented the external and real. They taught that severity, strength, and modesty were to be sought, for in the works of pre-Raphaelite masters, who alone were the true models of Christian art. In the year 1801, the standard of this school was borne by Frederic Overbeck, of Lübeck, who was joined by the two Schadows, Pforr, Louis Vogel, and later by Philip Veit, Wach, Charles Vogel of Vogelstein, I. Schnorr, both Eberhards of Munich, Rambour of Cologne, and others. The artist world of Rome was then divided into two groups, one of which absolutely followed the ancients, and the other revived the Christian and national ideal with the spirit of the Romantic school.

When Cornelius went to Rome, he was immediately introduced to his fellow-countrymen; and he became naturally attached to their school as the illustrator of Faust and Shakespeare. He formed a friendship for Overbeck which lasted unbroken till death, through a period of fifty years! Cornelius always expressed his gratitude to Overbeck, and loved him as a brother. King Louis I., of Bavaria, with his customary wit, likened the pair of artists to two of the apostles: Overbeck, the pious and sentimental, to John; Cornelius, the fervent conqueror of the world of art, to Paul. Overbeck with several companions had rented the old monastery of St. Isidore, behind Monte Pincio, and lived there like a recluse. Cornelius, who boarded near him, was a frequent visitor. They studied and worked together. They made drawings of nature and from the antique, sat side by side at the canvas, and communicated their future plans to each other. They copied and imitated the old Italian masters Giotto, Masaccio, Ghirlandajo, Lippo Lippi, Peter Perugino, and Fiesole. They made excursions to the neighboring mountains, and relieved their labors by many a pleasant evening or innocent conversation.

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Cornelius, writing about this time of his life to Count Raczynski, says: "It is impossible for me to tell you in a short notice all the incidents of my happy sojourn in Rome. But I must say we wandered over the paths of ages; I speak not only for myself, but for our association of talent and character, who drew from everything that was holy, great, and beautiful in Germany or Italy the inspiration to oppose French tyranny and frivolity."

The noble band had their battles and their sufferings. Their means of sustenance, on the one hand, were limited. "For," said Overbeck, "the fire of the enthusiasm of art does not kindle a fire on the hearth." On the other hand, the Greco-German school never failed to treat them with contempt and haughtiness. They received the nickname of "Nazarenes," which has remained attached to them ever since. The name was given partly because of their innocent life, and partly because their pictures of saints after the old Italian models had a mortified and spiritual look, as the sect of the rigorous Nazarenes are represented among the Jews.

When the war of freedom had again been renewed in Germany, the artists in Rome were fully possessed with its spirit. Since all could not take part in it, they sent substitutes to fight for fatherland. Those who remained in Rome, or were too old to wield the sword, used pencil and brush in aid of the national cause.

Inflamed by patriotism, Cornelius painted in Rome his celebrated illustrations of the Niebelungen, which had just been published, and the reading of which did so much toward awakening German self-consciousness. He painted the great heroes of those Germans who for so many years had shamefully borne the yoke of the French; and represented those natural giants of the German race without fear or reproach, full of power, loyalty, modesty, simplicity, and honor, all aglow with passion, irresistible in love and hatred! Cornelius had, in his paintings for the Niebelungen, which was henceforth seldom printed without them, given personality to the heroes of the poem. His two queens, Hagen the fierce, Sigfried, and King Günther will live among Germans as long as the Niebelungen will continue to be read. Though the faces are harsh, rough, and ungracious, like the German heroes of that time, they are nevertheless thoroughly true, sound, and characteristic.

The whole work was dedicated to the new Prussian ambassador in Rome, the celebrated historian Niebuhr. For, after the fall of Napoleon, Pius VII. returned in triumph to Rome, March 14th, 1814; the masterpieces of art taken away by the French were being gradually restored; and the ambassadors of the European courts took their stations as usual. Niebuhr came to Rome in 1816. No sooner had he, who had such a love for art and science, recognized the geniality, freshness, and imaginative power of Cornelius, his fellow-countryman from Rhineland, than he became warmly attached to the artist. Niebuhr often visited him and his companions, called him friend, and divided his wonderful learning with Cornelius.

So far Cornelius had executed in Rome only a few drawings and oil paintings. Among the latter may be named the picture of "The Three Marys at the Sepulchre," "The Flight into Egypt," and "The Wise and Foolish Virgins." But, in spite of their expressiveness and excellence, these works show that the artist had not yet found the special field for the display of his genius. His powerful imagination was confined in these subjects, and could only feel at home on the broad, high walls of fresco-painting.

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Through a singular accident, he had soon a chance for his art. The Prussian consul-general, Solomon Bartholdy, had rented the old house belonging to the family of the painter Zucheri, near Trinita di Monti, and wanted to ornament it with frescoes. Cornelius was asked to undertake the task. Aided by his friends, he agreed to paint the two rooms with frescoes. They asked no fees, only scaffolding, mason work, colors, and support. The noble offer of the poor artists--rich, however, in their love of art--was accepted; and this was the origin of those renowned frescoes almost universally known by copies and descriptions of them. Cornelius, Overbeck, Philip Veit, and W. Schadow were engaged in the work. On account of the Jewish religion of Bartholdy, the artists chose the interesting story of Joseph in Egypt as the subject of their art. Cornelius painted the explanation of the dreams of Pharao and the meeting of Joseph and his brethren; Veit painted the temptation of Potiphar's wife and the seven years of plenty; Schadow, the complaint of Jacob and Joseph in prison; and Overbeck, the seven years of famine. They are beautiful, imaginative, expressive, graceful pictures, and not surpassed in coloring by the later creations of the master. All Rome, which had seen no frescoes for fifty years and was taken with the Raphael taste, was astonished at the works of the young German painter, and even yet the amateur turns with reverence to this cradle of German monumental painting in Rome, and the rooms so adorned are still rented by strangers for a high price.

Thus for the first time had Cornelius found the means of letting out the flood of his genial thoughts. He had found his vocation in fresco-painting, to which he remained attached thenceforth to the end of his life. Soon he received a new commission for his art. The rich Marquis Massimi, who had seen the frescoes in Bartholdy's house, wished to have his villa at St. John Lateran's similarly ornamented by scenes from the great classic poets of Italy. Overbeck should select his subjects from Tasso, J. Schnorr from Ariosto, Cornelius out of Dante's Divine Comedy, a poem which, on account of its depth, grandeur, and mysteries, had been a life-study of our artist. Cornelius undertook the work with delight. He executed nine illustrations to the Paradise, which show a profound knowledge of the poet and history; faces of saints breathing piety and strikingly expressive. Unfortunately these projects were not executed. Koch obtained the substitution of his own rather coarse Dante pictures, in the stead of those of Cornelius; and the latter received two calls from his own German home.

The Crown-Prince Louis, of Bavaria, who had conceived generous plans for the spread of art in his own country, came to Rome in January, 1818. Informed by his attendant physician, Ringseis, who had seen the Niebelungen pictures of Cornelius in Berlin, the prince sought out the gifted artist. Louis saw the paintings at Bartholdy's, and immediately perceived that Cornelius was the man to make art flourish in Bavaria. The prince gave him two galleries of the museum of statuary in Munich, to ornament with frescoes taken from Greek mythology. A cry of joy passed through the circle of artists; they looked on the Crown-Prince Louis as the restorer of true art and the creator of a new era. When their high patron left Rome, they celebrated his departure by a glorious feast on the evening of April 29th, 1818. {397} Cornelius had ornamented the walls of the festival hall with symbols of the artistic calling of the prince. There were representations of Hercules cleaning out the Augean stable, and of Samson putting the Philistines to flight. Rückert, in the name of art and the artists, made the poetical address to the crown-prince. He, full of delight and gratitude, offered a toast to the German artists, and ended it, amidst loud applause, with the words, "That we may meet again in Germany!"

Cornelius now left everything else aside and devoted himself to the study of Homer and Hesiod, and continually made sketches from them. In order to have perfect leisure for this work, he spent the summer in Ariccia. In the fall, he travelled with Passavanti, the biographer of Raphael, to Naples, where he made several copies, among others the bust of a woman after Perugino, which is supposed to represent the mother of Raphael.

The time for his departure for Munich approached. Niebuhr, who became embittered against the artists and against everything Roman, endeavored to get him to remain in Prussia and to live in Düsseldorf. When Cornelius announced his departure for Munich, in order to paint the frescoes of the museum, Niebuhr wept in anger, and said, "Cornelius, why do you do this to me?" He conversed with him for a long time, and received the artist's promise to accept a call to Düsseldorf after the erection of the Academy of Arts in that town. The heart of Cornelius throbbed for Germany. He often felt homesick, and thought that, when a German artist forgets his fatherland, he loses more in character than he can gain in other respects.

Some have doubted the faith and piety of Cornelius. But they are wrong. Divisions sprang up among the German artists of Rome, and every day party spirit increased in violence. Whilst many of the romantic school in Germany looked on Christian truth, the life of the church and Catholicism, as things merely to influence the imagination and as helps to poetry, the majority of the Roman artists called "Nazarenes" were carried away by the grandeur and beauty of faith, and became fervent members of the Catholic Church. Several of those born Protestants became converts; as, for instance, Overbeck, the two Schadows, Veit, Vogel of Vogelstein, and others. A cry was immediately raised against them. Niebuhr became enraged, and sent for the works of Luther against the papacy, in order to counteract the Catholic tendencies of the artists.

The question now arises, what part Cornelius took in these quarrels. Some have called him a "free-thinker" and an enemy of Christianity. They were induced to do so from certain things that happened about this time. But it is certain that he was a firm believer in revelation and a fervent Catholic. All his friends attest the fact that he never failed to go to confession and make his Easter Communion. He had, indeed, a large heart, was very tolerant toward those who professed a different religion from his own. He never aimed at a high degree of perfection or a complete knowledge of theology. There are many degrees of the Christian life, as there are in nature. Every baptized person who simply believes the doctrines of the church and keeps the commandments is a member of the Catholic Church. But he must take a low place among her children if he does not aim at perfection, while other souls avoid the smallest sins, mortify themselves, follow the evangelical counsels, and perform acts of heroism. Cornelius belonged to the former class of Catholics. {398} He acknowledged himself that he had never attained to a high degree of perfection, and consoled himself by saying: "In God's heaven there are many dwellings; there will be one there for a poor artist."

Cornelius, like mostly all artists, was an idealist in politics as in his judgment of Christian life. As he saw in the actual condition of Rome and the church many things which he could not reconcile with his ideal of the church, he spoke his opinions candidly and openly, like a true Rhinelander, against every abuse. He spoke of the necessity of a general council, and told the pope his views in frequent audiences. His advice was kindly taken, and the pontiff answered him quietly by saying: "My son, circumstances are often more powerful than ourselves.' We cannot cast off all that weighs upon us through life." To accuse Cornelius of being a Protestant because sometimes he expressed in art or conversation very peculiar sentiments is ridiculous. On this plea, Peter Damica, St. Bernard, and many other saints who have spoken boldly against abuses in the church should be considered as unorthodox. They say of Cornelius that he was displeased at the conversion of his Protestant fellow-artists in Rome. He is reported to have said: "If another becomes Catholic, I shall turn Protestant." But this is a fiction. The whole character of Cornelius proves it to be such. He who always inculcated truth to his pupils, and despised all hollowness and hypocrisy in life or art, cannot be supposed to have blamed men for following out to the letter their religious convictions. It is impossible. We have, besides, a testimony to prove it. When his friend, Miss Linder, became a convert to Catholicism, in Munich, in the year 1843, he wrote her a letter which is still extant. In this he praises her instead of proposing objections to her. "In Rome the news reached me," he writes, "that you had at last taken courage to make the decisive step. I am not surprised. God bless you and keep you free from spiritual pride and rigorism, (in my eyes almost the only sins.)" He cannot, therefore, have been offended at the conversion of his Protestant friends, for we find him continuing his friendship with Overbeck after the latter's entrance into the church.

Finally, Niebuhr relates an anecdote which has given rise to a doubt of Cornelius's orthodoxy. There was a supper-party of artists and learned men, one evening, in the Casarelli Palace, on the Capitol. When much wine had been drunk by the party, they went out on the flat roof of the building, and beheld the planet Jupiter shining with unusual brilliancy. Then Cornelius said to Thorwaldsen, "Let us drink to the health of old Jupiter." "With all my heart," answered Thorwaldsen. And they drank the toast. This incident is adduced as a proof that Cornelius was then a free-thinker; for he showed by his act a rejection of Christianity and a belief in paganism. But this toast proves nothing. It was a mere impulse; a jest of men over-heated by wine. There is certainly in this anecdote nothing to show a deliberate protestation against the truth of revelation.

So much for the religious element of Cornelius's character at that time.

He was now no longer solitary. He had married a Roman lady, the daughter of a dealer in works of art. She was called the Signora Carolina, a noble and good maiden, simple and naive, like the Marguerite of Faust. {399} She bore him a daughter, and with this small family he was about to leave Rome and return to Germany.

In Munich, Cornelius became the director of a world-renowned academy, a centre of art, a friend of the king, esteemed and visited by all classes. But in Berlin he was a mere private individual, without position, thought little of, without occasion for the proper display of his artistic powers, working quietly in his studio. To use his own expression, he was "a solitary sparrow on the house-top." But this trial was necessary for the spiritual welfare and true greatness of the master. On the 12th of April, of the year 1841, Cornelius, with wife and children, had left Munich, where a farewell dinner was given him. In Dresden, he was honored by a torchlight procession of artists. On April 23d, he reached Berlin. All received him with honor and applause. He visited the celebrated men of the city, Humboldt, Grimm, Rauch, and Schinkel, who received him into their circle. Testimonials of esteem from abroad reached him. The Queen of Portugal wrote to request him to send artists to Portugal to introduce fresco-painting; and Lord Monson requested him to ornament his castle with frescoes. Cornelius travelled to England, but the sudden death of the lord and an ophthalmia of the artist necessitated his return to Berlin.

Now days of gloom began to dawn for him. The aristocratic society of the city did not suit him. He preferred his Bavarian beer to the insipid tea of the Berlin aristocracy. He could not flatter the affected connoisseurs of art. He was too independent to be a toady. "He does not approach us!" was the complaint, and men began to criticise himself and his works harshly.

Cornelius had executed a painting in oil for Count Raczynski in 1843. It was placed on exhibition. It represented the liberation of the souls in limbo by the Saviour. Though the coloring is heavy and disagreeable, still the grouping of the patriarchs and their countenances are highly characteristic and almost unsurpassable. But the cry was immediately raised by the whole crowd of art critics, "How can we call these bodiless, unnatural forms artistic, or those heavy colors painting?" They treated the artist with contempt and looked on him as a fallen man. A celebrated portrait-painter of Berlin gave expression to this sentiment: "If I found in the street a picture executed by Cornelius, I would not pick it up!" This opinion became general in Berlin. This was fortunate for the salvation of the master and for his art. He withdrew from the world, and became more recollected and devoted more exclusively to his art.

For some time he made little show. However, the king gave him an order for a work in which he had an opportunity of displaying his powers of imagination. It was the design of a shield which William IV. wished to present to the young Prince of Wales as a godfather's gift. Cornelius finished it in six weeks. It was a round shield, in the middle of which Christ is represented on the cross; in the corners appear the four evangelists, and over them the four cardinal virtues; in the four arms of the cross, baptism and the Last Supper, and their figures in the Old Testament, the gushing of the water from the rock, and the rain of manna. Round about the shield were carved the busts of the twelve apostles. On its rim were depicted scenes from the passion and triumph of Christ, from the entry into Jerusalem to the apostolic mission. {400} In order to show the connection of the ancient church with the present, one of the apostles is represented as landing with the distinguished guests from Prussia in order to administer baptism to the prince. This little work breathes the spirit of the artist; it is genial, severe, expressive, full of style; often quaint and singular, by the induction of modern personages, Queen Victoria, Wellington, and Humboldt.

King Frederick William IV. determined, at this time, to erect a church which should vie with that of St. Peter's in Rome and St. Paul's in London. Stüler made the plan. Cornelius was to ornament the walls with frescoes. He undertook this task in 1843. He felt again all his powers revive. Exultingly he wrote to the academy of Münster, which had given the great artist the diploma of a doctor in philosophy in recognition of his ability: "A great, holy field, campo santo, has been opened to me, through the favor of Providence and the grace of my illustrious king and sovereign, in order to execute upon it what God has put in my soul. May he enlighten my spirit and penetrate my heart with his love; open my eyes to the glory of his works, fill me with piety and truth, and guide every motion of my hand!"

In order to have the requisite quiet and leisure for this gigantic work, Cornelius made a second trip to Rome, that paradise of painters and head of Catholicity. From the spring of the year 1843 to May, 1844, and again from March, 1845 to 1846, he dwelt in the Eternal City.

After his return from Rome, he labored incessantly at Berlin to finish his great undertaking. In January, 1845, the first sketch was ended; in 1846, the glorious, unequalled cartoon of the horsemen in the apocalypse, which was exhibited in Rome, Berlin, Ghent, and Vienna, and at the feet of which the whole school of Belgian artists laid a laurel crown. The government also gave him a house on the royal square, in which to prosecute his undertaking. He finished the whole series of decorations in twenty-five years. He worked with inexpressible pleasure and joy, although none of those pictures really came to its destined place. He labored without desire of fame. He painted as the bird sings on the boughs. As none of his great works or frescoes were exposed publicly at Berlin, he remained almost unknown to the people; but he found his sole delight in the love of his art, and in application to its expression.

In the year 1833, he lost his first wife. He married again, in Rome, a lady named Gertrude, distinguished for beauty and virtue. She died in 1859. His daughter Marie also died at the same time, who had been espoused to the Marquis Marcelli. Thus he drank of a bitter chalice! When he went to Rome for the last time, on the 14th of April, 1861, although aged, he made a third' marriage in espousing Theresa of Urbino, whom he had met and admired in the house of his daughter! This wife attended the last years of his life, and stood by his death-bed.

The residence of Cornelius in Berlin had made him more and more attached to the Catholic Church. He wrote in 1851 to a friend in Munich: "The invisible church is the only one to be found among German Protestants. I have tried to find a church among them here, but so far my search has been in vain. In Rome, I am always a half-heretic, but here I am more Catholic everyday." {401} When he made his last voyage to Rome, he passed through Munich on his return, and paid a visit to his friend Schlotthauer, to whom he spoke thus: "Friend, I am now entirely of your way of thinking in religious matters. Berlin has made me entirely Catholic. Only now do I prize Catholicism sufficiently. If the King of Bavaria were here, I would seek him and say to him openly: 'Your majesty, Bavaria is still a Catholic country, and this is the cause of its strength and greatness. Try to keep it so. This is the best policy.'" To his friend Ringseis he made a similar statement, adding that he had travelled to Munich on purpose to inform them of his thorough conversion.

In another instance, also, the fervor of Cornelius's faith and charity displayed itself. He presented the committee who were engaged in erecting a Catholic hospital with a painting of St. Elizabeth surprised by her husband in the act of nursing a sick pauper in her own bed. The picture was sold, after having been lithographed, and realized a large sum for the intended purpose.

He was extremely hostile to the Life of Jesus, by Renan, and considered the attempt to take away the members of divinity from the head of Christ as highly injurious to Christian art. The gray-headed prince of painting, on this account, painted the "Resurrection," choosing for subject the very moment when the hitherto incredulous Thomas exclaims, "My God and my Lord!" He exhibited this picture with religious enthusiasm, and pointed it out to visitors, saying, "That is against Renan!" He wished to leave behind him a clear profession of his belief in the divinity of Jesus.

Cornelius spent the last six years of his life in Berlin, in a kind of hidden life, continually occupied, like Plato, in his old age, always lively, loquacious, and fond of society, so that he gathered around him a host of young artists and savans. The tranquillity of his life was only broken at this period by a few excursions. In the year 1862, he went to Düsseldorf; in 1863, to Trier on professional business. In 1864, he made his last visit to Munich, toward which his heart always yearned.

His visit to Munich shortened his life. The fatigues of the journey, and the visits which he received and was obliged to make, as well as the ovations tendered him, wore him out. He became ill, and returned sick to Berlin. A disease of the heart declared itself; in February, 1867, his case became hopeless. He called for a priest, and received all the sacraments of the church twenty-four hours before his death. He took leave of his beloved wife and friends, seized his crucifix, and breathed his last, uttering the words: "Pray! pray!" He died on the 6th of March, at ten A.M., on Ash-Wednesday. Over his remains was hung his own painting of Pentecost, as over those of Raphael the picture of the Resurrection. He was buried on the 6th of March, and all the nobility and talent of Berlin formed a part of his funeral cortége.

Death has taken from us this great master of German painting; but, to use the language of St. Bernard, it has only taken his cloak, for his spirit still lives! It lives in the heavenly Jerusalem. It lives in his works, in the history of art, and in the breasts of his pupils on earth, who bear aloft the standard of pure, ideal, religious art. All will bear testimony that Cornelius is the man who freed modern German painting from foreign mannerism, opened the way for generous monumental frescoes, which embraced with equal cordiality the three worlds of the classic German, national, and Christian manifestations; who portrayed the deepest thoughts in the most noble forms, and whose works are unrivalled in colossal proportions, richness of expression, and striking characterization, architectural proportions and dramatic life, by any masterpieces of antiquity; while, in the piety and sweetness of the countenances portrayed and the harmonious coloring of the whole, they exceed anything in modern art.

{402}

The news of his death brought sadness everywhere. In Munich, Mozart's solemn Requiem was sung for his soul. Professor Carriere pronounced a panegyric on him in the evening. A few days after, Professor Sepp pronounced another eulogium on him, calling him the Shakespeare of painting, whilst Overbeck he called the Calderon of the art.

In Stuttgart, when the news of his death was heard, the halls of the church, where a requiem was sung for his soul, were hung with copies of his own paintings. Lübke spoke on the occasion, and drew a parallel between Cornelius and Phidias and Michael Angelo. In Dresden, Hettner made the funeral discourse. Finally, in Rome, the Eternal City, from which Cornelius had gone forth to conquer a new world of art, and to which he had returned in order to draw inspiration from its associations and have a perfect intuition of the ideal, a solemn requiem was sung for him in the German national church of the "Anima," at which King Louis I., of Bavaria, who had opened the path of immortality to the artist, Overbeck, who had loved him for fifty-six years, and all the artists of Rome, assisted. A few days before, King Louis had written a letter to the widow of Cornelius, who lived in Berlin. In it occurred these words: "Be assured of my profound sympathy in your great loss; but not alone your loss, but our common loss. The sun of heaven became dark when he who was the sun of art was extinguished. But the sun will shine again in the heavens, but we shall hardly ever see another Cornelius!"

The whole world on both sides of the Alps have united in rendering homage to the genius of Cornelius, and laying crowns on his sepulchre at Berlin. But the last monument to his glory would be the ornamentation of the cathedral in that city with his wonderful compositions. That such an event should happen there was given to Cornelius the word of a king.

We who admired and loved the artist and his genius only pray that he may enjoy now an eternal, happy rest in the bosom of the Author of beauty, from whom he always drew the inspiration of his art.

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{403}

What shall we do with the Indians?

The Commissioners whom our Government recently sent out to the Plains to negotiate treaties with the hostile Indians, have patched up a truce with some of the most dangerous of the tribes, and the people are congratulating themselves that the warfare is over. We might have been on good terms with the savages any time this last half-century, if we had been honestly so minded and had known how to govern ourselves and the red man too. Yet the record of our intercourse with the aborigines has been nothing but a history of long wars and short truces. Years of the most terrible hostilities have been followed by a few months of precarious quiet, and the Western pioneer has been almost invariably obliged, like his New-England ancestors, to till his acres with one hand on the plough and the other on his gun. He has never known a month of security. He has never left his log cabin in the morning without reasonable fear that he would find it in flames when he returned at night. He has learned to look upon the Indian as a noxious beast, whom no promises could bind, no good treatment could mollify; as a pest which every honest man was justified in conscience, if he was not bound in duty, to do his utmost to exterminate. A war of races between the red and the white has long been a cardinal doctrine in the creed of the prairie settler, and his chief social principle has been, War to the knife with the Indian, and no quarter.

Here is a dreadful state of things for a Christian people to contemplate; and the fault of it, to speak plain English, is all our own. Managed as we manage them, Indian affairs can be nothing else than a perpetual affliction. Treated as we treat them, the aborigines of the West cannot help being our cruel and implacable foes. The devil himself could hardly invent a wrong which we have not done to the primitive owners of our territory. They once stood in awe of us as superior beings; we have committed every conceivable baseness that could belittle us in their estimation. They had noble traits of character; we have done all we could to obliterate them. They had the common faults of uncivilized pagans; we have intensified them. They are proud; we insult them. They are revengeful; we aggravate them. They are covetous; we rob them. They have a natural tendency toward drunkenness; we keep them supplied with liquor. They are cruel; we tempt them to murder. The "noble savage" of the novel and the stage, we grant, is a fiction; but he is not more unreal than the irredeemable brute who is popularly depicted as the terror of the frontiersman and the western emigrant. The Indians, after all, are not so very different from other human beings. Like all mankind, they have great virtues and great faults; and if a fair balance could be struck, we are by no means certain that their credits would not exceed our own. There is many a vice which they never would have known if they had not learned it from us; but we can think of no species of crime which the Indians have taught to white men. It is an insane piece of wickedness to treat any race of human beings as vermin, whom it is a mercy to the rest of mankind to sweep out of existence. {404} God never made tribes of men to be slaughtered. All creatures with human souls are capable of moral and mental improvement; capable of a greater or less degree of civilization; capable of being brought under the rule of law, and being made useful to the rest of the world. If we have failed sensibly to improve the condition of the Indians, or to teach them anything more of civilization than some of its worst vices, the fault is our own.

We have to deal with two classes of Indians in the West, and our system with both is as bad as any system can be. As settlements have encroached upon the prairies and forests where the savages roamed in pursuit of game, we have, as a rule, gone through the form of buying the territory from the tribes which claimed it. These tribes have then been removed further westward, or have been assigned certain lands called reservations. The consideration for which the lands are bought is not a sum of money, paid to the savages in hand, but a fixed annuity, given to them in form of merchandise, clothing, blankets, implements of the chase and of husbandry, trinkets, and other goods chiefly prized by the red men; and to oversee the forwarding and distribution of these articles, as well as to look after the general interests of the tribes, to protect them from oppression on the part of the whites, and to check crimes and outrages, we send out into the Indian country a number of officers called Indian Agents and Superintendents. On the reservations, where some effort has been made to teach the savages the habits of civilized life, there are schools, farms, and workshops. The wandering tribes of the far West, however, subsist wholly by the chase, and preserve all their primitive wildness. The Indian Agent in their territory has little to do but distribute their annuities, and when they commit any outrage upon the settlers try to have them punished. Now, there is nothing very objectionable in our way of dealing with these two classes of Indians, provided the agents and superintendents are honest and competent men; but experience has proved that, as a rule, they are neither, though, of course, there are honorable exceptions. One unprincipled adventurer in power over these fierce tribes can raise a tumult which years of warfare cannot subdue. One swindling agent can upset a treaty which has cost the government hundred of lives and millions of dollars. How often has not this been done! It is notorious that most of the men who receive appointments in the Indian country are persons of no character, who demand an opportunity of enriching themselves at the red man's expense, as a reward for political services rendered to the party in power. It is probably a rare thing for any tribe of Indians to receive the whole amount of the annuity to which they are entitled, and for which the government pays. They are swindled first in the price which government pays for the goods, and then they are swindled again by the agents, who deliver just as many of the articles as they please, and no more, or by the teamsters who "lose" packages on the road. Worse still are the traders who sell the poor savages whisky and gunpowder, and collect their "debts" from the distributors of annuities. How many of these debts do our readers suppose are just? And when there is a corrupt understanding between the trader and the agent, what chance has the poor Indian for justice? {405} It is in this atrocious manner that the original owners of our soil have bartered away their birthright for a mess of pottage-- sold their rich acres for a glass of rum. It is in this way that the treaties with the tribes are continually broken. The Indians gave up their lands for a certain annual consideration. The consideration is not paid them in full, and often is hardly paid at all. How are they to know whether we are all swindlers alike, or are only in the habit of appointing swindlers to positions of trust and responsibility?

These, however, are not the only wrongs of which the Indian has to complain. The testimony of missionaries and other trusty witnesses, is unanimous in saying that the frontier settlers as a general rule are perfectly unscrupulous and lawless in all their dealings with the tribes. Contact with the whites always means demoralization, drunkenness, and domestic infamy for the Indian. His property is appropriated, his cabin is invaded, his house is defiled, and if he resists he is murdered, and the murderer never is punished. He has no rights which the white man is bound to respect. He is nothing but a brute, to be hunted as men hunt the buffalo, or killed off like the wolves, with a price set upon his scalp. No wonder we have war; it is a wonder we ever have peace.

The commissioners who were recently sent out to the plains by the national government to investigate the troubles and try to devise a way out of them, are understood to favor the removal of all the Indian tribes to reservations where they will be out of the way of the great routes of travel across the continent, and where white men will have no excuse to interfere with them. That is to say, their plan consists merely of an enlargement of the superintendent system. Cut off from a great part of their hunting-grounds, the savages will become more than ever dependent upon the liberality of the United States government, and more than ever in the power of the agents and traders through whose hands the national largeness must pass. Moreover, it is evident that the boundaries of the reservations cannot be permanently fixed. As the white settlements expand, the Indian territories must contract. Nobody can for a moment suppose that the proprietary rights of the Indians will long be respected when the Yankee emigrant wants their lands. What will happen when the boundaries are broken through? Unless the Indians have learned by that time to support themselves by labor and to conform to a civilized mode of life, they will infallibly be crushed out of existence. There will be another horrible war which will have no end until the red men are virtually exterminated. Now, the serious duty of preparing these rude tribes for the changed conditions of life which must soon come upon them, and fitting them for a gradual and peaceable absorption into the rest of the community--which is their only hope of existence--must fall, if the plan of the commissioners be adopted, upon the Indian agents and superintendents. The power of these men for good or for mischief will be enormously increased. Hence, unless some effective measures be taken to fill these important offices with men of a better class than have hitherto secured them, our present evils will be correspondingly increased. The government swindler will come back to the savages with seven other devils more wicked than himself, and the last state of those poor wretches will be worse than the first.

{406}

Is there any reason to expect improvement? We see not the slightest so long as these offices are distributed on the same principle as other government appointments, and rated among the political spoils that belong to the party in power. An Indian agent ought to be a man of superior abilities; but men of superior abilities will not banish themselves to the desert except for one of two reasons: either they must be animated by disinterested charity, or they must expect to make a good deal of money out of the office over and above their trifling salaries. Charity is not one of the characteristics of political hacks. As for the other motive, we know pretty well how often it operates. To find capable persons to undertake this work; men of incorruptible integrity, of lofty purpose, and of moral force; men whom the Indians will respect and obey, and who will be likely to persevere in their arduous task, we must go outside the partisan ranks. Where shall we find them and how shall we recognize them?

There are such men, who have been at work in this very enterprise ever since the discovery of America, and there are numerous communities of Indians whom they have almost entirely reclaimed from savage life and made quiet and useful members of society. If they have not done more, it is because they have never been free from interference. The unruly settler has invariably broken in upon their work and brought into the communities which they were laboriously civilizing the fatal disturbances of drunkenness and license. If the missionaries could be left alone, they would soon not only Christianize the savages but reduce them to order. Scattered all over the West there are thriving little settlements where the dusky hunter has turned his spear into a ploughshare, and under the directions of the priest has learned more or less of industry and peaceful arts, and forgotten the fierce impulses which once made him a terror to the plains. In these quiet villages the school-house and the chapel are crowded with zealous learners, the fields and gardens bloom with the evidences of thrift. So long as the white man keeps away, there is quiet and prosperity. The great mission of St. Mary's, among the Pottawattomies in Eastern Kansas, is a notable example of what the missionaries can do toward civilizing the poor wretches whom we have so long been trying to tame with gunpowder. And the testimony of travellers, army officers, and government functionaries generally is unanimous as to the complete success of the Catholic priests in dealing with the great problem which perplexes our national legislature.

Why then should we not leave to these missionaries the task in which they have made such satisfactory progress? If we let them alone, their progress will be tenfold more rapid than it has ever been yet. Their conquests will soon be numbered not by villages but by nations. The mission of St. Mary's will be repeated in every corner of the West; and if the government can only devise some means of keeping away from these nurseries of Christianity the corrupting influence of white thieves, drunkards, and adventurers, the Indians in the course of a single generation will be ready for absorption into the rest of the population, will be fit to live side by side with us, to till the land as we do, and earn their bread by honest labor, and then all the trouble will be over. If this policy could be adopted, the reservation plan of the peace commissioners would be a very good one. {407} White men should be strictly forbidden to trespass upon the territory thus set apart, and the military might be employed to enforce the prohibition. Let the whole machinery of agencies, etc., be utterly abolished, as useless and demoralizing. Then let the money now spent in the purchase of beads and similar toys, which the Indians themselves are learning to despise, be devoted to the establishment, stocking, and support of schools, farms, and industrial establishments, under the charge of any authorized missionaries of good standing who are willing to serve without pay. Of course, we anticipate little success from any missionaries except Catholic priests; but we cannot expect a non-Catholic government to restrict its confidence to them, and we ask no more than to have the field thrown open to volunteers of all denominations on equal terms. We know well enough, if this be done, that the great majority of the laborers will be those of our own household. The purchase of annuity goods should be made in accordance with the recommendations of the superiors of the missions; but their distribution, lest there should be even a suspicion of unfair dealing, might be arranged through the nearest military commanders. We would not have clergymen mixed up with government money matters, and army officers would probably manage them honestly. Visitors should be appointed periodically by Congress to inspect and report upon the condition of the missions, and those which were not properly ordered should be put into other hands.

Under this arrangement the missionaries would ask nothing from the government but a free field and no interference. They would receive none of the public money. They would ask for no power except what the Indians chose to confer upon them. The domestic government of the tribes could be managed just as that of all other American settlements is managed, by the settlers themselves. The missionary would be merely their guide and teacher. He would desire no power over them beyond what he has already. The Catholic priest never fails to secure an ascendency over the savage mind by the legitimate influence of his personal character and of the message which he comes to preach. Of course it would be many years before the whole field could be occupied; but if the United States government would invite the cooperation of all religious denominations in the great work of civilization, we are persuaded that scores of zealous priests would offer themselves for the labor, that the Jesuits and other great missionary orders would be prodigal of their subjects, and that a generous and earnest spirit would be aroused among the Catholic people and would lead to the collection of an ample fund for the support of the enterprise.

We are not sanguine that the government will adopt this plan. There are too many opposing influences; it is too hard to do right; and it is so easy to oppress an inferior people when you can make money by doing it, and get public applause at the same time. But we see no other hope for the Indian except in the protection of the missionary, and no prospect of peace on the frontier until in our dealings with the aborigines we take as our motto, Justice and Benevolence.

--------

{408}

Translated From The German.

Bellini's Romance.

I was a guest at a pleasant country festival at Eisenberg, a few hours' ride from Dresden, at the close of September, 1835. The post-boy brought me a letter that caused me to order my horse saddled immediately. It was a brief note from my friend J. P. Pixis, informing me that La Sonnambula was to be performed that evening; my favorite songstress, Francilla ------, in the part of Amina. I was more than half in love with that enchantress, and trembled with delight at the prospect of seeing her, while I took a hasty leave of my rural entertainers.

I arrived in time, but would not call upon Francilla till after the opera; not until the next morning, for I wished to see her alone. I was early at the door of her lodgings in Castle street. When she came into the drawing-room and advanced to greet me, I was startled to see her pale, with eyes red with weeping. I gazed anxiously on her face, pressing the hand she held out to me in silence, for my emotion was too great for speech. She asked quietly if I had witnessed the last evening's representation. I assured her I had, and endeavored to express my rapturous appreciation of her singing. But my praises were dashed with gloom as I saw her so sadly altered. "It is no wonder I am dejected," she replied to my questioning looks. "We have all cause to mourn."

"What has happened?"

"Alas!" she faltered, weeping afresh, "Bellini is dead!"

I had not heard the fatal news. Bellini! the glorious composer of the noble work that had so delighted me a few hours before! So admirable an artist--so young--so much honored and beloved! I could have wept with Francilla.

After a few moments' silence, she wiped her eyes, then rose, and took a volume from the table. It was her album, for which I had sent her a drawing--a sketch of her fair self as Romeo, at the moment when Juliet calls on his name in the tomb, while he thinks it the voice of an angel from the skies.

We turned over the leaves of the album, lingering as we came to the different autographs. Francilla's soft, languishing eyes kindled with haughty fire as we noted the bold, rude characters traced by the hand of Judith Pasta; and when we came to the signature of Countess Rossi, her expressive features were lighted with a tender smile.

One letter was written by her Uncle Pixis in Prague. She stopped to give me an account of his family. Turning the leaves and talking rapidly, she paused of a sudden, and I saw two names recorded opposite each other--those of Vincenzo Bellini and Maria Malibran. Bellini had written a passage from the Capuletti.

Francilla signed for me to give her my pencil--it was one she had given me--and drew a large cross under Bellini's signature. Her look was intensely significant. Her silence was strangely prolonged. At last I asked, merely to say something: "Why is it, Francilla, that, in the last act of the Capuletti, you use Vaccai's music instead of Bellini's? Bellini's composition, as a whole, is superior, and the close far more touching. {409} I never could understand why a celebrated vocalist like yourself should prefer the tamer close of Vaccai."

Francilla looked earnestly in my face, but did not answer for some time. At length, fixing her eyes on the cross she had pencilled, she said, in a tone of deepest solemnity: "I will tell you a story, my friend, and you will see then how much our poor friend suffered. Neither Maria nor I could sing his last act; you shall know why."

"Madame Malibran, too?" I exclaimed.

She interrupted me with a gesture enjoining silence. "You know," she said, "though of fair complexion and blue eyes, Bellini was born at the foot of Etna. You have yourself described him to me as effeminate and a little foppish; but he was a genuine son of Sicily, and he glowed with the warmth of the south, notwithstanding his gentleness and weakness. That was a wonderful nature of his! It was not, like Sicily's volcano, spread over luxuriant meadows, through woods and snow-fields, across a lava waste to the brink of the fiery abyss; nor was it like the Hecla of your own land, where eternal fire burns under eternal ice. He reminded me of an English garden tastefully laid out, with smooth walks and quiet streams, delicate flowers and quaint shrubbery, fountains and fluted shafts; beneath which glowed an abyss of fire! That was Bellini; under his sentimental culture burned a quenchless flame--the love of art, fed by another love--for Malibran!"

"You amaze me, Francilla," I exclaimed. "His passion for art was one for Maria, too. How could he help it? Was it not she who inspired his wondrous creations with their irresistible charm? Was she not his soul of all other performers in the operas? 'What will Malibran say to it?' was Bellini's question concerning everything he composed. She was his queen of art, his muse, his ideal! Life without her was gloom. How can Malibran survive him? Your own imagination, Francilla," I said, "weaves this pretty romance. You know Malibran married M. Beriot."

"Do I not remember how the news of that marriage affected Vincenzo?" she retorted. "How pale he grew, how he trembled, and left the company in silence! Yet he could not have hoped to win Malibran; for she always treated him as a boy, though he was a year older than herself. But he could not have dreamed she would marry M. Beriot, who was at one time distracted for Madame Sontag."

With a pause she went on: "Bellini avoided both Maria and her husband after the marriage. If he saw M. Beriot, he went out of the way--very wisely; for in case of an encounter he might have been tempted--after the Sicilian fashion--you understand?" And with flashing eyes she swung her arm as one who gives a dagger-thrust.

"I understand the pantomime, my pretty Romeo! But your fancy carries the thing too far."

"No one knows what might have happened," she said, "in spite of Vincenzo's soft heart. It was well Malibran left Paris and went to Italy. Bellini never confided his secret to any one; but it became suspected among his friends. And Malibran must have heard of it; for she suddenly became reluctant to sang in any of Bellini's pieces. She continued, however, to represent Romeo; she could not give up that part. {410} When the last representation of the Capuletti was given in Milan, it happened that, in the final act, when Romeo takes the poison, such a death-like shuddering seized Maria's frame, it was with great difficulty she could go through with the part. After the performance was over, she was greatly exhausted; and with emotion she declared that no power on earth should compel her to sing again the Romeo of Bellini. She adopted the part as composed by Vaccai. But she was not satisfied with that; and afterward she returned to poor Bellini's music so far as to retain the first acts of the opera. The last act she always sang as Vaccai wrote it."

"What said Vincenzo to this?"

"When he heard of it, he fell into the deepest despondency. He would neither write nor think anything more; he seemed at times to forget himself, and smiled and talked like a man who had lost his reason. All his friends noticed and lamented the change.

"One day, Lablache came to see him. He found Bellini lying listless on the sofa, pale, depressed, miserable, his eyes half-closed, indifferent to every one. The giant singer went up to him, opened his big mouth, and roared out: 'Halloa, Bellini! what are you lying there for, like an idle lout of a lazzaroni on the Molo, weary of doing nothing! Get up and go to work! Paris, France, all Europe is full of expectation as to what you are to give the world after your Norma, which your adversaries silenced. Up, I say! Do you hear me, Bellini?'

"'Indeed, I do hear you, my dear Lablache,' replied the composer in a lachrymose voice. 'I have good ears, and, if I had not, your brazen base pierces like a trumpet! Leave me, caro; leave me to myself. I am good for nothing, unless it be the dolce far niente! I have lost interest in everything!'

"'The mischief you have!' exclaimed Lablache, striking his hands together, with a tone that caused the walls to vibrate. And you--Bellini--talk thus? You, who have ever pressed on to the goal, and reached it in spite of obstacles! Are you an artist? Are you a man? Amico mio! will you be checked midway in your glorious career? Will you lose the prize fame holds out? Will you spend your life whining out loverlike complaints, like some silly Damon of his cruel Doris or Phillis? Shame on you! Such womanish pinings are unworthy of you!'

"Bellini interrupted him very gently. 'My good Lablache,' he said, 'you do me injustice! I make no complaints; I am not pining--'

"'Silence!' roared Lablache. 'You are a fool! Do you think I do not know where the shoe pinches?'

"Bellini colored deeply and cast down his eyes.

"'Have you nothing to say, Bellini?' continued Lablache. 'Don't look so stupidly like an apprehended school-boy!'

"Vincenzo sighed piteously. 'If you know all,' he replied, 'you know that she will sing nothing of my music!'

"Lablache came closer, grasped the shoulders of the young composer in his powerful hands, lifted him from the cushions of the sofa to his feet, and gave him a good shaking! Then, as he released him, he said, with flashing eyes:

"'You shall hear me sing something of yours.' He began the allegro to the duet from I Puritani, "Suoni la tromba e intrepido." His stentorian voice rang like a clarion or a martial shout. The flush of enthusiasm rushed to Bellini's pale face; the tears sprang into his eyes; at length, he threw himself into Lablache's arms, and joined his voice in the splendid song. When it was ended, he thanked his friend, and pledged his word that he would finish the composition of the entire opera in a few weeks.

{411}

"The promise was kept. Bellini worked diligently, and in the stipulated time put the opera into the hands of Lablache, who undertook to see that it should be worthily represented.

"All Paris was delighted at the announcement of the representation. The opera was splendidly cast, and the rehearsals commenced. Bellini was present at the first rehearsal; at the second, he was absent, and word came that he was ill at his country-seat at Porteaux, near the capital. They hoped he would recover in time to attend the first performance of the opera.

"All went on successfully; and a large audience attended the opening representation. The famous duet Lablache had sung was repeated and encored amid thunders of applause. Just then a murmur went round the theatre, and the applause was silenced. The news was:

"'Bellini died an hour ago, at his country-seat.'"

Francilla ceased. She closed the album, rose hastily, and went to the window. I was deeply affected, and was leaving the room quietly. But she turned round, and, bidding me stay, went and seated herself at the piano. The song was a melancholy one, sung with wonderful expression and feeling. It was a farewell to the dead.

My friend Pixis came into the room at its close, and asked what it was we were so mournful about.

I replied, "Francilla has been telling me of Bellini's unhappy love for Malibran."

"Do not believe a word of it!" cried Pixis, laughing. "She will get you up a fine romance on that chapter."

I had my doubts of its truth; yet the fact is indisputable that Bellini was always in love.

Here the pretty artist, Maschinka Schneider, came in, and the conversation was of the representation of the Capuletti, already announced. I gave advice as to improvements in the arrangement of the scenes.

I could not help remembering the sad tale my little friend had told me. I thought of it again when, a year afterward, I read in the newspapers that Malibran had died at Manchester, on the 23d of September, the same day on which Bellini had expired a year before.

------

{412}

Translated from the French of Souvestre.

The Inside of a Stage-Coach.

One of the last days of September the rain had fallen all day in torrents, but finally, having ceased, left the sky so enveloped in fog that, though scarcely four o'clock, night seemed already to have overspread the earth.

A heavy diligence, with its relay of horses, ascended with difficulty one of the hills which separate Belleville from Lyons, while the postilions walked on each side of the team, pausing about every fifty steps to breathe and recover themselves. The wearied passengers had descended by invitation of the conductor, and were trudging along in no amiable mood, scolding the horses, the rain, and the miserable roads. Two of them, who came last, stopped suddenly at the turning of the ascent One was a man nearly fifty years old, with a mild and smiling countenance; but the other, much younger, had an air of gloom and dissatisfaction. Throwing his eyes over the surrounding country, half enveloped in fog, he said to his companion:

"What weather and what a year, Cousin Grugel! The Saône has hardly entered its bed, and the valleys are again inundated."

"God preserve us, Gontran!" replied the man with the mild countenance; "the rainbow can appear any moment above the deluge."

"Yes," replied the other traveller, with slight irony; "I know your mania of hope, Jacques."

"And I yours of discouragement, Darvon."

"Well, I am right when I examine how this world goes. Where do you see peace, order, or prosperity? I only hear of incendiaries, contagion, deluge, and murder. What man's wickedness spares, the wickedness of nature annihilates, for even brute matter seems to possess the instinct of destruction; and the elements, like kings, cannot remain neighbors without warring against each other."

"That is only one side of things, my cousin--the sad side; but of the other you never speak. Your eyes are riveted on the volcano which dims the horizon, but you cannot lower them to the fields of ripe corn undulating at your feet. There is happiness in the world, if you can make up your mind to believe it."

"Well, I know nothing of it," replied Darvon, in a tone of vexation.

"But, yourself considered, may you not be placed among the most favored?"

"True, Jacques, and yet I have not been able to find, in all the good accorded me, either peace or contentment."

"What have you to wish for? You are rich, honored, and have a family who love you."

"Yes," replied Gontran; "but this same fortune has cost me the lawsuit for which I have just made the third voyage to Macon; my good reputation has not deterred the opposing lawyer from slander; and as to my family--"

"Well?" inquired Jacques.

"Well! my sister, with whom I always lived so affectionately, has just quarrelled with me."

"It will be a short quarrel."

{413}

"No, no; I am tired of working without profit to establish order in her affairs. I have been too much annoyed by her want of system and reason."

"Think of her excellent heart and you will forgive her."

"Oh! I know that you will always find a good reason for me to bear my sorrows patiently; you have a recipe for every wound of the soul, and if I press you a little, you will prove me in the wrong to complain, and that all is quite right here below."

"Pardon me," replied Grugel; "in the government of this world I find much to wound me, but I am not sure I am the best judge. Life is a great mystery, of which we comprehend so little. Must I own it to you, there are hours when I persuade myself that God has not afflicted men with so many scourges without intention. Happy and invulnerable, they could be endured; each one would count on his individual strength, delight in his own isolation, and refuse all sympathy to his fellow-being. But weakness has no such resource; on the contrary, it forces men to be friendly, to aid and love one another. Grief has become a bond of sympathy, and we owe to it our noblest and best sentiments, gratitude, devotion, and piety."

"Well done," said Darvon, smiling; "not being able to sustain the good in all things, you give me the bright side of evil."

"Perhaps so," said Grugel; "only be sure that evil itself is not absolute. Science borrows its remedies from the sap of venomous plants; why, then, may we not from passion, misfortune, or inequality draw much that is good? Believe me, Darvon, there is no human dross, however poor, without its particles of gold."

"In good faith, then, I would like to know what could be found in our travelling companions," cried Gontran. "Let us see, cousin; suppose we put to the test these curious patterns of our race, as we proclaim it so intelligent."

"It is very certain," said Jacques, smiling, "fate has not favored us."

"Never mind, never mind," replied Darvon, whose misanthropy was niggardly in its character; "disengage the gold from the dross, as you say. But first, how many grains do you expect to find in this cattle-merchant before us?"

Grugel raised his head and saw, a few steps in advance, the traveller who had called him cousin. A coarse man in a blue blouse, following with heavy steps the side of the road, while finishing his well-picked chicken-bone.

"I declare, that is the seventh repast I have seen him make to-day," continued Darvon, "and the coach-pockets are still laden with his provisions. When he has eaten enough, he goes to sleep, then he eats again, then goes to sleep in order to recommence his programme. He is a mere digesting machine, too imbecile to draw from him either response or information."

"Our companion with the felt hat can sufficiently acquit himself in that respect."

"Ah! yes, let us consider him and try also to extract his gold. He joined our party only this morning, and already the conductor has sent him from the impériale to the travellers in the coupé, who again have sent him to the intérieur. We have had him but two hours, and he has already given us his own and his family history to the fifth degree. I know his name is Peter Lepré, that for twenty years he has been commissioner of colonial produce in the departments of the Saône and Loire, of Ain, Isère, and of the Rhone, and he has been married three times. {414} Then if you did not have to bear his questioning; but he is equally talkative and curious, and when his confession is finished, he awaits yours. If you are reflecting, he speaks to you; if you speak, he interrupts you. His voice is like a rattle in constant motion, the noise of which ends in making you nervous."

"Poor Lepré!" said Grugel; "at heart, after all he is a worthy man."

"He has one merit," replied Darvon, "that of annoying Mademoiselle Athénaïs de Locherais; for we almost forgot this amiable fellow-traveller, who, after recommending us all to get out to lighten the coach, remained in herself so as not to dampen her feet."

"You must forgive her," observed Jacques; "isolation has made her forget all ease of others; her heart is contracted."

"Contracted!" repeated Gontran, "you are deceived, cousin; Mademoiselle Athénaïs has a great deal of love for herself. The whole world seems to have been made for her special ease, and she can imagine nothing in it that does not bear upon her in some way or other. She is one of those sweet creatures who, hearing the cry of the midnight assassin, returns to her pillow complaining of having been awakened."

Grugel was going to reply, but they had arrived at the top of the hill. The conductor, calling the passengers, urged them to remount, as a courier had just appeared with an announcement, that, owing to the overflow of the Saône, the passage by Villefranche would be impossible, and that in order to reach Anse they would be obliged to turn more to the right, passing the Niseran higher up and taking another road. The coach which had just preceded them, not having taken this precaution, had been surprised by the waters, and some of the passengers were reported to be drowned. Happily this last intelligence was not communicated to the travellers, but they vociferated loudly when apprised of the by-road they were obliged to take.

"There is a malediction on us," said Gontran, already peevish with the length of the journey.

"I knew it would be so, sir," cried Pierre Lepré, with volubility. The two postilions had just escaped from him, so he fell back on his travelling companions. "I was told on my way that the Ardiere and Vauzarme had risen considerably; indeed, we cannot tell if we can pass to Anse, where we may encounter the waters of the Azergnes and the Brevanne. Where in the world are you taking us, conductor? Shall we pass the woods of Orrigt? Well, I know the mayor, a thin man, always smoking. But, speaking of this, can we not stop again before we come to Anse?"

"Impossible," replied the conductor brusquely; "I am now eight hours behind time."

"Gracious! where will we sup, then?" cried the fat cattle-merchant.

"We won't sup at all, sir."

"I declare, I wish I had some broth," interrupted Mademoiselle Athénaïs, in a shrill voice, with her head out of the coach door; "I always take my broth at five o'clock."

"We have had nothing since morning," cried all the travellers.

"Get in, gentlemen," called out the conductor; "one hour's delay may prevent us from reaching there. You can't joke with an overflow, and I don't want my coach drowned."

"Drowned!" cried Mademoiselle Athénaïs's. "Why, this is horrible. You shall be informed against, conductor! I demand that you leave the valley. Why don't you answer me, conductor? I will complain to your chief."

{415}

The diligence starting, cut the old lady's sentence in two, so she fell back in her corner with an exclamation of dissatisfaction.

Jacques Grugel felt himself obliged to tell her that the route they were taking would lead them away from the Saône and avoid the danger.

"But where will I get my soup?" inquired she, slightly reassured.

"We will not stop till we reach Anse," resumed Lepré; "the conductor has said so, and God only knows what kind of roads we will meet with. Roads of the department; that says everything. And then I know the engineer, a talented man; his son was married the same day as my eldest. But we won't arrive till to-morrow, mark my words."

There was a general cry from the passengers. They had eaten nothing since morning, calculating on the lunch usually obtained at Villefranche, and Gontran had already proposed, with his usual vivacity, to make a descent on the first village and force them to serve up a supper, when the cattle-merchant cried out:

"A supper! I have one at your service."

"What! for everybody?" asked Lepré.

"For everybody, citizen. I can offer you three courses, with your dessert, and something for a heeltap."

While speaking he drew from the pockets of the carriage a half-dozen packets, and, rolling his tongue around his mouth, proceeded to open them; they contained provisions of every kind, properly enveloped and tied with care.

"Won't we have a feast?" said Lepré, who had asked the cattle-merchant, in his inventory, "my friend, what is your name?"

"Barnau."

"Good, Mr. Barnau; but what good care you take of yourself."

"How can a man be at his ease," said the fat merchant, with a certain pride, "if he can't eat the best of everything? However, these gentlemen and mademoiselle can judge of my victuals."

Grugel turned to Gontran, and gave him a significant look.

"Truly," said he smiling, and in an under-voice, "here are the grains of gold you looked for."

"Grains of gold!" repeated Barnau, who did not understand him; "why, man, that's a sausage with truffles."

"And these gentlemen would have us believe grains of gold are good for famished people," resumed Pierre Lepré, laughing; "that is a figure of speech, Monsieur Barnau. I have a son who studied these figures in rhetoric. He explained it all to me; but, pardon me, let us first help mademoiselle."

They presented the food to Mademoiselle de Locherais, who returned each piece, but finally ended by choosing the most delicate, complaining, as she ate, of the privations of travellers. To console her, Barnau offered her some old brandy; but mademoiselle cried out with horror:

"Brandy to me! What do you take me for, sir?"

"You like sherry better, perhaps," said the cattle-merchant, in a careless way.

"I drink neither sherry nor brandy," cried Mademoiselle Athénaïs fiercely. "I take water only," she said, turning toward Grugel. "Did you ever hear anything like this rustic?" she murmured; "offer me cognac, as if the spices he has given us were not sufficient to burn one's blood. I shall surely be ill from it." {416} Finishing what she had to say, she arranged herself in her corner, so as to turn her back on the cattle-merchant, picked up a pillow she had with her, leaned her head on it, and fell asleep.

The diligence continued its tedious route. Though humid, the air was cold, and not a star was to be seen. Relieved by the repast which the gastronomical foresight of Barnau had permitted him to make, Lepré resumed his loquacity, and, although his fellow-travellers had long since ceased to answer him, he continued to talk on without being in the least concerned to know if he was listened to.

This noise of words, the slowness of their progress, the darkness, and the cold combined to render the passengers nervously impatient, and every few moments might be heard yawns, shudderings, or subdued complaints. Darvon, particularly, seemed more and more excitable; a prey to nervous irritation. He had already opened and shut for the tenth time the blind of the coach-door, leaned his head to the right, to the left, and back on the cushion, fixed his legs in every possible position that the narrow space of which he could dispose allowed him; and, finally, at the break of day, his patience was entirely exhausted.

"I would give ten of the days which remain of my life to be at the end of this journey," cried he.

"Here we are at Anse," replied Grugel.

"True, upon my word," said Lepré, who had been asleep an instant. "Hallo, conductor, how long do you remain here?"

"Five minutes."

"Open the door; I am just going to say good day to the post-master."

The door was opened, and Barnau got down with Lepré to renew his provisions. Nearly at the same moment the clerk came forward to see if there were any vacant places.

"Only one," replied Grugel.

"How!" cried Mademoiselle de Locherais, who had just awakened with a start; "would monsieur by any chance ask any one to come in here?"

"A traveller for Lyons."

"But it is quite impossible," resumed the old maid; "we are already frightfully crowded. Monsieur, your coaches are too small; I will complain to the administration."

"Ah! without doubt here is our new companion," said Grugel, who was looking out of the door. "M. Lepré has already seized upon him."

"He is a military man," cried mademoiselle.

"A non-commissioned officer of the Chasseurs."

"Oh! is he coming in here? Why don't they make soldiers go on foot?"

"In such a time as this it would be hard and fatiguing for them, mademoiselle."

"Is it not their trade? Such people are never fatigued. These public conveyances do give you such disagreeable neighbors! .... The derangement of your usual habits, to have nothing warm, pass the night without any sleep, be crowded, choked! .... I don't see why one of these gentlemen don't get up in the imperial."

"Notwithstanding the fog?"

"What does that signify, for men?"

"Mademoiselle would be less incommoded," added Darvon ironically. "She had better make the proposition herself to our companion."

"What! I speak to a soldier!" said Mademoiselle Athénaïs fiercely; "I prefer being incommoded, sir!"

"Well, here he is," said Jacques.

{417}

The non-commissioned officer had indeed just appeared before the door, followed by the clerk with whom he was quarrelling. He was a spruce, dapper-looking young man, but his bragging and soldierly manners disgusted Darvon at first sight. He complained of the delay of the coach, having waited for it since the night preceding, and with words abused the clerk of the office, whose responses were timid and embarrassed. At last, the conductor declaring they must start, he came to the coach-door and looked inside.

"Magnificent collection," murmured he, after having cast an impertinent look on the travellers; "I wonder if the coupé and the rotonde are as well furnished. Have you no women aboard, conductor?"

"The insolent creature!" murmured Mademoiselle.

"Well," resumed the soldier, "one must not be too particular in the country." And he took his place.

Gontran leaned toward Grugel, and said, in a low voice, "This one completes our collection of absurdities."

"Take care he don't hear you," replied Jacques.

Darvon shrugged his shoulders.

"Bragging people inspire more disgust than fear," said he, "and this one certainly needs a lesson in politeness."

Meanwhile, Barnau returned without Lepré. After having looked for the latter at the inn, and waited for him some minutes, the diligence started without him, to the great joy of mademoiselle, who hoped to be more at her ease. But her joy was of short duration, for the non-commissioned officer, who had located himself at first on the other bench, got up and took the seat next to her. The angry old maid adjusted herself brusquely, and pulled down her veil.

The military man turned toward her.

"Ah!" said he, in a mocking tone, "madame seems afraid of being looked at."

"Perhaps so, sir," said she, dryly.

"I quite understand the reason," resumed the soldier. "But she can calm her nerves. I can deprive myself of the pleasure." And as he noticed the movement of indignation of Mademoiselle de Locherais, continued, "I speak solely for the interest of her health; and to allow her to breathe with her face uncovered, as we want air in this box, I think I had better lower the window."

"I object to it," said mademoiselle quickly; "my doctor has forbidden any exposure to the morning air."

"And mine has forbidden me to smother," replied the young man, putting out his hand to open the sash.

But the old maid cried out. The window was on her side, she had a right to have it closed, and appealed to the other travellers.

However little disposed Darvon had been in favor of Mademoiselle de Locherais, he considered it right to defend her, and the result was a sharp discussion between him and the soldier, which would have ended in trouble had not Grugel ceded his place at the other window.

The soldier accepted it with a bad grace, preserving a strong feeling against Darvon.

Now, the reader has already perceived that Gontran's predominant qualities were neither resignation nor patience. The contrarieties of the journey had excited his sickly inability, therefore the disagreement which had already broken out between them was renewed several times, and only awaited a favorable opportunity to become a later quarrel.

{418}

Some of the smaller baggage had been placed by Darvon in a net suspended from the top of the diligence; the soldier pretended that it incommoded him, and wished it removed. Gontran refused to do it.

"You have decided it shall remain where it is?" cried the soldier, after a discussion in which he had grown more and more animated.

"Decidedly!" replied Darvon.

"Very well. I will get rid of it by the coach-door," replied the young man, while extending his hand toward the net.

Gontran seized the hand, and said, "Take care what you do, sir," in a changed voice. "Ever since you came in here, you have tried to make me lose my patience; your whole course has been one of abuse and tyranny, but you may as well understand I am not the man to put up with your tyranny."

"Is this a challenge?" asked the soldier, throwing on Gontran a disdainful look.

"By no means," interrupted Grugel, annoyed by the turn affairs had taken; "my cousin merely wished you to observe--"

"I don't accept the observations of snarlers."

"And snarlers don't accept your insolence," replied Gontran.

At this word insolence the soldier shuddered, a deep redness suffused his features.

"Where do you stop, sir?" asked he of Darvon, in a voice trembling with anger.

"At Lyons," replied the latter.

"Very well, we will finish our explanation there."

"So be it."

Jacques, alarmed, wished to interpose, but his cousin and the soldier spoke at the same time, and repeated they would terminate this affair at Lyons.

At the same instant great cries were heard, and the diligence was overtaken by a wagon entirely covered with mud. Mademoiselle de Locherais put her head out of the coach-door.

"O Lord! what a misfortune," said she; "Monsieur Pierre Lepré has overtaken us. Now we will be completely filled up."

As soon as they reached the public conveyance, the commissioner of colonial produce jumped out of the wagon, and presented himself at the coach-door, which the conductor had just opened.

"Is this the way you go off without waiting for the passengers?" cried he, furious.

"I warned you three times," interposed the conductor.

"Six times is customary, sir, or even a dozen; you are very miserly with your words. Does it cost anything to speak? I could not leave the post-master while he was telling me what happened to the diligence yesterday; for you did not know, gentlemen, that the one that preceded this was drowned."

"Drowned!" repeated every one.

"Very good," interrupted the conductor; "but get in."

"Anything but good," responded Pierre Lepré; "everybody is frightened enough."

"I beg of you to get up immediately."

"And what will our families think when they learn this disaster?"

"Be quick, then."

"Again, there was I trying to obtain these details, when they came to tell me you had gone on without me."

"And we are going to do the same thing again," said the impatient conductor.

"Bless me," cried Lepré, who hastened to get up. "I have had enough of wagons; here I am, conductor, lift me up."

{419}

The commissioner of provisions was overwhelmed with questions, and he soon related all he had heard; then, interrupting himself, according to his usual habit, and recognizing the young officer, he cried out:

"Oh! this is the gentleman I had the honor of seeing at Anse."

"The same," replied the soldier.

"Delighted to meet you again," said Lepré. "Whatever you may think of me, I am the born friend of all the military. I should have had to serve myself if they had not found a substitute for me."

He was interrupted by Mademoiselle Athénaïs, who just perceived that he was quite wet.

"It is this abominable fog," said he, while wiping the water off with his handkerchief.

"But people don't come into a carriage in such a condition," replied mademoiselle, in a discontented way. "When you are covered with fog, you might as well remain out."

"To dry one's self?" asked Lepré, laughing. "Great goodness, I had enough of it; then my coachman was drunk, and just missed turning the wagon over into the river."

"The deuce!" said Gontran.

"We would have been added to the diligence of yesterday, unless we had found some good soul brave enough to fish for us. But such things have been. Three years ago, after a great inundation, a workman alone saved five persons who were drowning near the Guillotière."

"We knew of him particularly," said Grugel, "as my cousin's best friend was one of the saved."

"True?" asked the soldier.

"And he owed his safety to the devotion of that young man."

"Oh! all the details of that action were admirable," said Darvon, with great warmth; "the frightened horse had pulled the carriage into the strongest of the current; on the shore the crowd looked on, without daring to go to their relief; there seemed to be no hope for the five persons in the carriage."

"Bah!" interrupted the soldier, "perhaps some of them could swim, and have got nicely out of the scrape."

Gontran disdained a reply.

"The carriage commenced to sink," continued he, "when a workman appeared with a small boat, which with difficulty he guided into the midst of the Rhone. Three times it was on the point of upsetting. The people who looked on from the shore cried out, 'Do not go any further; come ashore; you are going to perish.' But he did not listen to them--still advancing toward the carriage, which by dint of skill and courage, he finally reached."

"And most happily," the military man replied.

"Without doubt," replied Grugel, who remarked Gontran's movement of impatience, "but only good-hearted people find happiness in such acts."

"It was a beautiful incident," interrupted Mademoiselle de Locherais, "and one that should have benefited its author."

"Pardon me, madame," said Darvon. "The workman no doubt considered that the true recompense for any generous action is in ourselves; for, after having saved these people, he retired without wishing to receive either reward or praise."

"Humph! perhaps he thought it useless to demand payment," said the officer.

"And is his name unknown?" said Pierre Lepré.

"Pardon me, he was called Louis Duroc."

"What! what do you say, Louis----"

"Duroc."

Lepré turned towards the officer.

{420}

"Why, that is your name?" cried he.

"This gentleman's name!" repeated all the travellers.

"Louis Duroc, called the African; I asked him his name at Anse, while we were talking at the inn, and I have seen it, besides, on his portmanteau."

"Well, what next?" asked the officer, laughing. "It certainly is my name."

"Can it be!" interrupted Gontran; "and you are--"

"The workman in question; yes, gentlemen. There would have been no use in telling it, but now there is no use in concealing it. I entered the service a week after the accident, and my regiment had to leave for Algeria, so that I never again met my friends of the carriage; however, I hope to see them again at Lyons."

"I will take you to them," said Darvon quickly, while offering his hand to the officer; "for I wish we may be friends, Monsieur Louis."

"What, we!" replied the military man, regarding Gontran with hesitation.

"Oh! please forget all that has passed," replied the latter; "I am ready, if necessary, to acknowledge I have been wrong--"

"No!" interrupted Duroc, "no, indeed; I was the wrong-headed one, and I regret it, I give you my word of honor. Bad habits of the regiment, you see. Because we have no fear, we like to show it on all occasions, and to each new-comer, and so play the bully, but at heart good children; so without malice, monsieur."

He had cordially pressed Gontran's hand, Lepré seizing his at the same time.

"Good!" cried he; "you are a true Frenchmen, and so is Monsieur. Between Frenchmen, people should always agree. I am delighted to have made your acquaintance, M. Louis Duroc. But, à propos, do you know it was a most happy coincidence that I obliged you to tell me your name, that you did not want to give me? Without me, no one would have known what you were worth."

"It is true," replied Grugel. "If this gentleman had talked less, this explanation would not have taken place, and my cousin would have mistaken the true character of Monsieur Louis. You see, chance seems to have taken the task of supporting my theory, and all the honor of the journey is mine."

As he finished these words, the coach stopped; they had arrived.

The travellers found the diligence-yard crowded with relations or friends awaiting their arrival. The misfortune of the day before was known, and had awakened all possible anguish.

Darvon no sooner stepped down, than he heard his name pronounced, and, turning, saw his sister hastening to him with cries of joy. Her anxiety on his account had caused her to forget their quarrel.

They embraced over and over again; their eyes moistened with tears as they looked at each other, smiling. They were reconciled.

As they went together from the diligence-yard Gontran met his travelling companions. Barnau and Lepré saluted them; Louis Duroc renewed his promise to visit them; Mademoiselle Athénaïs de Locherais alone passed without any sign of recognition. She was too much occupied watching her baggage. Jacques Grugel turned then to Gontran.

{421}

"There is the only objection to my doctrine," said he, pointing to the old maid. "All our other companions have more or less redeemed themselves in our eyes: the gourmand procured us a supper; the babbler revealed a useful secret; the quarrelsome one gave proof of his generous bravery; but of what use has been to us the selfish egotism of Mademoiselle de Locherais?"

"To make me realize the value of true devotion and tenderness," replied Gontran, who pressed his sister's arm more closely to his heart. "Yes, from to-day, cousin, I will adopt your system. I firmly believe there is a good side to everything, and that it is only necessary to know where to look for the vein of gold."

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Sayings Of The Fathers Of The Desert.

He who remains alone by himself, and maintains a state of tranquillity, is saved the waging of three wars; that is to say, the warfare of hearing, of speech, and of sight; and he will have but one to carry on, and that is the warfare of the heart.

Abbot Arsenius, while he still dwelt in a palace, prayed to the Lord one day, and said, "O Lord! point out to me the way to salvation." And a voice came to him saying, "Arsenius, avoid the society of men, and you shall be saved." Thereupon he went away to lead a monastic life, and it happened that he again made the same prayer. And he heard a voice saying unto him, "Arsenius, flee, remain silent, be tranquil."

Abbot Evagrius said: Cast from thee affection for many things, lest thy mind be full of trouble and lose its tranquillity.

A certain brother once went to Scythia, to ask advice of Abbot Moses. And the old man said to him, "Go sit in thy cell, and thy cell will teach thee all things."

Abbot Nilus said: He who loveth quiet shall be impenetrable to the darts of the enemy; but he who mingleth with the multitude shall receive many wounds.

A certain father told this story: Three persons who loved their souls became monks. One of them chose as his task the making up of quarrels, according as it is written, "Blessed are the peacemakers." (Matt, v.) The second determined to visit the sick. The third went away into the desert to remain in solitude. Now, the first, who busied himself about the quarrels of men, could not always succeed in bringing about a reconciliation. Sick at heart, he went to see how he fared who was visiting the sick, and found that he also was growing weary, and was quite unable to carry out his purpose. These two then went together to see the one who had gone into the desert, and told him all their troubles. And then they asked him to tell them how he himself had got along. After a short pause, he poured some water into a basin and said to them, "Look at the water." And it was troubled. After a little while he again said to them, "Now look at the water, and see how clear it has grown." And they, looking in the water, saw their faces reflected as from a mirror. {422} And then he said to them, "Thus it is with him who lives among men; for from the turbulence of his life he sees not his own sins; when, however, he is become tranquil, and especially when he lives in solitude, then he clearly perceives his faults."

Abbot Elias said: Three things I fear. One is, the separation of soul and body; the second, my meeting with God the third, the sentence which shall be pronounced upon me.

Abbot James said: As a light illuminateth a room, even so doth the fear of God, when it shall have entered the heart of man, illuminate and teach him every virtue and the precepts of God.

Syncletica, of holy memory, said: The wicked who are converted to God have to toil and struggle much, but afterward their joy is ineffable. For as those who wish to kindle a fire have first to bear the smoke, and are ofttimes forced to shed tears before they succeed for it is written, "Our God is a consuming fire"--so ought we also to kindle within us the divine flame amid toils and tears.

A father said: As we carry our shadow about with us everywhere, even so ought we always to weep and be contrite.

They tell of Abbot Agatho that he kept a pebble in his mouth three years, and thus acquired silence.

Abbot Agatho was once making a journey with his disciples, when one of them found a little bundle of green vetches lying on the roadside, and said to his master, "Father, if you wish it, I will take them." The old man looked at him in astonishment, and asked, "Didst thou place them there?" And the disciple said "No." And then the father replied, "Why, then, do you desire to take away what you have not placed there?"

Abbot Evagrius tells that a father once said: I deprive myself of carnal delights, in order that I may the more readily avoid occasions of anger. For I know that this passion always attacks and disturbs my mind and clouds my intellect according as I indulge in carnal delights.

Epiphanius, Bishop of Cyprus, once sent for Abbot Hilarion, that he might see him before he died. When they had met and were dining, a fowl was set on the table which the bishop offered Hilarion. And then Hilarion said, "Pardon me, father, for ever since I have worn this habit I have never eaten of anything slain." And then Epiphanius replied, "And I, since I have worn this habit, have never allowed any one to sleep who had anything against me, nor have I ever slept having aught against any one." "Pardon me," replied the old man, "your life is more perfect than mine."

They tell of Abbot Elladius that he lived in his cell twenty years without ever lifting his eyes to the ceiling.

Abbot John the Small said: If a king should wish to take a hostile city, he would first intercept supplies of water and provisions, and thus the enemy, being in danger of starvation, would fall into his hands. So it is with the inordinate desires of the stomach. If a man fast well, the enemies of his soul grow weak.

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{423}

New Publications.

Language, And The Study Of Languages. In Twelve Lectures on the Principles of Linguistic Science. By William Dwight Whitney, Professor of Sanskrit and Modern Languages in Yale College. New York: Scribner & Co. 1867. 12mo, pp. 489.

Professor Whitney, with a full knowledge of the chief results thus far obtained in linguistic science by philologists, appears to be passably free and independent in his judgments, and cautious and sober in his inductions. His book is, however, rather an introduction to the study of linguistics than a full statement and vindication of its principles as a science. Its chief merit is in its correction of the exaggerations of enthusiastic and hasty philologists, and in brushing away numerous false theories and hypotheses unsustained and unsustainable by the facts in the case.

For the most part, the principles laid down by the author are sound and incontrovertible; but in some instances his application of them, and the conclusions he draws, may be disputed. Even his definition of language, as the medium by which men communicate their thoughts to one another, maybe objected to as superficial and inadequate, and as really including only one of its functions. Language is better defined: the sensible sign or representation of the ideal or the intelligible, and is as indispensable to the formation of thought in one's own mind as to the communication of thought to the minds of others. For intuition, no matter of what sort, language indeed is not necessary; but intuition is the à priori condition of thought, as necessary to it as creation is to contingent existence, not thought itself. Without intuition there is no thought; but thought itself is the action of the mind on the intuition--an action not possible without the sensible sign which holds and represents--re-presents--the intuition. What could we do in algebra or the calculus without sensible signs; or in philosophy or theology, or anything that belongs to the noetic or intelligible order, without the words which hold and represent the noetic object? There is a more intimate connection of thought and the word than the professor admits--a deeper significance, a profounder philosophy, a more inscrutable mystery in language, than most philologists dream of, and he who masters its secret masters the secret of the universe. He who is no theologian, no philosopher, can at best be only a sorry philologist. The part can be fully understood only in its relation to the whole, nor the effect without its cause, and hence it is that man and the universe cannot be understood without the knowledge of God.

The author regards linguistics as a moral science, dependent wholly on moral causes, and denies that it is a physical science, or that physical causes have anything to do in producing the dialectic changes, modifications, or differences of language, which the science notes. Here he is too sweeping in both his assertion and his denial. Moral causes operate in the changes language undergoes; and so do physical causes, especially in its phonetic change. At any rate, linguistics is to be classed with the inductive sciences, and, therefore, is a subordinate science, and can never without foreign aid be raised to the dignity or certainty of science itself. None of the inductive sciences are complete in themselves, or sufficient for themselves, and they all do and must, consciously or unconsciously, borrow from philosophy or theology, which has been very properly called scientia scientiarum, the science of sciences. Facts are facts always and everywhere; but facts are the matter of science, not science itself. The science is in their explication, or their reduction to the principles from which they proceed, and the law of their procession or production. {424} The inductive philosophers seek to obtain the law by induction from the facts observed, and the principle by induction from the law, which is unscientific; for the principle determines the law, and the law the facts. Hence their inductions are never science, or anything more than empirical classifications. Till the law is referred to its principle, it is not a law, but simply a congeries of facts. The reason why the inductive philosophers fail to perceive this is in the fact that the mind is already in possession of the principle, and simply supplies or applies it to the facts observed; while they, finding they have it, take it for granted that they have obtained it by induction. But he who lacks intuition of the ideal or the universal can never from the observation and analysis of facts rise scientifically above the phenomenal. Here, under the point of view of science, is the defect of all the inductive sciences; and hence, the tendency of all inductive philosophy, as any one may see in the writings of the Positivists, Auguste Comte, E. Littré, J. Stuart Mill, Herbert Spencer, and Sir William Hamilton and his school, is to restrict all science to the phenomenal, and, therefore, to exclude principles and causes, and consequently laws.

We do not mean by these strictures to exclude the inductive sciences, so-called, to condemn the inductive method, or to maintain that the sciences are to be created by way of deduction or à priori. The inductive method is censurable only when it insists on being exclusive, and that it needs for its application only bare phenomena; and we value as highly as anybody does the inductive sciences when completed by the principles and laws which are neither obtained nor obtainable by induction. There is no way of constructing linguistics but by observation of facts and induction therefrom. The error as to principles and method of Professor Whitney is, that he forgets that all inductions of any value are made by virtue of a principle not obtained by induction, and, therefore, controllable by the science of sciences, that is, by faith, and universal science or philosophy.

The professor proves very satisfactorily that what are called dialects are the result of development, growth, or modifications of the original language, and, therefore, that the unity of the language precedes diversity of dialects. Hence, he maintains that the various languages of the Aryan, Indo-Germanic, or, as he prefers to say, Indo-European group, have all sprung from a common original now lost, but of which perhaps the Sanscrit is the best representative now remaining. Why not, then, conclude that all the languages of mankind, extinct or extant, have sprung from one common original? If we suppose the unity of the species, this must be so; and the professor says that, while linguistics is not and never will be able to confirm it, it cannot, by any means, deny it. The diversity of tongues, then, cannot be alleged as disproving the unity of the species; and as we know the species is one, and that all men have sprung from one original pair, we know that all the diverse tongues of men are but so many dialects of one and the same original language. This is not an induction from linguistic facts, nor can linguistics, in its present state, confirm it; but it is a scientific truth, and also a truth of faith which controls air linguistic inductions. The professor himself goes too far when he says linguistics will never be in a condition to confirm it. That it will not is possible, not certain. His whole work proves that as yet the science of linguistics is in its infancy, hardly a science at all, and that it is not safe to conclude what it may one day do, or not do.

The professor proceeds throughout on the assumption that language is conventional. We do not agree to this, for there can be no convention without language, and language, as he himself shows, is traditional. I speak English because I was born, brought up, and live in a community that speaks English, and because I have learned or been taught it. It is my mother tongue, the tongue of my mother, and taught me by her. Particular words, and particular senses of words already in use, may have been conventionally introduced, but not language itself. {425} These words, whether newly coined or borrowed from other tongues, do not make up the language or modify its laws; they add to its vocabulary, but are subjected to its regimen. We have borrowed largely from the Latin, but we cannot construct a sentence with words so borrowed till we have made them English words. Nobody can talk Latin in English, though we can talk English in words wholly of Latin origin. The vocabulary is of various origin, but the language is English, and has remained so through all the changes the vocabulary has undergone; and this English language defies all conventions, and the influence of both the learned and the unlearned.

Professor Whitney, who appears never to have understood the relation of the inductive sciences either to science or to faith, denies the divine and supernatural origin of language, supposes man to have commenced his career on this earth without language, and to have formed for himself voluntarily but irreflectively language, by attempting to imitate the various cries of animals and the more striking sounds of nature, among which there is not a single articulate sound, the distinguishing mark of human speech. He does not represent men as saying to one another, "Go to, now; let us construct a language, so that we can tell each other our thoughts;" but he represents them as listening to the growl, barking, and howling of dogs, the bleating of sheep, the mooing of cows, the chirping of birds, the crowing of the cock, the hissing of the serpent, the roaring and whistling of the winds, the rattling of the shower or pouring of the rain, the bellowing of the storm, and, by way of imitation, forming out of these inarticulate sounds language in which we praise God and communicate with men. He adopts the onomatopoetic or bow-wow theory, so contemptuously dismissed by Max Müller. There is no doubt that in all dialects there have been introduced vocables in which there is an attempt in the word itself to imitate the sound or cry of the object named; but, supposing men had no language and were unable to converse, how were they to agree on the meaning to be given to these imitated sounds, or construct these words into sentences composed of subject, predicate, and copula, inflected according to the demands of number, gender, case, mood, and tense? There may have also been vocables formed from interjections, and there may be some truth in the interjectional or pooh! pooh! theory; but how form them into words, and these words into language with its grammatical laws and inflections before any knowledge of grammar or language, and bring about a general understanding as to the sense they are to bear? The same objections may be urged against the ding-dong theory, or that man is so constructed that, when touched in a certain manner, he involuntarily emits a certain sound. These theories explain the origin of certain vocables, but not of language.

Professor Whitney is not willing, by any means, to admit the supernatural origin of language, for the inductive sciences recognize nothing above nature. But none of the facts treated by any one of the inductive sciences are explicable without God, and God is supernatural. Man has his origin in the supernatural, though the species is developed by natural generation. In like manner, language, though developed, modified, or changed structurally or phonetically by natural causes according to natural laws, has its origin in the supernatural, or the direct act of God infusing it along with the ideal truth it signifies into the first man. Its origin is divine, as is the origin of man. This is evident because it requires in man the possession of language to be able to invent language, as we have already seen. It is from God, because it can come from no other source; and immediately from God to the first man, though traditionally to us, because there is no natural medium through which its origination is possible; yet not the entire vocabulary of language, but language in the respect that it is the sensible sign or representation of the ideal or the intelligible, whence proceeds the sensible, which copies or imitates it.

{426}

I. Grammatical Synthesis: The Art of English Composition. By Henry N. Day. New York: Scribner & Co. 1867. 12mo, pp. 356.

2. The Art Of Discourse: A System of Rhetoric. By Henry N. Day. New York: Scribner & Co. 1867. 12mo, pp. 343.

We know Mr. Day only as the author of these two books, and these do not give us a very high opinion of him either as a master of English grammar or of English composition. His volumes are elaborate, and evidently have cost him much time and hard study; he has aimed to make them profound, logical, philosophical, attractive, and profitable to the student; but their depth is less than he believes, their logic is more pretentious than real, and their philosophy is borrowed from a bad school.

The first work purports to be a grammar of the English language, and aims, while teaching the art of composition or the construction of sentences, to make the study of grammar attractive by exercising the thought and reasoning faculty of the pupil. The aim is commendable, but is rarely successful. The author lacks simplicity, ease, and grace as a writer, and a thorough mastery of his subject; and his grammar, by its attempt at logic and philosophy, is better fitted to discourage than to quicken thought. As far as we can discover, the work is no improvement on Lindley Murray's well-known English grammar; it is less simple, and not a whit more logical or philosophical. It departs widely from the old grammatical technology, but with no advantage, that we can discover, to the pupil. What is gained by calling adjectives and adverbs modifiers, a name appropriate to adverbs only? Adjectives qualify; adverbs modify. Murray defines the verb, "A word that signifies to be, to do, or to suffer." What do we gain by rejecting this definition, and defining it to be the word in a sentence that asserts? The author makes a sentence, as a judgment, consist of three parts, subject, predicate, and copula, which is correct. He identifies the verb with the copula, which is also correct; but he makes its essence consist in assertion, which is not correct. There is, indeed, no assertion without the copula; but the copula alone does not make the assertion. The assertion is made by the whole sentence; and the three terms, subject, predicate, and copula, are each equally necessary to the assertion or judgment. The author is right in making the verb the copula, but not when he makes its essence consist in assertion. The verb, the author says, is the copula, and essentially the copula merely expresses the identity or non-identity of the subject and predicate; but the copula, in a judgment, distinguishes as well as unites the subject and predicate, and the predicate is never identical with the subject; for, if it were, it would be subject and not predicate. When an author attempts to make grammar, logic, and philosophy correspond, he can escape censure only by success. Murray's definition of the verb is sufficient for us and for all the purposes of grammar. As such, it is enough to say a verb is a word that signifies "to be, to do, or to suffer;" but, if you insist on running grammar into logic, and making the verb express the copula of the judgment, we insist that you shall make it represent, as it does philosophically, the creative act, the real copula between being and existence, in which case the predicate is connected by the copula to the subject as its product, as when we say, Two and two make four. The verb, then, while it expresses the union of the predicate with subject, distinguishes it from the subject, as the effect from the cause.

The details of the book are frequently objectionable. The author makes as, when it follows some, such, so, and as, a relative pronoun, and that, in the clause, "The last time that I saw him," a relative pronoun, and in other locutions, exactly similar, a conjunction. As is never a relative pronoun in any correct speaker, but an adverb or conjunction of comparison. We doubt if as ever properly follows same. "It is the same as a denial" is not good English, although sometimes met with; but, if so, the sentence is elliptical. "It is the same as a denial would be." Ordinarily, same requires that, which, or who after it; and where it will not take one or another of these terms, it requires with; for same expresses identity not comparison, and, therefore, can never be properly followed by as. {427} The same as seems to us no better than equal as. So, when it must be followed by a relative pronoun, demands that. "He went as far as the gate" is good English, but neither as is a relative pronoun. The phrase, "Such men as these" is elliptical for, "Such men as these men are," where as is clearly an adverb or conjunction of comparison, and no relative pronoun at all. Wherever as is used as a relative, the phrase or sentence is a vulgarism; as, in the phrase mentioned by Mrs. Trollope, "The lady as takes in washing over the way," though not a Yankee vulgarism.

The second work should, by its title, The Art of Discourse, be a work on logic, not on rhetoric. Discourse is from the Latin discursus, and means reasoning as distinguished from intuition, if taken etymologically, and it is only in a neological sense that it stands for an oration. We see no gain in exchanging the old term rhetoric for that of discourse, which in the sense used is a pure neologism. In the first work, the author to a great extent confuses grammar with rhetoric, and in this second work he confuses rhetoric with logic. The arts of grammar, rhetoric, and logic are undoubtedly three kindred arts, but yet distinguishable by well-defined lines of difference. Grammar treats of words and their formation into sentences; rhetoric, of the arrangement of sentences in an oration, essay, dissertation, or treatise; logic, of the construction, arrangement, and relation of propositions or judgments. Grammar teaches to speak and write correctly; rhetoric, to speak or write pleasingly and persuasively; logic teaches us to reason justly and conclusively. Grammar makes us acquainted with language; rhetoric addresses language to the affections, passions, and sentiments; logic addresses the reason and judgment. Though they must all three unite in forming what Mr. Day would call a perfect discourse, they should be taught separately. Sentences may be correctly formed, and yet the discourse be heavy and dull; the sentences may be rhetorically arranged so as to move the feelings, without instructing or convincing the understanding; but still, in teaching, each art should be kept distinct, and prevented from encroaching on the province of either of the others.

Mr. Day's treatise on rhetoric is not, in our judgment, superior, or, as a whole, equal to that of Campbell or even that of Blair. Yet it is not without value, though better adapted to private study than to colleges and academies. No man can treat the art of rhetoric well who does not understand well the science both of language and of logic. Mr. Day is well aware of this, and attempts to connect the art with the science of which it is the application. This is well and praiseworthy; but, unhappily, he understands the science neither of language nor of logic. He does not understand the relation of the word to thought any more than does Professor Whitney; and no one can understand the science of logic until he has mastered philosophical science, which Mr. Day is very far from having done. The science neither of language nor of logic can be mastered by one who holds Sir William Hamilton was a philosopher, whose pretended philosophy is substantially that of the Positivists. The school Sir William Hamilton founded, and of which Professor Ferrier and Mr. Mansel are distinguished disciples, avowedly maintains that philosophy cannot rise above the sensible, and that the supersensible as well as the superintelligible must be taken, if at all, on the authority of faith or revelation.

Mr. Day belongs to this school, and adopts, to a great extent, its manner of writing English, which is hardly more intelligible to us than Choctaw or the dialects of South Africa. His example, if not his precept, is likely to encourage the distortion, we may say corruption, of plain, simple, and nervous English, which we see coming into fashion with our English as well as Scottish writers. The present race of Englishmen, when treating philosophical or theological subjects, seem to mistake obscurity for depth, and darkness for sublimity. Undeniably Jeffrey is dead. We wish the authors of school-books would show that they know and love our real English tongue, and are aware that simplicity and clearness of style are merits that should be retained.

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Short Studies On Great Subjects. By James Anthony Froude, M.A., late Fellow of Exeter College, Oxford. Crown 8vo, pp. 534. New York: Charles Scribner & Co.

Mr. Froude is a very startling instance of the truth of a statement often made during the last few years--and made by men within the Church of England as well by men outside her pale--that the Anglican establishment is rapidly losing all hold upon the most thoughtful and best educated of those who profess to be her subjects. Time, which tries all things, is demonstrating beyond cavil the insufficiency of Anglicanism not only to content the soul but to satisfy the intellect. There are fashions of thought just as there are fashions of dress, and the church which Henry VIII. made to fit as well as he could the prevailing style of mental activity in his day has been getting more and more antiquated ever since, until now it will no more suit the intelligence of the present century than King Harry's hose and doublet would accord with a modern fine gentleman's idea of dress. In the sixteenth century, the mass of men knew very little; and so, when the king's clergy told them to believe this or to believe that, they were ready enough to obey, not because they heard the church as the voice of God, but because it was only the churchmen who had learning enough to know anything about it. Now all this is changed. The relative positions of the Protestant clergy and laity have been reversed. The education of the former is for the most part narrow and superficial. The best class of laymen, on the contrary, receive a broad and liberal schooling; they sound the remotest depths of science, and penetrate recesses of nature to which the clergy, as a general thing, never approach. Taking the average of all the educated classes, the laity know more than the churchmen. The obedience, therefore, which ignorance once paid to learning has vanished. What is there to substitute in its stead? The Anglican establishment claims no direct authority from heaven to teach and direct, or, if she does assert any such prerogative, she asserts it in so loose a manner, claiming and disclaiming in the same breath, that her disciples cannot help feeling themselves at perfect liberty to obey or not as they please.

What is the natural consequence of this state of things? Why, earnest, thinking men are driven away from the English establishment in constantly increasing numbers. In a few years, if matters go on as they are now going, the regular old humdrum Episcopalian or Anglican will be as great a curiosity as the last soldier of the Revolution. Some are taking refuge in ritualism, and trying to supplant their cold and cheerless establishment by a counterfeit Catholicism, which may, and we hope will, lead them ultimately to the one true faith, but which is at present only a pretty sham. Others, and among these is Mr. Froude, rush to the opposite extreme, and profess an extravagant rationalism which is nearly equivalent to no creed at all. Mr. Froude has been regarded as in some sense the champion of the English establishment. He is the admiring chronicler of its infancy, the apologist and biographer of its earliest apostles and prophets, Henry and Elizabeth, Cromwell and Cranmer. He has made the history of its foundation the study of his life, and has told that history in a strain of enthusiasm such as has inspired no other reputable writer. If there is any man from whom we might have expected a vigorous defence of the claims of Anglicanism, a recognition of its right to command our obedience, it is Mr. Froude. Yet he has given us just the reverse of this. His volume is at once a startling indication of the mental unrest which has kept thinking Anglicans disturbed of late years, and a strong protest against the right of the Church of England to seek to quiet that uneasiness by the exercise of ecclesiastical authority or the bold promulgation of clerical dogmas. In his "Plea for the Free Discussion of Theological Difficulties," reprinted in the present volume from Fraser's Magazine, he calls for a reopening of all the fundamental questions of religious belief, a subjection of every article of every creed to the most searching discussion. {429} The clergy, he says in effect, are not to be our instructors in matters of theology. We are quite as competent to judge as they are. Theological truth is not different from any other truth. The Holy Spirit does not guide the Church, and there is no tribunal but public opinion which is competent to decide disputed questions of religious belief. In a word, the great truths of theology are all to be declared open problems, and the world is to be turned into one great debating society for their free discussion.

This is not the place to show the tendency of Mr. Froude's principles, nor to Catholic readers is there much need of showing it. We only refer to them as a remarkable example of a state of feeling which prevails among a large party of the most intellectual members of the Church of England, and what the result of that state of feeling must be it is not difficult to tell.

Of the other essays in this volume we have little to say. The three lectures on "The Times of Erasmus and Luther" are not very pleasant reading for us, but they are counterbalanced by a paper on "The Philosophy of Catholicism," in which the writer pays an eloquent tribute to "the beautiful creed which for 1500 years tuned the heart and formed the mind of the noblest of mankind." His admiration, of course, stops short of its logical term, and is but a coldly intellectual sort of appreciation at best--not that emotional comprehension which must accompany the grace of faith; but, such as it is, we thank him for it.

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Life And Letters Of Madame Swetchine. By Count de Falloux, of the French Academy. Translated by H. W. Preston, 1 vol. 12mo, pp. 369. Boston: Roberts Brothers. New York: The Catholic Publication Society. 1867.

It can hardly be necessary to inform our readers who Madame Swetchine was, or what are the claims of her life and career to the interest and attention of the public. A sketch of her remarkable history has been already given in The Catholic World for July, 1865. Her biographer was one of her most intimate friends--a member of the distinguished coterie of French ecclesiastics and laymen with whose aims and aspirations she most deeply sympathized--a witness of her dying hours, and the executor of her last will and testament. He is the Count de Falloux, and that is more than any eulogium we could pronounce on his qualities as a writer. Mr. Alger, under whose auspices this life has been translated and published, has done a great service, and has added no little to the value of the book, in its English dress, by the short preface with which he introduces it to the American public. The following passage shows what has been the intention and the spirit with which he has been animated:

"It may seem strange that a work so eminently Catholic in its quality as this biography should be introduced to a Protestant people by a Protestant translator and Protestant publishers. But, on further consideration, will not this be found especially fit and serviceable? In this country, a traditional antipathy or bigoted repugnance to the Catholic Church prevails in an unjustifiable extreme. Whatever is repulsive in the Catholic dogmas or rule is fastened on with unwarrantable acrimony and exclusiveness. The interests alike of justice and of good feeling demand that the attention of Protestants shall, at least occasionally, be given to the best ingredients and workings of the Catholic system. In the present work, we have the forensic doctrine and authority of Catholicity in the background, its purest inner aims and life in the foreground. We here have a beautiful specimen of the style of character and experience which the most imposing organic Symbol of Christendom tends to produce, and has, in all the ages of its mighty reign, largely produced. If every bigoted disliker of the Roman Catholic Church within the English-speaking race could read this book, and, as a consequence, have his prejudices lessened, his sympathies enlarged, the result, so far from being deprecated, should be warmly welcomed. This is written by one who, while enthusiastically admiring the spiritual wealth of the Catholic Church, the ineffable tenderness and beauty of its moral and religious ministrations, is, as to its dogmatic fabric and secular sway, even more than a Protestant of the Protestants. Finally, this book is especially commended to women as a work of inestimable worth. The character and life of Madame Swetchine, her lonely studies and aspirations, her sublime personal attainments, her philanthropic labors, her literary productions, her sweet social charm and vast influence, her thrice-royal friendships with kings and geniuses and saints, the sober raptures of her religious faith and fruition, form an example whose exciting and edifying interest and value are scarcely surpassed in the annals of her sex."

The translation has been well done, and the typographical execution is unexceptionable. We desire for the book as wide a circulation as possible.

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The Catholic Crusoe. Adventures of Owen Evans, Esq., Surgeon's Mate, set Ashore with Five Companions on a Desolate Island in the Caribbean Sea, 1739. Given from the original MS. By Rev. W. H. Anderdon, M.A. 12mo, pp. 344. London: Burns, Lambert & Gates. New York: The Catholic Publication Society.

The name of Dr. Anderdon's interesting story is so well indicated by the title that we have only to add that it seems admirably adapted both to amuse and instruct young people, is full of incident, and is written in a pleasant and simple style. A supplement entitled "Don Manuel's Narrative," a marvellous relation purporting to have been picked up at sea, is a second story of a nature similar to the first. We commend the book to parents and teachers as a very acceptable present for lads of a somewhat advanced age.

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Aner's Return; or, The Migrations of a Soul. An Allegorical Tale. By Alto S. Hoermann, O.S.B. Translated from the Original German by Innocent A. Bergrath. 12mo, pp. 294. New York: P. O'Shea.

This is an allegory of human life, sin, repentance, and forgiveness, the idea of which seems to have been inspired by Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress. The excellence of the author's intentions and the soundness of his theology must plead in excuse for a great many shortcomings, the most serious of which is that the book is not very readable. The ambitious style, we fear, will repel a great many readers from a story which displays considerable ingenuity, and, as we are assured by the translator, has proved very popular in Europe. It is very neatly printed and prettily bound, and will serve well as a holiday present or school premium.

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Memoirs And Correspondence Of Madame Récamier. Translated from the French, and edited by Isaphene M. Luyster. 12mo, pp. 408. Boston: Roberts Brothers.

We published in an early number of The Catholic World a sketch of the remarkable and brilliant woman whose life forms the subject of this attractive little volume. The French work, from which Miss Luyster's translation is made, appeared in Paris in 1859. It was from the pen of Madame Lenormant, the adopted daughter of Madame Récamier, and niece of her husband. The lady seems, from all accounts, to have performed her task in a rather loose and confused manner, so that Miss Luyster's part has been not only to turn it into readable English, but to prune, condense, and arrange it in readable form; and this we judge she has done in a very satisfactory manner. The correspondence is strangely deficient in Madame Récamier's own letters; but the lack of these is well compensated for by numerous ones from Chateaubriand, Matthieu de Montmorency, and Ballanche, and a few from Madame de Staël, La Harpe Bernadotte, Louis Napoleon, Victor Hugo, and Béranger.

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The Galin Method Of Musical Instruction. By C. H. Farnham. New York: American News Company. 1867.

Mr. Farnham gives us a very concise comparative view of the common system of musical notation and the new one known as the Galin Method, which has already received so much consideration in Europe, and must soon attract the attention of the musical world in this country. In France, many distinguished musicians have advocated the general adoption of the Galin method, and it is the only one now used at the Polytechnic and superior normal schools in Paris and in the government schools of Russia. It aims at simplifying the system of musical signs, now certainly somewhat complicated, by the substitution of a uniform series of figures for the old staff, with its different clefs and many-shaped notes.

It is claimed that by this method nine persons out of ten can be taught the whole theory of music in a few months, and learn at the same time to sing at sight and to write under dictation, independently of an instrument, music of ordinary difficulty. {431} We have very little doubt that this system possesses immense advantages over the old one for learning the theory of music and for the execution of a vocal score. But we are not quite sure that a page of instrumental music written according to the Galin method would be any less difficult to read than one written in the old style. We have already simplified matters a good deal by the abandonment of several of the clefs formerly in use, and we do not see why a still further reformation might not be made. We had the pleasure of assisting at one of Mr. Farnham's classes, given in this city, and can testify to the remarkable facility of reading and writing music according to this method, as exhibited by his pupils. Our musical readers will not fail to find much to interest them in a perusal of this essay.

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St. Ignatius And The Society Of Jesus: Their Influence on Civilization and Christianity. A Sermon delivered in the Church of the Immaculate Conception, in Boston, on Sunday, August 4th, 1867. By Rev. G. F. Haskins, Rector of the Home of the Angel Guardian. Boston: Bernard Carr, Printer, 5 Chatham Row. 1867.

Father Haskins is one of our most eloquent preachers and most graphic writers, although he seldom favors us with any published productions. His eloquence is that eloquence of realities which flies off like a glowing stream of sparks from the energetic action of a soul on fire with zeal, incessantly occupied in practical works of charity. The sermon before us is a panegyric pronounced in the church of the Jesuits in Boston, on the occasion of the celebration of the feast of St. Ignatius. It recounts in a succinct but forcible and thorough manner the services rendered to religion and humanity by the Society of Jesus. Although the language is glowing and the eulogium of the highest kind, yet, in point of fact, Father Haskins has not exaggerated the reality. History bears out all that he so warmly claims for this great religious order, which has equalled in its history the greatest orders of past ages, while far surpassing all others in modern times. The hatred and calumny which the Jesuits have encountered on the part of anti-Catholics were never more gratuitous and undeserved. The whole sum of the accusations which Catholic writers have been able to bring against them merely show that some portions of the society have at times degenerated from its true spirit; that individuals have erred in doctrine, or committed faults in administration; that a mistaken policy has sometimes been adopted; and that the order has not, any more than the other great orders, transcended that limited though elevated sphere to which every order is confined by the law of its being. The Jesuits were constituted as one of the corps d'élite of the church militant. As such they have rendered the most signal services, which will ever cover their names with imperishable glory; and we ascribe their success, in subordination to the grace of God and the unfailing vigor of the Catholic Church whose offspring they are, to the genius elevated by sanctity of their founder, and the admirable constitutions which he bequeathed to the institute.

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Meditations Of St. Thomas, etc. For a Retreat of Ten Days. Followed by a Treatise on the Virtues, etc. By Father Massoulie, O.P. Translated from the French. London: Richardson. New York: The Catholic Publication Society.

These Meditations have been taken, as to their substance, from the writings of St. Thomas, but arranged and supplemented by the learned Dominican whose name is given in the title. Their great advantage lies in the fact that they embody the doctrine of one who was not only the most consummate theologian the world has ever seen, but also a contemplative saint of the highest order. This gives one who wishes to use them for his own profit a secure warrant that they will furnish his mind and heart with the most choice as well as wholesome nutriment they can possibly feed upon. The works of saints are always to be preferred to all others. {432} We recommend, therefore, this work, derived from the writings of a most illustrious saint, to all; especially to thoughtful and educated men who can relish, and who, therefore, desire and need, the most solid spiritual food to promote the growth of intelligent, solid piety and virtue in their souls.

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The Heiress Of Killorgan; or, Evenings With The Old Geraldines. By Mrs. J. Sadlier. New York; D. & J. Sadlier & Co.

The author of this very interesting novel has given to our literature a great number of works of various kinds, intended not only for our amusement but for our instruction; and the present volume is perhaps the very best specimen of her productions, combining, as it does, the interest of a romance with many genuine historical and personal reminiscences of the celebrated Anglo-Norman family of Fitzgerald, with which is associated so much of the history of Ireland from the English invasion until the present time. It cannot be said that there is any plot in the tale, being a simple narration of the incidents occurring in the household of a refined family reduced in fortune, but still retaining its native dignity and pride of ancestry; but the characters, though few, are clearly, gracefully, and vividly drawn. The heiress of the decayed house of Killorgan is admirably sketched with a pencil which aims less at personal description than at those delicate lines of thought and feeling which, after all, give us the truest idea of the excellence of the female character. The greatest merit, however, of the work rests in its historical descriptions, which, being taken from the best authorities, are thoroughly reliable and presented in a very attractive and concise form.

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Affixes In Their Origin And Application. Exhibiting the Etymological Structure of English Words. By S. S. Haldeman, A.M. Philadelphia: Butler & Co. 1865. 12mo, pp. 271.

Professor Haldeman has few if any superiors in the science of language, and he has also the modesty that always accompanies real merit. He pretends to no more knowledge than he really has, and he never undertakes to explain what in the present state of linguistic science is not explicable. His chief fault is his fear of saying on any point more than is necessary, which leaves him in his brevity sometimes obscure. We should find his work more easily understood if he allowed himself to enlarge a little more on the independent meaning of the prefixes and suffixes to English words. But perhaps he is full enough for others.

The importance of affixes in the construction of English words may be gathered from the fact that there are in English only about three thousand two hundred monosyllables, and that many of these even are not primitives, but have a prefix, a suffix, or both. It is evident that affixes must be concerned in the formation of by far the greatest part of the English vocabulary, and that an accurate knowledge of English words is to be obtained only "through a distinct appreciation of the modes used to vary them according to the exigencies of thought and speech." This appreciation in the case of our mother tongue becomes the more difficult because it is a composite tongue, and, unlike the Greek and Welsh, for instance, has not its chief etymological materials in itself, and its words cannot in general be analyzed independently of other languages. To have a scientific knowledge of our language we must know the languages from which its words are derived, and the derivation, meaning, and use of their affixes in those languages as well as in our own. Professor Haldeman has in this small but compact volume attempted to give us the derivation, meaning, and use of all the affixes, divided into prefixes and suffixes, in the English language, from whatever language taken, and he has done it in as satisfactory a manner as possible in the present state of comparative philology. No English scholar should fail to obtain and master it, if he wishes really to understand his own language.

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The Catholic World.

Vol. Vi., No. 34. January, 1868.

The Catholic Doctrine Of Justification.

The remarks we are about to make in this article grow out of the discussion of the philosophy of conversion between this magazine and the New-Englander. Nevertheless, those who expect a continuation of personal controversy on the topics suggested in our last article, and a formal rejoinder to the respected writer in the New-Englander who replied to it, will be disappointed. Our views on the subject matter of discussion were expressed, as we think, clearly enough to be understood, and as fully as our purpose required. We leave them, therefore, to the judgment of those of our readers who are really in earnest, that they may give them whatever weight their intrinsic value may demand in the court of conscience; and as for the opinion of others, we care nothing. Controversy upon minor topics and side issues is of its very nature interminable, as well as of little comparative utility. The controversy between the Catholic Church and Protestants on the great, fundamental principles and doctrines at issue, has been so ably and thoroughly argued out that there is little left to be done in that department of theology. For those who desire information, there are plenty of books to be had treating of every topic in a much more satisfactory manner than it is possible to treat them in the short compass of magazine articles. The great controversy of the day, in our opinion, and the one which interests us most deeply, is the one which is waging between Christianity and infidelity, in its various phases of rationalism, scepticism, and atheism. So far as Protestants of the more orthodox schools are concerned, the aspect of the question we feel most disposed to present to them is that which Guizot and others of their own number have seen with more or less distinctness--namely, that in the great conflict of the age their real interest is at stake in the success of the Catholic side; that, as Christians, they belong to us, and ought to make with us common cause against the enemy. That method of removing the difficulty in the way of their doing so which recommends itself to our judgment and feelings is one which brings into strong relief the grand, fundamental principles of Christianity in which we agree; and with these principles as a point of departure, endeavors to explain and develop the complete Catholic system in such a way as to remove misunderstandings and to show how the several, particular portions of revealed truth, held by our various bodies of separated brethren in a fragmentary state, are integrated in a grand, universal whole in this Catholic system. {434} In this line, as we conceive it, lie the richest and least worked-out fields, where new writers may enter in and follow up the labors of their predecessors. One special need, moreover, is to clothe thought in a language which is familiar to the persons we are addressing, and to translate or explain in their own idiom what may be strange or unintelligible in the forms of other ages, countries, and schools of philosophy and theology. What little the writer of this article is able to do he prefers to do in this line, and thinks it best to restrict himself to single and specific topics in the short essays which are the only suitable ones for a magazine. We have no wish to abjure general controversy in the abstract, or to lay down a rule of conduct in this matter for others. Nor would we seem to slight or treat with indifference what may be written on the other side. We desire to give due attention to all that candid and courteous opponents may have to say, and to keep it in view when we are arguing our own cause. It suits better, however, with the time and strength we have at our command, and our other avocations, to keep ourselves free from the obligations of formal controversy, and to be at liberty to take up such single topics as may be opportune according to circumstances. At present, we propose to touch a little more at length upon the topic of justification, one of those we have before now briefly remarked upon, dropping altogether the attitude and style of personal controversy.

The real objection against the Catholic doctrine of justification by fides formata, or faith informed by charity, as well as the reason for insisting that faith alone justifies, exclusively of the charity which accompanies it, is grounded in a notion that the former doctrine subverts the gratuitous character of salvation by the grace of God through the merits of Jesus Christ. We propose, therefore, to make a brief exposition of the Catholic doctrine, with a view of showing what it really teaches respecting the gratuitousness of grace, and the work of Christ as the meritorious cause of its being conferred.

Catholic theology teaches, what even sound philosophy demonstrates, that all created existence proceeds from a gratuitous act of the Creator. But it teaches, moreover, against the Pelagians, that the original state of supernatural justice and sanctity in which the angels and Adam were constituted was an additional gratuitous boon, or grace conferred by God. It is evident, then, that the Catholic doctrine excludes the possibility of holding that the first principle of the beatification and glorification of a creature is in the nature of the creature itself. This principle, as supernatural, is not due to nature, cannot be merited by any acts proceeding from the principles of nature, and must therefore be a pure, gratuitous grace. That is, the creature is justified by grace, and owes the capacity of attaining beatitude, consequently beatitude itself when attained, radically to a pure act of the divine goodness. It is plain, therefore, that the angels and Adam could not have merited their own justification. They were obliged either to receive it passively, or to accept it, as Billuart holds, by an active concurrence with grace. {435} The grace being given, constituting its subjects in the state of justice and sanctity, what was it? It was not a mere forensic and exterior modification of their relation to God, but an interior, sanctifying grace, making them subjectively, holy, like to God, affiliated to him, united to him in an inchoate union whose final term is beatitude. It is evident that this sanctifying grace, which in act was the love of God, made them fit and worthy to be the friends of God, and to be admitted to the fellowship of his glory. It is also certain that they were placed in probation. What was that probation? Was it not a trial of obedience, in which certain definite acts of free-will were prescribed as the conditions of being confirmed in grace and consummated in glory? Eternal life was therefore proposed to them as the reward of good works, as a premium of voluntary obedience, and as such is actually possessed by the holy angels in heaven. It is, therefore, true that the angels were justified by grace, justified by charity, justified by good works; that their salvation proceeds from the pure goodness of God, and has been obtained by their own good acts: nor is there the least contradiction in any of these statements.

There being no intrinsic, necessary contradiction between the two propositions, the creature is justified and beatified by the gratuitous grace of God; and, the creature is justified and beatified by his personal sanctity--there is no necessary logical deduction derivable from the premise that man in his present state is justified by gratuitous grace to the conclusion that he is not justified by his intrinsic sanctity. The redemption has repaired the fall, has restored the human race to the condition from which it fell by the sin of Adam. There is no reason, therefore, why man should not be justified now, in essentially the same manner as before; no reason why the order of grace, repaired by redemption, should not follow the same essential laws as before the fall. If a change has taken place, it must be proved that it is so. If this change was required by the fact that the restoration of man is due to the merits of Christ, the reason of it must be shown. It must be shown that the recovery of justification through the merits of Christ is incompatible with justification by intrinsic sanctity and glorification as the reward of good works done from the principle of charity. If this cannot be shown, no argument can be derived from the doctrine that the work of Christ is the meritorious cause of the justification of fallen man to prove that the formal cause of his justification is any other than the formal cause of the justification of the angels and of man in his original state.

The Catholic doctrine teaches that the sacrifice of himself which Jesus Christ offered up on the cross is the meritorious cause of justification through the expiation which it made of original and actual sin, and the new title which it obtained to the lost inheritance of everlasting life. This includes in itself the grant of all those graces which are necessary in order to the remission of sins, the sanctification of the soul, and its complete preparation for the state of beatitude and glory. Consequently, all Catholic theologians teach that the initial movement of the sinner to return to God, the faith which disposes him for justification, the sanctifying grace which makes him really just and the friend of God, the actual graces which enable him to perform salutary acts, the special aid which enables him to persevere, all proceed from the grace of God, which is gratuitous in reference to the original provision of a plan of redemption, gratuitous toward each individual who receives it so far as he is personally concerned, and due as a reward, under the title of justice, solely to Jesus Christ himself on account of his own personal merits. {436} It is, therefore, through the merits of Christ that a sinner receives the grace which justifies and sanctifies him in the first instance. Through the same merits he receives the remission of his sins, if he falls into any afterward. Through the same merits he receives all the actual graces which he obtains by prayer. And, finally, it is through the same merits that the kingdom of heaven has been prepared for him, as the ultimate term to which he is permitted to aspire. The effect of the merits of the death of Christ upon the cross is therefore to put fallen man back again, essentially, where he was before the trial in Paradise, and where the angels were when they were created. It does not affect the case at all whether the angels and Adam were placed in that state in view of the Incarnation, or by the mere goodness of God, without any reference to the Incarnation. If they were created and elevated to the divine filiation, intuitu Christi, they received a boon motived upon the extrinsic glory which God would receive from his deific humanity. If not, they received the same boon motived upon the glory which God would receive from their elevation to beatitude. The boon was equally gratuitous in either case, for the decree of the Incarnation, whether included in the decree of creation or in that of redemption--whether antecedent or subsequent to the foresight of redemption--was perfectly gratuitous. Nay, more: because it was gratuitous it was fitting and just that God should condition it with any terms that were possible and reasonable. He did actually condition it upon obedience to certain precepts, unknown to us as regards the angels, but known as regards Adam. The original grace conceded to them, therefore, merely placed them in a condition to obtain everlasting beatitude by corresponding to this grace with their free, voluntary acts, or by fidelity to the obligations of their probation. They were justified, that is, placed in the state of justification, by the act of God which gave them sanctifying grace. They were constituted just in act by this personal quality of sanctifying grace, which made them fit and worthy to be the sons of God; and they were commanded to retain the state of justice, to augment it, and to obtain confirmation in it, with the consummation of it in glory, as a premium of obedience to the divine precepts. The holy angels are now in heaven actually the object of the divine love of complacency on account of their inherent sanctity and in proportion to the degree of it which each one possesses. They enjoy heaven as a reward gained by the right exercise of their free-will; and yet, it is no less true that their state of glory is due to the gratuitous grace of God, nor is there any contradiction in supposing that the grace was given to them intuitu Christi.

The fact that man is now placed under an order of grace, based on the merits of Christ, cannot therefore be shown to be incompatible with the position that he is also placed in a state of probation essentially similar to that of angels and of Adam. He may be constituted just by sanctifying grace, as well as they; obliged, as well as they, to remain just, and to attain perpetual justice and its complement of glory by the right exercise of his free-will in producing acts which proceed from the principle of sanctity within him.

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The Catholic doctrine teaches that man is actually placed in this state of probation under the law of grace established in Christ. This probation implies that the initial, inchoate principle of the divine everlasting life to which he is destined should be implanted within him, as the centre of the supernatural force giving him a movement toward his prefixed end. It implies, also, that a series of acts impelling him forward should proceed from this principle by the effort of his free-will. This principle can be nothing else than sanctifying grace, and sanctifying grace, in its essence, can be nothing else than the love of God. Love is the only principle capable of uniting the soul with God. Faith alone cannot do it. It is further evident that faith cannot be the essential principle which makes the soul just, for two reasons: First. That infants are capable of justification, which, we suppose, no one will deny, but are not capable of an act of faith. Second. That faith is a temporary virtue, ceasing in the beatified state, whereas the principle of justification is permanent and eternal.

Moreover, the sphere of probation is necessarily identical with the sphere of free-will, and the sphere of free-will is coextensive with all the precepts which God has given as the matter for free-will to exercise its choice upon, by selecting the good and rejecting the evil. The acts which must proceed from the principle of love, in order to bring the soul to God as its ultimate term, must, therefore, cover the whole ground of the divine law, and include the fulfilment of all its commandments. It is impossible, therefore, that faith alone should justify, unless probation, free-will, and the law of God are strictly confined to the sphere of faith. No one will pretend that they are. If they are not, it is impossible that a mere habit of faith, or the mere exercise of faith in act, should alone constitute a man just before God. God is not bound to place a creature on probation. He can justify, sanctify, and glorify him immediately, without leaving him any liberty of choice between good and evil. But he cannot elevate him to the high state of personal union and friendship with himself without giving him that love which fixes the will immovably in God as the supreme good, and includes in itself all virtue and sanctity. Union between the soul and God requires likeness. The soul must be made like to God in order that it may love God, and that God may love the soul. Although, therefore, God is not bound to place a creature on probation--that is, to require of him the particular exercise of love which consists in a voluntary obedience to certain precepts--yet he cannot dispense with love itself, which is the sole and indispensable requisite to a state of perfect justification; and although he is not bound to place a creature in a state of probation, yet if he does so, he cannot dispense with those acts of love which are suitable to such a state. The very notion of a state of probation requires that certain precepts should be given to a rational creature, who is free to keep them or violate them as he may choose, and who is to receive the favor of God during his probation and an eternal reward at the end of it if he keeps them, forfeiting both if he fails to do so. On any other supposition, the state of probation is entirely illusory and unreal. The attributes of God require him to carry out the terms of the probation to which he has subjected man. {438} When he imposes precepts, he must from his very nature withdraw his friendship from the transgressor. He may still regard him with the love of benevolence, and offer him forgiveness; but he cannot actually forgive him and look upon him again with the love of complacency until he has regained his lost sanctity and returned to the love of God. Sin of its own nature turns the soul away from God as its supreme good to some created object. It is, therefore, a contradiction in terms to say that a man can be in the state of sin and the state of justification at the same time; for it is equivalent to saying that he can at the same instant be turned toward God as his supreme good, and away from him. Love is therefore the conditio sine quâ non, at least, of justification. Faith alone cannot, therefore, formally justify. If it did, there would be no need of love in order to constitute a man just before God. A man might be completely justified while in the very act of the most grievous sin, as, for instance, blasphemy, murder, or suicide, and might die without having changed his will to commit those sins, yet pass immediately to heaven. These sins are not incompatible with faith, though they are with charity. If they are incompatible with faith, all mortal sins--that is, all those which, in the strict and proper sense, alienate the soul from God, and destroy charity--must be incompatible with faith. Why is this? Does faith, of its own nature, produce charity? If it does, it must contain within itself the radical principle of charity, and while it exists in the soul it must exclude all sins which are directly contrary to charity and incompatible with it. Then, one who has faith cannot commit a mortal sin. If faith is inamissible, and a man once justified can no more lose his justification, then, as soon as one has obtained faith, he has obtained also exemption from all mortal sins for the future. If faith is not inamissible, then every sin against charity, or every mortal sin, destroys faith and justification. Such a definition of faith, however, including love and sanctifying grace, makes faith to be the fides formata of Catholic theology.

If it is said that faith does not, of itself, produce charity, yet is always accompanied by charity, it must be, then, that faith gives one a title to sanctifying grace and charity, so that, whoever makes an act of faith, receives an additional gift which makes him holy. In that case, every one who was once justified would be exempt from mortal sin while his faith lasts. If the first act of faith justifies once for all, then the believer can never again commit a mortal sin. If it justifies only for the time being, then while it lasts it preserves the soul from sin, and whoever sins proves that he has already lost faith. This is contrary to reason and experience. It is certain that men who have had faith and grace have afterwards sinned mortally. Therefore, faith does not, by its first act, bring with it an inamissible gift of charity. It is also certain that men do not always lose faith when they sin, or sin against faith first before they sin against charity. Many a man who believes firmly in Jesus Christ as the Son of God and the Saviour of men, and who hopes for salvation through his merits, commits mortal sin, and even lives for years in the habitual state of sin. It may be said that such persons have no saving faith, never did have it, or have lost it. But what is saving faith? What is the differentia of that faith which really justifies? {439} It is evident enough that a certain kind of habitual belief in Jesus Christ and his doctrines, accompanied by a desire and hope of being saved through his merits and mercy, does frequently exist in persons who are living in habitual sin. If this is not genuine faith, or saving faith, there must be in saving faith some additional quality which distinguishes it from that faith which produces no fruits of sanctity. Is it made saving by its quality of supernaturalness, or as proceeding from the grace of the Holy Spirit? This is the same as saying that supernatural faith, as such, or because it is a grace of the Holy Spirit, necessarily brings with it sanctification. This is not so. The Holy Spirit may and does give men a firm belief in revealed truths, and a hope of obtaining mercy from God through Christ before they are actually forgiven and justified. This remains in them, often, after they have lost sanctifying grace by sin, as a disposition which facilitates their return to God. It does not, however, per se, produce the fruits of sanctity, or implant the principle of love, from which these fruits proceed, which is the very principle of union with God, and, therefore, the formal cause of justification. That quality which faith must have, in order to render it justifying faith, cannot be, therefore, anything else but charity, or the love of God, which makes it fides formata.

We are convinced that a great number of Protestants substantially hold the doctrines we have laid down. They believe that man has free-will; is bound to believe and obey the doctrine and precepts of Jesus Christ; is made the friend of God by sanctifying grace brought into the active exercise of Christian virtue by his own voluntary cooperation; is placed here to work out his own salvation; will receive heaven as a reward if he serves God faithfully, and will be damned if he lives in sin. Even those who hold the Calvinistic tradition either modify its tenets or hold more sound and rational opinions in juxtaposition with them, which really control their sentiments and conduct. It would be easy to show this by a multitude of citations. So far as metaphysical opinions and technical statements are concerned, we judge every work and every formula of doctrine by its obvious, objective sense, and accept every individual writer's statements respecting his own opinions. But in regard to the real, genuine ideas which form the true intellectual and spiritual life of men, we take the liberty of judging them more by the language they use in common life, by their indirect statements, and by the general spirit and scope of what they say and write, when not immediately intent upon stating their technical formulas, than from their technical formulas themselves. We have heard it said of the illustrious President Dwight that his real sentiments and conduct toward his fellow-men indicated a belief in the goodness of all men, whereas he held theoretically that all men were totally depraved. We have no doubt that President Edwards always acted on the belief that his children possessed the self-determining power of the will, against which he wrote so acutely, or that Bishop Berkeley was persuaded of the reality of the external world. Therefore, we still think that a large number of non-Catholics are more Catholic in their belief than they are aware, and that their rejection of what they suppose to be Catholic doctrine is frequently only a rejection of opinions attributed by mistake to the Catholic Church. {440} In regard to this special question of justification, it is our opinion that the objection prevalent among the more orthodox Protestants is based on the supposition that the Catholic doctrine ascribes a justifying and saving efficacy to a mere intellectual submission to church-authority, and a mere external compliance with its precepts, without reference to the interior disposition of the soul toward God, or recognition of the merits of Christ as the source of all the supernatural excellence and value of good works. It is believed that the Catholic substitutes the merits of the Blessed Virgin Mary, the merits of the saints, and his own merits, as an independent ground of justification, in lieu of the merits of Christ. Also, that merit is ascribed to mere external works, such as fasting, hearing mass, and performing ceremonial rites or penitential labors, on account of the mere physical nature and extent of the works done, without reference to the motive from which they proceed. The vague and timorous pastoral of the late Synod of Lambeth is explicit and bold only on this one point, of condemning the substitution of the Virgin Mary as a mediator in the place of Christ. For this reason, we think that the simple statement of the genuine Catholic doctrine is the surest way to remove objections against it, and that most of these objections fall away of themselves as soon as the misapprehensions of the doctrine are removed. This is no private fancy of our own, but the judgment of some of the ablest theologians of the world, Protestant as well as Catholic. Leibnitz, the greatest philosopher among Protestants, found nothing to object to in the doctrines of the Council of Trent respecting justification. Dr. Pusey, one of the most learned men of the age in scriptural and patristic theology, has publicly expressed his adhesion to the same doctrine. It is easy to ridicule that movement in the Anglican church, of which he is the head; but it would be much more sensible for those who do it to study his elaborate and profound writings, and much more difficult to refute them. Protestantism has produced nothing, at least in the English language, which can approach the great works of the High-Church divines of England. These works contain the elements of all the theology of Catholic doctrine respecting the justification of man, in the ascetical, spiritual, and sacramental aspects of the question. All the life of Protestantism in England is centred in the Catholicizing movement. On the continent, that orthodox Protestantism which is derived from Luther and Calvin is a nullity. The real issue of the world, as we have repeatedly said, is about the fundamental principles of Christianity. The question between Catholics and those Protestants who hold with us these fundamental principles is not, as many of them suppose, respecting the first principles of the doctrine of Christ, but respecting the deductions to be derived from them and their due development. That God is revealed in Jesus Christ, as our sovereign teacher, our sovereign Lord, our sovereign redeemer and mediator, the sovereign author of our spiritual and everlasting life; that we are bound to render him the absolute homage of our faith and our obedience, is admitted by all. The only question is, by what method or means can we ascertain with certainty the exact and complete sense of the doctrine he has commanded us to believe and the law he has commanded us to keep. This is a question to be decided by evidence. The sooner the prohibentia in the way of examining carefully and candidly this evidence are removed the better. This is the only point we have been aiming at--the only result we desire to reach. {441} We have endeavored to remove some of the obstacles in the way of a fair hearing of the claims of the Catholic Church, arising from à priori conceptions of her doctrine, which are thought to authorize a foregone conclusion against them. We have also presented some of the reasons specially urgent at present, why the basis for unity which the Catholic Church offers should be carefully and studiously considered by all those who desire the union and welfare of Christendom, its victory over every form of anti-Christianity, and its universal extension in the world. The fides formata, or faith working by love, which we have set forth as the vital principle of spiritual life in the individual, must also be the principle of unity in the Christian society. Whoever has faith implicitly believes all those revealed doctrines which, without his own fault, he does not explicitly know to be revealed. Whoever has love has the principle of obedience to those laws whose existence he does not know. Therefore, we say that whoever has fides formata is justified, and, of course, spiritually united to the true church. But whoever remains culpably in error respecting essential doctrines and precepts, or refuses to believe and obey what is fairly presented to him as the revealed truth and will of Jesus Christ, cannot have fides formata. It is evident, therefore, that we are all bound to strive after as great a certitude as possible respecting the important question at issue between the Catholic Church and Protestants.

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Translated From The French.

The Story Of A Conscript.

VI.

The mairie of Phalsbourg, that Thursday morning, January 15th, 1813, during the drawing for the conscription, was a sight to be seen. To-day it is bad enough to be drawn, to be forced to leave parents, friends, home, one's goods and one's fields, to go and learn--God knows where "One! two! one! two! halt! eyes left! eyes right! front! carry arms!" etc. etc. Yes, this is all bad enough, but there is a chance of returning. One can say, with something like confidence: "In seven years I will see my old nest again, and my parents, and perhaps my sweetheart. I shall have seen the world, and will perhaps have some title to be appointed forester or gend'arme." This is a comfort for reasonable people. But then, if you had the ill-luck to lose in the lottery, there was an end of you; often not one in a hundred returned. The idea that you were only going for a time never entered your head.

The enrolled of Harberg, of Garbourg, and of Quatre-Vents were to draw first; then those of the city, and lastly those of Wéehem and Mittlebronn.

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I was up early in the morning, and with my elbows on the work-bench I watched the people pass by; young men in blouses, poor old men in cotton caps and short vests; old women in jackets and woolen skirts, bent almost double, with staff or umbrella under their arms. They arrived by families. Monsieur the Sous-Préfet of Larrebourg, with his silver collar, and his secretary, had stopped the day before at the "Red Ox," and they were also looking out of the window. Toward eight o'clock, Monsieur Goulden began work, after breakfasting. I ate nothing, but stared and stared until Monsieur the Mayor, Parmentier and his coadjutor, came for Monsieur the Sous-Préfet.

The drawing began at nine, and soon we heard the clarionet of Pfifer-Karl and the violin of great Andrès resounding through the streets. They were playing the "March of the Swedes," an air to which thousands of poor wretches had left old Alsace for ever. The conscripts danced, linked arms, shouted until their voices seemed to pierce the clouds, stamped on the ground, waved their hats, trying to seem joyful while death was at their hearts. Well, it was the fashion; and big Andrès, withered, stiff, and yellow as boxwood, and his short chubby comrade, with cheeks extended to their utmost tension, seemed like people who would lead you to the churchyard all the while chatting indifferently.

That music, those cries, sent a shudder through my heart.

I had just put on my swallow-tailed coat and my beaver hat to go out, when Aunt Grédel and Catharine entered, saying:

"Good morning, Monsieur Goulden. We have come for the conscription."

Then I saw how Catharine had been crying. Her eyes were red, and she threw her arms around my neck, while her mother turned to me.

Monsieur Goulden said:

"It will soon be the turn of the young men of the city."

"Yes, Monsieur Goulden," answered Catharine, in a choking voice; "they have finished Harberg."

"Then it is time for you to go, Joseph," said he; "but do not grieve; do not be frightened. These drawings, you know, are only a matter of form. For a long while past none can escape; or if they escape one drawing, they are caught a year or two after. All the numbers are bad. When the council of exemption meets, we will see what is best to be done. To-day it is merely a sort of satisfaction they give people to draw in the lottery; but every one loses."

"No matter," said Aunt Grédel; "Joseph will win."

"Yes, yes," replied Monsieur Goulden, smiling, "he cannot fail."

Then I sallied forth with Catharine and Aunt Grédel, and we went to the town place, where the crowd was. In all the shops, dozens of conscripts, purchasing ribbons, thronged around the counters, weeping and singing as if possessed. Others in the inns embraced, sobbing; but still they sang. Two or three musicians of the neighborhood--the Gipsy Walteufel, Rosselkasten, and George Adam--had arrived, and their pieces thundered in terrible and heart-rending strains.

Catharine squeezed my arm. Aunt Grédel followed.

Opposite the guard-house I saw the peddler Pinacle affar off, his pack opened on a little table, and beside it a long pole decked with ribbons which he was selling to the conscripts.

I hastened to pass by him, when he cried:

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"Ha! Cripple! Halt! Come here; I have a fine ribbon for you; you must have a magnificent one--one to draw a prize by."

He waved a long black ribbon above his head, and I grew pale despite myself. But as we ascended the steps of the mairie, a conscript was just descending; it was Klipfel, the smith of the French gate; he had drawn number eight, and shouted:

"The black for me, Pinacle! Bring it here, whatever may happen."

His face was gloomy, but he laughed. His little brother Jean was crying behind him, and said:

"No, no, Jacob! not the black!"

But Pinacle fastened the ribbon to the smith's hat, while the latter said:

"That is what we want now. We are all dead, and should wear our own mourning."

And he cried savagely:

"Vive l'Empereur!"

I was better satisfied to see the black ribbon on his hat than on mine, and I slipped quickly through the crowd to avoid Pinacle.

We had great difficulty in getting into the mairie and in climbing the old oak stairs, where people where going up and down in swarms. In the great hall above, the gendarme Kelz walked about, maintaining order as well as he could, and in the council-chamber at the side, where there is a painting of Justice with her eyes blindfolded, we heard them calling off the numbers. From time to time a conscript came put with flushed face, fastening his number on his cap and passing with bowed head through the crowd, like a furious bull who cannot see clearly and who would seem to wish to break his horns against the walls. Others, on the contrary, passed pale as death. The windows of the mairie were open, and without were heard six or seven pieces playing together. It was horrible.

I pressed Catharine's hand, and we passed slowly through the crowd to the hall where Monsieur the Sous-Préfet, the Mayors, and the Secretaries were seated on their tribune, calling the numbers aloud as if pronouncing sentence of death in a court of justice; for all those numbers were really sentences of death.

We waited a long while.

It seemed as if there was no longer a drop of blood in my veins, when at last my name was called.

I advanced, seeing and hearing nothing; I put my hand in the box and drew a number.

Monsieur the Sous-Préfet cried out:

"Number seventeen."

Then I departed without speaking, Catharine and her mother behind me. We went out into the place, and, the air reviving me, I remembered that I had drawn number seventeen.

Aunt Grédel seemed confounded.

"And I put something into your pocket, too," said she; "but that rascal of a Pinacle gave you ill luck."

At the same time she drew from my coat-pocket the end of a cord. Great drops of sweat rolled down my forehead; Catharine was white as marble, and so we returned to Monsieur Goulden's.

"What number did you draw, Joseph?" he asked, as soon as he saw us.

"Seventeen," replied Aunt Grédel, sitting down, with her hands upon her knees.

Monsieur Goulden seemed troubled for a moment, but he said instantly:

"One is as good as another. All will go; the skeletons must be filled. But it don't matter for Joseph. I will go and see Monsieur the Mayor and Monsieur the Commandant. It will be telling no lie to say that Joseph is lame; all the town knows that; but among so many they may overlook him. That is why I go, so rest easy; do not be anxious."

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These words of good Monsieur Goulden reassured Aunt Grédel and Catharine, who returned to Quatre-Vents full of hope; but they did not affect me, for from that moment I had not a moment of rest day or night.

The emperor had a good custom: he did not allow the conscripts to languish at home. Soon as the drawing was complete, the council of revision met, and a few days after came the orders to march. He did not do like those tooth-pullers who first show you their pincers and hooks and gaze for an hour into your mouth, so that you feel half dead before they make up their minds to begin work: he proceeded without loss of time.

A week after the drawing, the council of revision sat at the town hall, with all the mayors and a few notables of the country to give advice in case of need.

The day before Monsieur Goulden had put on his brown great-coat and his best wig to go to wind up Monsieur the Mayor's clock and that of the Commandant. He returned laughing and said:

"All goes well, Joseph. Monsieur the Mayor and Monsieur the Commandant know that you are lame; that is easy enough to be seen. They replied at once, Eh, Monsieur Goulden, the young man is lame; why speak of him? Do not be uneasy; we do not want the infirm; we want soldiers."

These words poured balm on my wounds, and that night I slept like one of the blessed. But the next day fear again assailed me; I remembered suddenly how many men full of defects had gone all the same, and how many others invented defects to deceive the council; for instance, swallowing injurious substances to make them pale; tying up their legs to give themselves swollen veins; or playing deaf, blind, or foolish. I had heard that vinegar would make one sick, and, without telling Monsieur Goulden, in my fear I swallowed all the vinegar in his bottle. Then I dressed myself, thinking that I looked like a dead man, for the vinegar was very strong; but when I entered Monsieur Goulden's room, he cried out:

"Joseph, what is the matter with you? You are as red as a cock's comb."

And, looking at myself in the mirror, I saw that my face was red to my ears and to the very tip of my nose. I was frightened, but instead of growing pale I became redder yet, and I cried out in my distress:

"Now I am lost indeed! I will seem like a man without a single defect, and full of health. The vinegar is rushing to my head."

"What vinegar?" asked Monsieur Goulden.

"That in your bottle. I drank it to make myself pale, as they say Mademoiselle Selapp, the organist, does. O Heavens! what a fool I was."

"That does not prevent your being lame," said Monsieur Goulden; "but you tried to deceive the council, which was dishonest. But it is half-past nine, and Werner is come to tell me you must be there at ten o'clock. So, hurry."

I had to go in that state; the heat of the vinegar seemed bursting from my cheeks, and when I met Catharine and her mother, who were waiting for me at the mairie, they scarcely knew me.

"How happy and satisfied you look!" said Aunt Grédel.

{445}

I would have fainted on hearing this if the vinegar had not sustained me in spite of myself. I went upstairs in terrible agony, without being able to move my tongue to reply, so great was the horror I felt at my folly.

Above, more than twenty-five conscripts who pretended to be infirm, had been examined and received, while twenty-five others, on a bench along the wall, sat with drooping heads awaiting their turn.

The old gendarme, Kelz, with his huge cocked hat, was walking about, and as soon as he saw me exclaimed: "At last! At last! Here is one, at all events, who will not be sorry to go; the love of glory is shining in his eyes. Very good, Joseph; I predict that at the end of the campaign you will be corporal."

"But I am lame," I cried angrily.

"Lame!" repeated Kelz, winking and smiling; "lame! No matter. With such health as yours you can always hold your own."

He had scarcely ceased speaking when the door of the hall of the Council of Revision opened, and the other gendarme, Werner, putting out his head, called, "Joseph Bertha."

I entered, limping as much as I could, and Werner shut the door. The mayors of the canton were seated in a semi-circle, Monsieur the Sous-Préfet and the Mayor of Phalsbourg in the middle, in arm-chairs, and the Secretary Frélig at his table. A Harberg conscript was dressing himself, the gendarme Descarmes helping him. This conscript, with a mass of brown hair falling over his eyes, his neck bare, and his mouth open as he caught his breath, seemed like a man going to be hanged. Two surgeons--the Surgeon-in-Chief of the Hospital, with another in uniform--were conversing in the middle of the hall. They turned to me, saying, "Take off your coat."

I did so. The others looked on.

Monsieur the Sous-Préfet observed:

"There is a young man full of health."

These words angered me, but I nevertheless replied respectfully:

"I am lame, Monsieur the Sous-Préfet."

The surgeons examined me, and the one from the hospital, to whom Monsieur the Commandant had doubtless spoken of me, said: "The left leg is a little short." "Bah!" said the other; "it is sound."

Then placing his hand upon my chest he said, "The conformation is good. Cough."

I coughed as freely as I could; but he found me all right, and said again:

"Look at his color. How good his blood must be!"

Then I, seeing that they would pass me if I remained silent, replied: "I have drank vinegar." "Ah!" said he; "that proves you have a good stomach; you like vinegar."

"But I am lame!" I cried in my distress.

"Bah! don't grieve at that," he answered; "your leg is sound. I'll answer for it."

"But that," said Monsieur the Mayor, "does not prevent his being lame from birth; all Phalsbourg knows that."

"The leg is too short," said the surgeon from the hospital; "it is doubtless a case for exemption."

"Yes," said the Mayor; "I am sure that this young man could not endure a long march; he would drop on the road the second mile."

The first surgeon said nothing more.

I thought myself saved, when Monsieur the Sous-Préfet asked: "You are really Joseph Bertha?"

{446}

"Yes, Monsieur the Sous-Préfet," I answered.

"Well, gentlemen," said he, taking a letter out of his portfolio, "listen."

He began to read the letter, which stated that, six months before, I had bet that I could go to Laverne and back quicker than Pinacle; that we had run the race, and I had won.

It was unhappily too true. The villain Pinacle had always taunted me with being a cripple, and in my anger I laid the wager. Every one knew of it. I could not deny it.

While I stood utterly confounded, the first surgeon said:

"That settles the question. Dress yourself." And, turning to the Secretary, he cried, "Good for service."

I took up my coat in despair.

Werner called another. I no longer saw anything. Some one helped me to get my arms in my coat-sleeves. Then I found myself upon the stairs, and while Catharine asked me what had passed, I sobbed aloud and would have fallen from top to bottom if Aunt Grédel had not supported me.

We went out by the rear-way and crossed the little court. I wept like a child, and Catharine did too.

Monsieur Goulden knowing that Aunt Grédel and Catharine would come to dine with us the day of the revision, had had a stuffed goose and two bottles of good Alsace wine sent from the "Golden Sheep." He was sure that I would be exempted at once. What was his surprise, then, to see us enter together in such distress.

"What is the matter?" said he, raising his silk cap over his bald forehead, and staring at us with eyes wide open.

I had not strength enough to answer. I threw myself into the armchair and burst into tears. Catharine sat down beside me, and our sobs redoubled.

Aunt Grédel said:

"The robbers have taken him."

"It is not possible!" exclaimed Monsieur Goulden, letting fall his arms by his side.

"It shows their villainy," replied my aunt, and, growing more and more excited, she cried, "Will a revolution never come again? Shall those wretches always be our masters?"

"Calm yourself, Mother Grédel," said Monsieur Goulden. "In the name of Heaven don't cry so loud. Joseph, tell me how it happened. They are surely mistaken; it cannot be possible otherwise. Did Monsieur the Mayor and the hospital surgeon say nothing?"

I told the history of the letter, and Aunt Grédel, who until then knew nothing of it, again shrieked with her hands clenched.

"O the scoundrel! God grant that he may cross my threshold again. I will cleave his head with my hatchet."

Monsieur Goulden was astounded.

"And you did not say that it was false. Then the story was true?"

And as I bowed my head without replying, he clasped his hands, saying:

"O youth! youth! it thinks of nothing. What folly! what folly!"

He walked around the room; then sat down to wipe his spectacles, and Aunt Grédel exclaimed:

"Yes, but they shall not have him yet! Their wickedness shall yet go for nothing. This very evening Joseph shall be in the mountains on the way to Switzerland."

Monsieur Goulden hearing this, looked grave; he bent his brows, and replied in a few moments:

{447}

"It is a misfortune, a great misfortune, for Joseph is really lame. They will yet find it out, for he cannot march two days without falling behind and becoming sick. But you are wrong, Mother Grédel, to speak as you do and give him bad advice."

"Bad advice!" she cried. "Then you are for having people massacred too!"

"No," he answered; "I do not love wars, especially where a hundred thousand men lose their lives for the glory of one. But wars of that kind are ended. It is not now for glory and to win new kingdoms that soldiers are levied, but to defend our country, which had been put in danger by tyranny and ambition. We would gladly have peace now. Unhappily, the Russians are advancing; the Prussians are joining them; and our friends, the Austrians, only await a good opportunity to fall upon our rear. If we do not go to meet them, they will come to our homes; for we are about to have Europe on our hands as we had in '93. It is now a different matter from our wars in Spain, in Russia, and in Germany; and I, old as I am, Mother Grédel, if the danger continues to increase and the veterans of the republic are needed, I would be ashamed to go and make clocks in Switzerland while others were pouring out their blood to defend my country. Besides, remember this well, that deserters are despised everywhere; after having committed such an act, they have no kindred or home anywhere. They have neither father, mother, church, nor country. They are incapable of fulfilling the first duty of man--to love and sustain their country, even though she be in the wrong."

He said no more at the moment, but sat gravely down.

"Let us eat," he exclaimed, after some minutes of silence. "Midday is striking. Mother Grédel and Catharine, seat yourselves there."

They sat down, and we began dinner. I meditated upon the words of Monsieur Goulden, which seemed right to me. Aunt Grédel compressed her lips, and from time to time gazed at me as if to read my thoughts. At length she said:

"I despise a country where they take fathers of families after carrying off the sons. If I were in Joseph's place, I would fly at once."

"Listen, Aunt Grédel," I replied; "you know that I love nothing so much as peace and quiet; but I would not, nevertheless, run away like a coward to another country. But, notwithstanding, I will do as Catharine says; if she wishes me to go to Switzerland, I will go."

Then Catharine, lowering her head to hide her tears, said in a low voice:

"I would not have them call you a deserter."

"Well, then, I will do like the others," I cried; "and as those of Phalsbourg and Dagsberg are going to the wars, I will go."

Monsieur Goulden made no remark.

"Every one is free to do as he pleases," said he, after a while; "but I am glad that Joseph thinks as I do."

Then there was silence, and toward two o'clock Aunt Grédel arose and took her basket. She seemed utterly cast down, and said:

"Joseph, you will not listen to me, but no matter. With God's grace, all will yet be well. You will return if he wills it, and Catharine will wait for you."

Catharine wept again, and I more than she; so that Monsieur Goulden himself could not help shedding tears.

At length Catharine and her mother descended the stairs, and Aunt Grédel called out from the bottom:

"Try to come and see us once or twice again, Joseph."

{448}

"Yes, yes," I answered, shutting the door.

I could no longer stand. Never had I been so miserable, and even now, when I think of it, my heart chills.

VII.

From that day I could think of nothing but my misfortune. I tried to work, but my thoughts were far away, and Monsieur Goulden said:

"Joseph, lay labor aside. Profit by the little time you can remain among us; go to see Catharine and Mother Grédel. I still think they will exempt you, but who can tell? They need men so much that it may be a long time coming."

I went then every morning to Quatre-Vents, and passed my days with Catharine. We were very sorrowful, but very glad to see each other. We loved one another even more than before, if that were possible. Catharine sometimes tried to sing as in the good old times; but suddenly she would burst into tears. Then we wept together, and Aunt Grédel would rail at the wars which brought misery to every one. She said that the Council of Revision deserved to be hung; that they were all robbers, banded together to poison our lives. It solaced us a little to hear her talk thus, and we thought she was right.

I returned to the city about eight or nine o'clock in the evening. When they closed the gates, and as I passed, I saw the small inns full of conscripts and old returned soldiers drinking together. The conscripts always paid; the others, with dirty police-caps cocked over their ears, red noses, and horse-hair stocks in place of shirt-collars, twisted their mustaches and related with majestic air their battles, their marches, and their duels. One can imagine nothing viler than those holes, full of smoke, cobwebs hanging on the black beams, those old sworders and young men drinking, shouting, and beating the tables like crazy people; and behind in the shadow old Annette Schnaps or Marie Héring--her old wig stuck back on her head, her comb with only three teeth remaining, crosswise, in it--gazing on the scene, or emptying a mug to the health of the braves.

It was sad to see the sons of peasants, honest and laborious fellows, leading such an existence; but no one thought of working, and any one of them would have given his life for two farthings. Worn out with shouting, drinking, and internal grief, they ended by falling asleep over the table, while the old fellows emptied their cups, singing:

"'Tis glory calls us on!"

I saw these things, and I blessed heaven for having given me, in my wretchedness, kind hearts to keep up my courage and prevent my falling into such hands.

This state of affairs lasted until the twenty-fifth of January. For some days a great number of Italian conscripts--Piedmontese and Genoese--had been arriving in the city; some stout and fat as Savoyards fed upon chestnuts--their great cocked hats on their curly heads; their linsey-woolsey pantaloons dyed a dark green, and their short vests also of wool, but brick-red, fastened around their waists by a leather belt. They wore enormous shoes, and ate their cheese seated along the old marketplace. Others were dried up, lean, brown, shivering in their long cassocks, seeing nothing but snow upon the roofs and gazing with their large, black, mournful eyes upon the women who passed. They were exercised every day in marching, and were going to fill up the skeleton of the sixth regiment of the line at Mayence, and were then resting for a while in the infantry barracks.

{449}

The captain of the recruits, who was named Vidal, lodged over our room. He was a square-built, solid, very strong-looking man, and was, too, very kind and civil. He came to us to have his watch repaired, and when he learned that I was a conscript and was afraid I should never return, he encouraged me, saying that it was all habit; that at the end of five or six months one fights and marches as he eats his dinner; and that many so accustom themselves to shooting at people that they consider themselves unhappy when they are deprived of that amusement.

But his mode of reasoning was not to my taste; the more so as I saw five or six large grains of powder on one of his cheeks, which had entered deeply, and as he explained to me that they came from a shot which a Russian fired almost under his nose. Such a life disgusted me more and more, and as several days had already passed without news, I began to think they had forgotten me, as they did Jacob, of Chèvre-Hof, of whose extraordinary luck every one yet talks. Aunt Grédel herself said to me every time I went there, "Well, well! they will let us alone after all!" When on the morning of the twenty-fifth of January, as I was about starting for Quatre-Vents, Monsieur Goulden, who was working at his bench with a thoughtful air, turned to me with tears in his eyes and said:

"Listen, Joseph! I wanted to let you have one night more of quiet sleep; but you must know now, my child, that yesterday evening the brigadier of gendarmerie brought me your marching orders. You go with the Piedmontese and Genoese and five or six young men of the city--young Klipfel, young Loerig, Jean Léger, and Gaspard Zébédé. You go to Mayence."

I felt my knees give way as he spoke, and I sat down unable to speak. Monsieur Goulden took my marching orders, beautifully written, out of a drawer, and began to read them slowly. All that I remember is that Joseph Bertha, native of Dabo, Canton of Phalsbourg, Arrondissement of Sarrebourg, was incorporated in the sixth regiment of the line, and that he should join his corps the twenty-ninth of January at Mayence.

This letter produced as evil an effect on me as if I had known nothing of it before. It seemed something new, and I grew angry. Monsieur Goulden, after a moment's silence, added:

"The Italians start to-day at eleven."

Then, as if awakening from a horrible dream, I cried:

"But shall I not see Catharine again?"

"Yes, Joseph, yes," said he, in a trembling voice. "I notified Mother Grédel and Catharine, and thus, my boy, they will come, and you can embrace them before leaving."

I saw his grief, and it made me sadder yet, so that I had a hard struggle to keep myself from bursting into tears.

He continued, after a pause:

"You need not be anxious about anything, Joseph. I have prepared all beforehand; and when you return, if it please God to keep me so long in this world, you will find me always the same. I am beginning to grow old, and my greatest happiness would be to keep you for a son, for I found you good-hearted and honest. I would have given you what I possess, and we would have been happy together. Catharine and you would have been my children. {450} But since it is otherwise, let us resign ourselves. It is only for a little while. You will be sent back, I am sure. They will soon see that you cannot make long marches."

While he spoke, I sat silently sobbing, my face buried in my hands.

At last he arose and took from a closet a soldier's knapsack of cowskin, which he placed upon the table. I looked at him, thinking of nothing but the pain of parting.

"Here is your knapsack," he added; "and I have put in it all that you require; two linen shirts, two flannel waistcoats, and all the rest. Well, well, that is all."

He placed the knapsack upon the table and sat down.

Without, we heard the Italians making ready to depart. Above us Captain Vidal was giving his orders. He had his horse at the barracks of the gendarmerie, and was telling his orderly to see that he was well rubbed and had received his hay.

All this bustle and movement produced a strange effect upon me, and I could not yet realize that I must quit the city. As I was thus in the greatest distress, the door opened and Catharine entered weeping, while Mother Grédel cried:

"I told you you should have fled to Switzerland; that these rogues would finish by carrying you off. I told you so, and you would not believe me."

"Mother Grédel," replied Monsieur Goulden, "to go to do his duty is not so great an evil as to be despised by honest people. Instead of all these cries and reproaches, which serve no good purpose, you would do better to comfort and encourage Joseph."

"Ah!" said she; "I do not reproach him, although this is terrible."

Catharine did not leave me; she sat by me and said, pressing my arm:

"You will return?"

"Yes, yes," said I, in a low voice. "And you--you will always think of me; you will not love another?"

She answered, sobbing:

"No, no! I will never love any but you."

This lasted a quarter of an hour, when the door opened and Captain Vidal entered, his cloak rolled like a hunting-horn over his shoulder.

"Well," said he, "well; how goes our young man?"

"Here he is," answered Monsieur Goulden.

"Ah!" remarked the captain; "you are making yourself miserable. It is natural. I remember when I departed for the army. We have all a home."

Then, raising his voice, he said:

"Come, come, young man, courage! We are no longer children."

He looked at Catharine.

"I see all," said he to Monsieur Goulden. "I can understand why he does not want to go."

The drums beat in the street and he added.

"We have yet twenty minutes before starting," and, throwing a glance at me, "Do not fail to be at the first call, young man," said he, pressing Monsieur Goulden's hand.

He went out, and we heard his horse at the door.

The morning was overcast, and grief overwhelmed me. I could not leave Catharine.

Suddenly the roll beat. The drums were all collected in the Place. Monsieur Goulden, taking the knapsack by its straps, said in a grave voice:

"Joseph, now the last embrace; it is time to go."

{451}

I stood up, pale as ashes. He fastened the knapsack to my shoulders. Catharine sat sobbing, her face covered with her apron. Mother Grédel looked on with lips compressed.

The roll continued for a time, then suddenly ceased.

"The call is about commencing," said Monsieur Goulden, embracing me. Then the fountains of his heart burst forth; tears sprang to his eyes; and, calling me his child, his son, he whispered, "Courage!"

Mother Grédel seated herself again, and as I bent toward her, taking my head between her hands, she sobbed:

"I always loved you, Joseph; ever since you were a baby. You never gave me cause of grief--and now you must go. O God! O God!"

I wept no longer.

When Aunt Grédel released me, I looked a moment at Catharine, who stood motionless. Then I turned quickly to go, when she cried, in heart-breaking tones:

"O Joseph! Joseph!"

I looked back. Her strength seemed to leave her, and I placed her in the arm-chair, and fled.

I was already on the Place, in the midst of the Italians and of a crowd of people crying for their sons or brothers. I saw nothing; I heard nothing.

When the roll of the drums recommenced, I looked around, and saw that I was between Klipfel and Furst, all three with our knapsacks on our backs. Their parents stood before us, weeping as if at their funeral. To the right, near the town-hall, Captain Vidal, on his little gray mare, was conversing with two infantry officers. The sergeants called the roll, and we answered. They called Furst, Klipfel, Bertha; we answered like the others. Then the captain gave the word, "March!" and we went, two abreast, toward the French gate.

At the corner of the baker Spitz, an old woman cried, in a choking voice, from a window:

"Kasper! Kasper!"

It was Zébédé's grandmother. His lips trembled. He waved his hand, without replying, and passed on with downcast face.

I shuddered at the thought of passing my home. As we neared it, my knees trembled, and I heard some one call at the window; but I turned my head toward the "Red Ox," and the rattle of the drums drowned the voices.

The children ran after us, shouting:

"There goes Joseph! there goes Klipfel!"

Under the French gate, the men on guard, drawn up in line on each side, gazed on us as we passed at shoulder arms. We passed the outposts, and the drums ceased playing as we turned to the right. Nothing was heard but the plash of footsteps in the mud, for the snow was melting.

We had passed the farm-house of Gerberhoff, and were going to the great bridge, when I heard some one call me. It was the captain, who cried from his horse:

"Very well done, young man; I am satisfied with you."

Hearing this, I could not help again bursting into tears, and the great Furst, too, wept, as we marched along; the others, pale as marble, said nothing. At the bridge, Zébédé took out his pipe to smoke. In front of us, the Italians talked and laughed among themselves; their three weeks of service had accustomed them to this life.

Once on the way to Metting, more than a league from the city, as we began to descend, Klipfel touched me on the shoulder, and whispered:

"Look yonder."

{452}

I looked, and saw Phalsbourg far beneath us; the barracks, the magazines, the steeple whence I had seen Catharine's home, six weeks before, with old Brainstein--all were in the gray distance, with the woods all around. I would have stopped a few moments, but the troop marched on, and I had to keep pace with them. We entered Metting.

VIII.

That same day we went as far as Bitche; the next, to Hornbach; then to Kaiserslantern. It began to snow again.

How often during that long march did I sigh for the thick cloak of Monsieur Goulden, and his double-soled shoes.

We passed through innumerable villages, sometimes on the mountains, sometimes in the plains. As we entered each little town, the drums began to beat, and we marched with heads erect, marking the step, trying to assume the mien of old soldiers. The people looked out of their little windows, or came to the doors, saying, "There go the conscripts!"

At night we halted, glad to rest our weary feet--I, especially. I cannot say that my leg hurt me, but my feet! I had never undergone such fatigue. With our billet for lodging we had the right to a corner of the fire, but our hosts also gave us a place at the table. We had nearly always buttermilk and potatoes, and often fresh lard on a dish of sauerkraut. The children came to look at us, and the old women asked us from what place we came, and what our business was before we left home. The young girls looked sorrowfully at us, thinking of their sweethearts, who had gone five, six, or seven months before. Then they would take us to the son's bed. With what pleasure I stretched out my tired limbs! How I wished to sleep all our twelve hours' halt! But early in the morning, at day-break, the rattling of the drums awoke me. I gazed at the brown rafters of the ceiling, the window-panes covered with frost, and asked myself where I was. Then my heart would grow cold, as I thought that I was at Bitche--at Kaiserslantern--that I was a conscript; and I had to dress fast as I could, catch up my knapsack, and answer the roll-call.

"A good journey to you!" said the hostess, awakened so early in the morning.

"Thank you," replied the conscript.

And we marched on.

Yes! a good journey to you! They will not see you again, poor wretch! How many others have followed the same road!

I will never forget how at Kaiserslantern, the second day of our march, having unstrapped my knapsack to take out a white shirt, I discovered, beneath, a little pocket, and opening it I found fifty-four francs in six-livre pieces. On the paper wrapped around them were these words, written by Monsieur Goulden:

"While you are at the wars, be always good and honest. Think of your friends and of those for whom you would be willing to sacrifice your life, and treat the enemy with humanity that they may so treat our soldiers. May heaven guide you, and protect you in your dangers! You will find some money inclosed; for it is a good thing, when far from home and all who love you, to have a little of it. Write to us as often as you can. I embrace you, my child, and press you to my heart."

{453}

As I read this, the tears forced themselves to my eyes, and I thought, "Thou art not wholly abandoned, Joseph; fond hearts are yearning toward you. Never forget their kind counsels."

At last, on the fifth day, about five o'clock in the evening, we entered Mayence. As long as I live I will remember it. It was terribly cold. We had begun our march at early dawn, and, long before reaching the city, had passed through villages filled with soldiers--calvary, infantry, dragoons in their short jackets--some digging holes in the ice to get water for their horses, others dragging bundles of forage to the doors of the stables; powder-wagons, carts full of cannon-balls, all white with frost, stood on every side; couriers, detachments of artillery, pontoon-trains were coming and going over the white ground; and no more attention was paid to us than if we were not in existence.

Captain Vidal, to warm himself, had dismounted and marched with us on foot. The officers and sergeants hastened us on. Five or six Italians had fallen behind and remained in the villages, no longer able to advance. My feet were sore and burning, and at the last halt I could scarcely rise to resume the march. The others from Phalsbourg, however, kept bravely on.

Night had fallen; the sky sparkled with stars. Every one gazed forward, and said to his comrade, "We are nearing it! we are nearing it!" for along the horizon a dark line of seeming cloud, glittering here and there with flashing points, announced that a great city lay before us.

At last we entered the advanced works, and passed through the zig-zag earthen bastions. Then we dressed our ranks and marked the step, as we usually did when approaching a town. At the corner of a sort of demilune we saw the frozen fosse of the city, and the brick ramparts towering above, and opposite us an old, dark gate, with the draw-bridge raised. Above stood a sentinel, who, with his musket raised, cried out:

"Who goes there?"

The captain, going forward alone, replied:

"France!"

"What regiment?"

"Recruits for the Sixth of the Line."

A silence ensued. Then the draw-bridge was lowered, and the guard turned out and examined us, one of them carrying a great torch. Captain Vidal, a few paces in advance of us, spoke to the commandant of the post, who called out at length:

"Whenever you please."

Our drums began to beat, but the captain ordered them to cease, and we crossed a long bridge and passed through a second gate like the first. Then we were in the streets of the city, which were paved with smooth round stones. Every one tried his best to march steadily; for, although it was night, all the inns and shops along the way were open and their large windows were shining, and hundreds of people were passing to and fro as if it were broad day.

We turned five or six corners and soon arrived in a little open place before a high barrack, where we were ordered to halt.

There was a shed at the corner of the barrack, and in it a cantinière seated behind a small table, under a great tri-colored umbrella from which hung two lanterns.

Several officers arrived as soon as we halted; they were the Commandant Gémeau and some others whom I have since known. They pressed our captain's hand laughing, then looked at us and ordered the roll to be called. {454} After that, we each received a ration of bread and a billet for lodging. We were told that roll-call would take place the next morning at eight o'clock for the distribution of arms, and then we were ordered to break ranks, while the officers turned up a street to the left and went into a great coffee-house, the entrance to which was approached by a flight of fifteen steps.

But we, with our billets for lodging--what were we to do with them in the middle of such a city, and, above all, the Italians, who did not know a word either of German or French?

My first idea was to see the cantinière under her umbrella. She was an old Alsatian, round and chubby, and, when I asked for the Capougner-Strasse, she replied:

"What will you pay for?"

I was obliged to take a glass of eau-de-vie with her; then she said:

"Look just opposite there; if you turn the first corner to the right, you will find the Capougner-Strasse. Good evening, conscript."

She laughed.

Furst and Zébédé' were also billeted in the Capougner-Strasse and we set out, glad enough to be able to limp together through the strange city.

Furst first found his house, but it was shut; and while he was knocking at the door, I found mine, which had a light in two windows. I pushed at the door, it opened, and I entered a dark alley, whence came a smell of fresh bread, which was very welcome. Zébédé had to go further on.

I called out in the alley:

"Is any one here?"

Then an old woman appeared with a candle at the top of a wooden staircase.

"What do you want?" she asked.

I told her that I was billeted at her house. She came down-stairs, and, looking at my billet, told me in German to follow her.

I ascended the stairs. Passing an open door, I saw two men at work before an oven. I was, then, at a baker's, and this accounted for the old woman being up so late. She wore a cap with black ribbons; her arms were bare to the elbows; she, too, had been working, and seemed very sorrowful.

"You come late," she said.

"We were marching all day," I replied, "and I am fainting with hunger and weariness."

She looked at me and murmured:

"Poor child! poor child!"

"Your feet are sore," said she; "take off your shoes and put on these sabots."

She put the candle upon the table and went out. I took off my shoes. My feet were blistered and bleeding, and pained me horribly, and I felt for the moment as if it would almost be better to die at once than to continue in such suffering.

This thought had more than once arisen to my mind in the march, but now, before that good fire, I felt so worn, so miserable, that I would gladly have laid myself down to sleep for ever, notwithstanding Catharine, Aunt Grédel, and all who loved me. Truly, I needed God's assistance.

While these thoughts were running through my head, the door opened, and a tall, stout man, gray-haired, but yet strong and healthy, entered. He was one of those I had seen at work below, and held in his hands a bottle of wine and two glasses.

"Good evening!" said he gravely and kindly.

I looked up. The old woman was behind him. She was carrying a little wooden tub, which, she placed on the floor near my chair.

{455}

"Take a foot-bath," said she; "it will do you good."

This kindness, on the part of a stranger, affected me more than I cared to show. I took off my stockings; my feet were bleeding, and the good old dame repeated, as she gazed at them:

"Poor child! poor child!"

The man asked me whence I came. I told him from Phalsbourg in Lorraine. Then he told his wife to bring some bread, adding that, after we had taken a glass of wine together, he would leave me to the repose I needed so much.

He pushed the table before me, as I sat with my feet in the bath, and we each drained a glass of good white wine. The old woman returned with some hot bread, over which she had spread fresh, half-melted butter. Then I knew how hungry I was. I was almost ill. The good people saw my eagerness for food; for the woman said:

"Before eating, my child, you must take your feet out of the bath."

She knelt down and dried my feet with her apron before I knew what she was about to do. I cried:

"Good Heavens! madame; you treat me as if I were your son."

She replied, after a moment's mournful silence:

"We have a son in the army."

Her voice trembled as she spoke. I thought of Catharine and Aunt Grédel, and could not speak again. I ate and drank with a pleasure I never before felt in doing so. The two old people sat gazing kindly on me, and, when I had finished, the man said:

"Yes, we have a son in the army; he went to Russia last year, and we have not since heard from him. These wars are terrible!"

He spoke dreamily, as if to himself, all the while walking up and down the room, his hands crossed behind his back. My eyes began to close, when he said suddenly:

"Come, wife. Good night, conscript."

They went out together, she carrying the tub.

"God reward you," I cried, "and bring your son safe home!"

In a minute I was undressed, and, sinking on the bed, I was almost immediately buried in a deep sleep.

IX.

The next morning I awoke at about seven o'clock. A trumpet was sounding the recall at the corner of the street; horses, wagons, and men and women on foot, were hurrying past the house. My feet were yet somewhat sore, but nothing to what they had been; and when I had dressed, I felt like a new man, and thought to myself:

"Joseph, if this continues, you will soon be a soldier. It is only the first step that costs."

The baker's wife had put my shoes to dry before the fire, after filling them with hot ashes, to keep them from growing hard. They were well greased and shining.

Then I buckled on my knapsack, and hurried out, without having time to thank those good people--a duty I intended to fulfil after roll-call.

At the end of the street--on the Place--many of our Italians were already waiting, shivering around the fountain. Furst, Klipfel, and Zébédé arrived a moment after.

Cannon and their caissons covered one entire side of the Place. Horses were being brought to water, led by hussars and dragoons. Opposite us were cavalry barracks, high as the church at Phalsbourg, while around the other three sides rose old houses with sculptured gables, like those at Saverne, but much larger. {456} I had never seen anything like all this, and while I stood gazing around, the drums began to beat, and each man took his place in the ranks, and we were informed, first in Italian and then in French, that we were about to receive our arms, and each one was ordered to stand forth as his name was called.

The wagons containing the arms now came up, and the call began. Each received a cartouche box, a sabre, a bayonet, and a musket. We put them on as well as we could, over our blouses, coats, or great-coats, and we looked, with our hats, our caps, and our arms, like a veritable band of banditti. My musket was so long and heavy that I could scarcely carry it; and the Sergeant Pinto showed me how to buckle on the cartouche-box. He was a fine fellow, Pinto.

So many belts crossing my chest made me feel as if I could scarcely breathe, and I saw at once that my miseries had not yet ended.

After the arms, an ammunition-wagon advanced, and they distributed fifty rounds of cartridges to each man. This was no pleasant augury. Then, instead of ordering us to break ranks and return to our lodgings, Captain Vidal drew his sabre and shouted:

"By file right--march!"

The drums began to beat. I was grieved at not being able to thank my hosts for their kindness, and thought that they would consider me ungrateful. But that did not prevent my following the line of march.

We passed through a long winding street, and soon found ourselves without the glacis, and near the frozen Rhine. Across the river high hills appeared, and on the hills, old, gray, ruined castles, like those of Haut-Bas and Geroldseck in the Vosges.

The battalion descended to the river-bank, and crossed upon the ice. The scene was magnificent--dazzling. We were not alone on the ice; five or six hundred paces before us was a baggage-train on the way to Frankfort. Crossing the river, we continued our march through the mountains. Sometimes we discovered villages in the defiles; and Zébédé, who was next to me, said:

"As we had to leave home, I would rather go as a soldier than otherwise. At least we shall see something new every day, and, if we are lucky enough ever to return, how much we will have to talk of!"

"Yes," said I; "but I would like better to have less to talk about, and to live quietly, toiling on my own account and not on account of others, who remain safe at home while we climb about here on the ice."

"You do not care for glory," said he; "and yet glory is a grand thing."

"Yes; the glory of fighting and losing our lives for others, and being called lazy idlers and drunkards when we get home again. I would rather have these friends of glory go fight themselves, and leave us to remain in peace at home."

"Well," he replied, "I think much as you do; but, as we are forced to fight, we may as well make the most of it. If we go about looking miserable, people will laugh at us."

Conversing thus, we reached a large river, which, the sergeant told us, was the Main, and near it, upon our road, was a little village. We did not know the name of the village, but there we halted.

We entered the houses, and those who could bought some brandy, wine, and bread. Those who had no money crunched their ration of biscuit, and gazed wistfully at their more fortunate comrades.

{457}

About six in the evening we arrived at Frankfort, which is a city yet older than Mayence, and full of Jews. They took us to the barracks of the Tenth Hussars, where our Captain, Florentin, and the two Lieutenants, Clavel and Bretonville, awaited us.

X.

At Frankfort I began to learn a soldier's duty in earnest. Up to that time I had been but a simple conscript. I do not speak merely of drill--that is only an affair of a month or two, if a man really desires to learn; but I speak of discipline--of remembering that the corporal is always in the right when he speaks to a private soldier, the sergeant when he speaks to the corporal, the sergeant-major when speaking to the sergeant, the second lieutenant when he orders the sergeant-major, and so on to the Marshal of France--even if the superior asserts that two and two make five, or that the moon shines at midday.

This is very difficult to learn; but there is one thing that assists you immensely, and that is a sort of placard hung up in every room in the barracks, and which is from time to time read to you. This placard presupposes everything that a soldier might wish to do, as, for instance, to return home, to refuse to serve, to resist his officer, and always ends by speaking of death or at least five years with a ball and chain.

The day after our arrival at Frankfort I wrote to Monsieur Goulden, to Catharine, and to Aunt Grédel. I told them that I was in good health, for which I thanked God, and that I was even stronger than before I left home, and sent them a thousand remembrances. Our Phalsbourg conscripts, who saw me writing, made me add a few words for each of their families. I wrote also to Mayence, to the good couple of the Capougner-Strasse, who had been so kind to me, telling them how I was forced to march without being able to thank them, and asking their forgiveness for so doing.

That day, in the afternoon, we received our uniforms. Dozens of Jews made their appearance and bought our old clothes. The Italians had great difficulty in making these respectable merchants comprehend their wishes, but the Genoese were as cunning as the Jews, and their bargainings lasted until night. Our corporals received more than one glass of wine; it was policy to make friends of them, for morning and evening they taught us the drill in the snow-covered yard. The cantinière Christine was always at her post with a warming-pan under her feet. She took young men of good family into special favor, and the young men of good family were all those who spent their money freely. Poor fools! How many of them parted with their last sou in return for her miserable flattery! When that was gone, they were mere beggars; but vanity rules all, from conscripts to generals.

All this time recruits were constantly arriving from France, and ambulances full of wounded from Poland. Klipfel, Zébédé, Furst, and I often went to see these poor wretches, and never did we see men so miserably clad. Some wore jackets which once belonged to Cossacks, crushed shakos, women's dresses, and many had only handkerchiefs wound around their feet in lieu of shoes and stockings. They gave us a history of the retreat from Moscow, and then we knew that the twenty-ninth bulletin told only truth.

{458}

These stories enraged our men against the Russians, and we longed for the war to begin again. I was at times almost overcome with wrath after hearing some tale of horror; and even the thought that these Russians were defending their families, their homes, all that man holds most dear, could scarcely recall me to a right frame of mind. We hated them for defending themselves; we would have despised them had they not done so. But about this time an extraordinary event occurred.

You must know that my comrade, Zébédé', was the son of the gravedigger of Phalsbourg, and sometimes between ourselves we called him "Gravedigger." This he took in good part from us; but one evening after drill, as he was crossing the yard, a hussar cried out:

"Halloo, Gravedigger! help me to drag in these bundles of straw."

Zébédé, turning about, replied:

"My name is not Gravedigger, and you can drag in your own straw. Do you take me for a fool?"

Then the other cried, in a still louder tone:

"Conscript, you had better come, or beware!"

Zébédé, with his great hooked nose, his gray eyes and thin lips, never bore too good a character for mildness. He went up to the hussar and asked:

"What is that you say?"

"I tell you to take up those bundles of straw, and quickly, too. Do you hear, conscript?"

He was quite an old man, with mustaches and red, bushy whiskers. Zébédé seized one of the latter, but received two blows in the face. Nevertheless, a fist-full of the whisker remained in his grasp, and, as the dispute had attracted a crowd to the spot, the hussar shook his finger, saying:

"You will hear from me to-morrow, conscript."

"Very good," returned Zébédé; "we shall see. You will probably hear from me too, veteran."

He came immediately after to tell me all this, and I, knowing that he had never handled a weapon more warlike than a pickaxe, could not help trembling for him.

"Listen, Zébédé," I said; "all that there now remains for you to do, since you do not want to desert, is to ask pardon of this old fellow; for those veterans all know some fearful tricks of fence which they have brought from Egypt or Spain, or somewhere else. If you wish, I will lend you a crown to pay for a bottle of wine to make up the quarrel."

But he, knitting his brows, would hear none of this.

"Rather than beg his pardon," said he, "I would go and hang myself. I laugh him and his comrades to scorn. If he has tricks of fence, I have a long arm, that will drive my sabre through his bones as easily as his will penetrate my flesh."

The thought of the blows made him insensible to reason; and soon Chazy, the maitre d'armes, Corporal Fleury, Klipfel, Furst, and Leger arrived. They all said that Zébédé was in the right, and the maitre d'armes added that blood alone could wash out the stain of a blow; that the honor of the recruits required Zébédé to fight.

Zébédé answered proudly that the men of Phalsbourg had never feared the sight of a little blood, and that he was ready. Then the maitre d'armes went to see our Captain, Florentin, who was one of the most magnificent men imaginable--tall, well-formed, broad-shouldered, with regular features, and the Cross, which the Emperor had himself given him at Eylau. The captain even went further than the maitre d'armes; he thought it would set the conscripts a good example, and that if Zébédé refused to fight he would be unworthy to remain in the Third Battalion of the Sixth of the Line.

{459}

All that night I could not close my eyes. I heard the deep breathing of my poor comrade as he slept, and I thought: "Poor Zébédé! another day, and you will breathe no more." I shuddered to think how near I was to a man so near death. At last, as day broke, I fell asleep, when suddenly I felt a cold blast of wind strike me. I opened my eyes, and there I saw the old hussar. He had lifted up the coverlid of our bed, and said as I awoke:

"Up, sluggard! I will show you what manner of man you struck." Zébédé rose tranquilly, saying: "I was asleep, veteran; I was asleep."

The other, hearing himself thus mockingly called "veteran," would have fallen upon my comrade in his bed; but two tall fellows who served him as seconds held him back, and, besides, the Phalsbourg men were there.

"Quick, quick! Hurry!" cried the old hussar.

But Zébédé dressed himself calmly, without any haste. After a moment's silence, he said:

"Have we permission to go outside our quarters, old fellows?"

"There is room enough for us in the yard," replied one of the hussars. Zébédé put on his great-coat, and, turning to me, said:

"Joseph, and you, Klipfel, I choose you for my seconds."

But I shook my head.

"Well, then, Furst," said he.

The whole party descended the stairs together. I thought Zébédé was lost, and thought it hard that not only must the Russians and Prussians seek our lives, but that we must seek each other's.

All the men in the room crowded to the windows. I alone remained behind, upon my bed. At the end of five minutes the clash of sabres made my heart almost cease to beat; the blood seemed no longer to flow through my veins.

But this did not last long; for suddenly Klipfel exclaimed, "Touched!"

Then I made my way--I know not how--to a window, and, looking over the heads of the others, saw the old hussar leaning against the wall, and Zébédé rising, his sabre all dripping with blood. He had fallen upon his knees during the fight, and, while the old man's sword pierced the air just above his shoulder, he plunged his blade into the hussar's breast. If he had not slipped, he himself would have been run through and through.

The hussar sank at the foot of the wall. His seconds lifted him in their arms, while Zébédé, pale as a corpse, gazed at his bloody sabre.

And so, for a few thoughtless words, was a soul sent to meet its Maker.

XI.

The events of the preceding chapter happened on the eighteenth of February. The same day we received orders to pack our knapsacks, and left Frankfort for Seligenstadt, where we remained until the eighth of March, by which time all the recruits were well instructed in the use of the musket and the school of the platoon. From Seligenstadt we went to Schweinheim, and on the twenty-fourth of March, 1813, joined the division at Aschaffenbourg, where Marshal Ney passed us in review.

The captain of the company was named Florentin; the lieutenant, Bretonville; the commandant of the battalion, Gemeau; the colonel, Zapfel, the general of brigade, Ladoucette; and the general of division, Sonham. These are things that every soldier should know.

{460}

The melting of the snows began about the middle of March, and on the day of the review the rain did not cease falling from ten in the morning until three in the afternoon. The water ran over our shoes, and every moment, to keep us brightened up, the order rang out:

"Carry arms! Shoulder arms!"

The Marshal advanced slowly, surrounded by his staff. What consoled Zébédé was, that we were about to see "the bravest of the brave." I thought that if I could only get a place at the corner of a good fire, I would gladly forego that pleasure.

At last he arrived in front of us, and I can yet see him, with his chapeau dripping with rain, his blue coat covered with embroidery and decorations, and his great boots. He was a handsome, florid man, with a short nose and sparkling eyes. He did not seem at all haughty; for, as he passed our company, who presented arms, he turned suddenly in his saddle and said:

"Hold! It is Florentin!"

Then the captain stood erect, not knowing what to reply. It seemed that the Marshal and he had been simple soldiers together in the time of the republic. The captain at last answered:

"Yes, Marshal; it is Sebastian Florentin."

"Ma foi, Florentin," said the Marshal, extending his arm toward Russia, "I am glad to see you again. I thought we had left you there."

All our company felt honored, and Zébédé said:

"That is what I call a man. I would spill my blood for him."

I could not see why Zébédé should wish to spill his blood because the Marshal had spoken a few words to an old comrade.

At Schweinheim, our beef and mutton and bread were very good, as was also our wine. But many of our men pretended to find fault with everything, thinking thus to pass for people of consequence. They were mistaken; for more than once I heard the citizens say in German:

"Those fellows, in their own country, were only beggars. If they returned to France, they would find only potatoes to live upon."

And the bourgeois were quite right; and I always found that people so difficult to please abroad were but poor wretches at home. For my part, I was well content to meet such good fare. Two conscripts were billeted with me at the house of the village postmaster, when, on the evening of the fourth day, as we were finishing our supper, an old man in a black great-coat came in. His hair was white, and his mien and appearance neat and respectable. He saluted us, and then said to the master of the house, in German:

"These are recruits?"

"Yes, Monsieur Stenger," replied the other; "we will never be rid of them. If I could poison them all, it would be a good deed."

I turned quietly, and said:

"I understand German; do not speak in such a manner."

The postmaster's pipe fell from his hand.

"You are very imprudent in your speech, Monsieur Kalkreuth," said the old man; "if others beside this young man had understood you, you know what would happen."

"It is only my way of talking," replied the postmaster. "What can you expect? When everything is taken from you--when you are robbed, year after year--it is but natural that you should at last speak bitterly."

{461}

The old man, who was none other than the pastor of Schweinheim, then said to me:

"Monsieur, your manner of acting is that of an honest man; believe me that Monsieur Kalkreuth is incapable of such a deed--of doing evil even to our enemies."

"I do believe it, sir," I replied, "or I should not eat so heartily of these sausages."

The postmaster, hearing these words, began to laugh, and, in the excess of his joy, cried:

"I would never have thought that a Frenchman could have made me laugh;" and bringing out a bottle of wine, we drank it together. It was the last time we met; for while we chatted over our wine, the order to march came.

And now the whole army was moving, advancing on Erfurt. Our sergeants kept repeating, "We are nearing them! there will be hot work soon;" and we thought, "So much the better!" that those beggarly Prussians and Russians had drawn their fate upon themselves. If they had remained quiet, we would have been yet in France.

These thoughts embittered us all towards the enemy, and, as we meet everywhere people who seem to rejoice only in fighting, Klipfel and Zébédé talked only of the pleasure it would give them to meet the Prussians; and I, not to seem less courageous than they, adopted the same strain.

On the eighth of April, the battalion entered Erfurt, and I will never forget how, when we broke ranks before the barracks, a package of letters was handed to the sergeant of the company. Among the number was one for me, and I recognized, Catharine's writing at once. Zébédé took my musket, telling me to read it, for he, too, was glad to hear from home.

I put it in my pocket, and all our Phalsbourg men followed me to hear it, but I only commenced when I was quietly seated on my bed in the barracks, while they crowded around. Tears rolled down my cheeks as she told me how she remembered and prayed for the far-off conscript.

My comrades, as I read, exclaimed:

"And we are sure that there are some at home to pray for us, too."

One spoke of his mother, another of his sisters, and another of his sweetheart.

At the end of the letter, Monsieur Goulden added a few words, telling me that all our friends were well, and that I should take courage, for our troubles could not last for ever. He charged me to be sure to tell my comrades that their friends thought of them and complained of not having received a word from them.

This letter was a consolation to us all. We knew that before many days passed we must be on the field of battle, and it seemed a last farewell from home.

To Be Continued.

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Bethlehem--A Pilgrimage.

Bethlehem, where was born the Redeemer of the world, is one of the holiest spots of earth, and to it the thoughts of the Christian turn with constant delight. The events in the life of our Lord which give to Jerusalem its supreme interest are mostly of a saddening character, bringing to recollection the sufferings of Jesus for the salvation of his people; and, wherever we turn in the city of the Great King, we are reminded of the Man of Sorrows, and the contradiction of sinners which he endured. But Bethlehem has other associations; and the pilgrim to the sacred shrines can here pour out his soul in joyful gratitude and love, for he is where God's infinite mercy was made evident to Jew and Gentile, and the Saviour of the world was first seen by those he came to redeem.

On the 30th of January, 1866, I reached Jerusalem in company with my friend the Reverend Father Wadhams, of Albany. We had brought letters from Rome to his excellency the Patriarch of Jerusalem, and to the reverendissimo superior of the Franciscans at the convent of San Salvador. The Franciscan monks have charge of all the sacred places in the Holy Land. We were most kindly received by the patriarch and the superior of the convent; and the latter not only offered us the hospitality of the Casa Nuova, (where all the Catholic pilgrims lodge,) but gave permission for one of the priests to be our companion and attendant every day. The company of this good father, with which we were constantly favored during our stay in Jerusalem, was of inestimable value. He knew all about the sacred localities, having been six years a resident in the Holy Land. He was from Ireland, and the only one in the community who spoke English, the others being Italians.

On Sexagesima Sunday, Father Wadhams, Father Luigi, and the writer of this sketch walked to Bethlehem, a distance of six miles. Leaving Jerusalem by the Jaffa gate, we turned southward. Having crossed the valley of Gihon, after a short distance the pathway was on level ground, over the plain of Rephaim, where King David gained his victory over the Philistines. Beyond this, in the middle of the road, is a well or cistern, having around it some large rough stones. There is a tradition that, as the wise men from the east were going from Jerusalem to Bethlehem in search of the new-born King of the Jews, the star which had guided them in the early part of their journey from home, but had disappeared as they drew near the former city, was seen reflected in the water at this spot. Certain it is that, either here or within a short distance, they were favored once more with the guidance of the star which led them to the place, and stood still over where the child Jesus was.

About half-way between Jerusalem and Bethlehem is the Greek monastery of the Prophet Elijah. It is said he once rested here. From this neighborhood we can see Jerusalem on the north and Bethlehem on the south; and thus the two holiest places in the world are visible to the pilgrim at once. Before we go on to the city of the Nativity, let us pause a few moments to recollect the history of the place and observe its appearance from a distance.

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Bethlehem is one of the oldest cities in the world, having a history of more than three thousand six hundred years. The name signified the House of Bread; now its Arabic form, Beit Lahm, denotes the House of Flesh. Either name is suitable for the place in which the true bread of life, whose flesh is the food of immortality, was to be born. It is called Bethlehem-Judah, to distinguish it from another Bethlehem in the region of Zebulun; it is also called Bethlehem Ephratah, or the fruitful. The earliest mention of it is in the book of Genesis, (xxxv. 1 8,) in the description of the death and burial of Rachel. Six hundred years afterward occurred the events narrated in the book of Ruth. A century after the marriage of Boaz and Ruth, David was born here, who, at the age of seventeen years, was anointed king over Israel--and hence it obtained the name of the city of David, and is thus called in the holy Gospel.

For a thousand years the history of Bethlehem is obscure, until the place starts into prominence and immortal glory as the scene of the wondrous events attending the birth of Christ. With this narrative every Christian is familiar; and each year, under the guidance of the church, we renew, at Christmas and Epiphany, the joy which its telling brings. An edict of the Roman emperor required all the people of Judea to present themselves for enrolment in the cities where they belonged, even should they be residing in other and distant places. In obedience to this injunction, Joseph, the espoused husband of the Virgin Mary, accompanied by her, repaired to his own city, Bethlehem, he being of the house and lineage of David. A long journey of eighty miles from Nazareth in the north, where he lived, to Bethlehem in the south was thus imperative; for Roman rulers were strict in demanding obedience to their laws on the part of conquered peoples. By the time they reached Bethlehem, the town was already full, and there was no room for them in the inn or public place for the reception of travellers. They were thus compelled to do the best they could, and found shelter in a rude place where some cattle were kept. This was not only better than none, but was such as many travellers since that time have been obliged to content themselves with. Even now, it is sometimes found in the East that the house and stable are together, being the same apartment; a floor somewhat raised above the ground being the place for the people, while the other part is tenanted by cattle, sheep, or goats. There was no evidence that it was cruel indifference on the part of the Bethlehemites which led to the choice of this place by the holy ones who came there. That they were poor is more certainly known from the offering made in the temple in Jerusalem, when the Divine Infant was presented there, at the purification of his stainless mother.

It was in this cheerless place that Christ was born of the Holy Virgin, according to the prophecies of Isaias and Micheas. Now, indeed, was it true that "Thou, Bethlehem Ephrata, out of thee shall he come forth unto me that is to be the ruler in Israel; and his going forth is from the beginning, from the days of eternity." Shepherds were keeping watch over their flocks by night; and the angel of God appeared to them, and the brightness of God shone round about them; and while they feared, the angel said to them: "Fear not; for behold I bring you good tidings of great joy that shall be to all the people; for this day is born to you a Saviour, who is Christ the Lord, in the city of David. {464} And this shall be a sign unto you: you shall find the infant wrapped in swaddling clothes and laid in a manger. And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God and saying, Glory be to God in the highest, and on earth peace to men of good will." The shepherds went to Bethlehem, and found these things so, and they and others wondered thereat.

So was the Messiah made known to the Jews, as, in a few days afterwards, he was manifested to Gentiles in the persons of the magi, or wise men from the East.

Standing at the place where we have the first good view of Bethlehem, at the point midway between Jerusalem and the city of the Nativity, the eye ranges over an extensive region. Before us is the city to which our steps are directed. It is on very high ground, on a ridge projecting from the mountain range. The Church of the Nativity, a large building with the convents attached, is on the left of the view, the houses of the village being more to the right and three or four hundred yards from the church. From three sides there is a descent, in places very great, so that on the north, east, and south, there are deep valleys at the foot of the hill on which the buildings stand. All the land near the church and houses is cultivated, and the hill is completely terraced and covered with olive and fig trees, and vines, which are carefully tended. Every foot of available ground is thus brought into use; and the fine condition of the trees and vines shows that nothing is wanting to restore the ancient fertility of the region but security for labor--something miserably wanting throughout the East. The convents are built up against the church, and give it the appearance of an enormous castle. The houses of the town are grouped somewhat closely, and have a compact look. Like all edifices in this part of the world, they are built of a grayish limestone, the roofs being of stone, generally flat, but sometimes with a small dome. We are standing about three miles north of Bethlehem, and the eye ranges over a wide extent of hill country, especially to the left. The hills of Judea are near us, the mountains of Moab beyond and to the east. On the hither side of these last is the Dead Sea, filling the sunken basin where once stood the wicked cities of the plain. Under our feet, and all the way to Bethlehem, the ground is covered with immense numbers of stones about four inches in size, so that travelling, whether on foot or horseback, is neither easy nor pleasant.

Let us now go forward to the city. One mile this side of Bethlehem, at a short distance to the right of the path we follow, is the tomb of Rachel. This spot is one of the most interesting of its kind in the world. Rachel was the wife of the Patriarch Jacob, and she died and was buried here, "on the way to Ephrah which is Bethlehem." Her memory has always been held in respect by the Jews and Christians, and even now the former go there every Thursday, to pray and read the old, old history of this mother of their race. When leaving Bethlehem for the fourth and last time, after we had passed the tomb of Rachel, on our way to Jerusalem, Father Luigi and I met a hundred or more Jews on their weekly visit to the venerated spot. A small square building, with a dome, covers the grave of one whose name will never perish from the remembrance of the people of God.

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As we stand at the tomb of Rachel, at our right is the village of Beitjala, Bethlehem being a mile or more to our left. Beitjala is a thriving place, having many beautiful olive-trees, the finest I ever saw. The Catholic Seminary for Priests of the Patriarch of Jerusalem is there, and a fine large church has just been completed. The Rector of the Seminary was consecrated Bishop of Beitjala in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre some weeks after our departure.

Entering Bethlehem to go to the convent, we pass through a large part of the city, the church being at the left of the ridge. There are about three thousand residents in the city, who are all, or nearly so, Christians. The streets are few, and, like all Eastern cities, narrow and dirty--very narrow and very dirty, indeed. Many of the people are out of doors. As we pass along, we see some small, rude shops or dens, in which various articles are exposed for sale. We look in other rooms, and find men at work sitting on the ground, turning beads for rosaries. The work is done rapidly, and great quantities of these are made. Also, crosses and medals are carved from the mother of pearl shell. As every one who goes to the Holy Land makes some purchases of these articles, there is quite a brisk trade at Easter time, when the pilgrims most resort to the shrines. These beads, medals, and crosses are taken to Jerusalem and blessed in the most Holy Sepulchre of our Lord, and are thus in just estimation among the holy things of earth. A cross made in Bethlehem, where Christ was born, and blessed in the most Holy Sepulchre where he was buried, and from which he rose triumphant over death, is surely a precious thing for any Christian to have. In going through some of the streets of Bethlehem, I have seen the scraps of pearl which were left in the manufacture of crosses and medals, and had been thrown out as refuse, sparkling and glistening in the bright sunshine, reminding one of the city above, whose gates are pearl. But the place where Christ was born is so holy that not even pearls are too precious to pave its streets.

The Latin convent is on the north side of the great church, and to the left, as one approaches the venerable pile. We knock at the iron door, which is opened quickly, and enter the reception-room of the house. This is a pleasant and comfortable place; and the pilgrim, fatigued by the long walk or ride, finds it a cheerful place of rest. The good fathers of the monastery are hospitable and kind, and give such welcome as the traveller would wish to receive at this holy place. The convent is old, and the walls are of great strength, being ten feet thick, which makes a deep recess at every window. A long table covered with a green cloth is in the middle of the room, and there are comfortable divans or cushioned seats along the wall by the windows. Portraits of a king and queen, who were benefactors of the convent many years ago, hang at the farther end of the apartment; while among the later decorations of the walls are good portraits of the present Emperor and Empress of Austria. Some photographs and engravings of religious subjects are also here; and there is a homelike and cheerful appearance which is most grateful to the weary traveller from other and distant lands.

Let us glance at the buildings and their history. The grotto or cave in which Christ was born is covered by the large church. Of this spot, as being the very place where the infant God was born, there never has been a doubt. {466} The identification of it goes back to the very next century after the Ascension of Christ. The church was built by Saint Helena, the mother of the first Christian Emperor, Constantine the Great, and it is the oldest place erected for Christian worship in the world. It was solidly and well built, and even now bids fair to last when many of the slight structures of modern times shall have fallen into ruin. It is fifteen hundred years old; in length one hundred and twenty feet, the breadth being one hundred and ten. There are four rows of large marble columns, taken, probably, from the porches of the temple in Jerusalem. Each row contains twelve columns, each one being of a single stone, twenty feet high and thirty inches in diameter; they are smooth, and have handsome capitals of the Corinthian order. The roof of the church was originally of the cedars of Lebanon, but was repaired about four hundred years ago with oak. The columns were once richly ornamented, and the walls were inlaid with mosaics; these are nearly all gone, and whitewash is in their stead. The Sanctuary was very beautiful, and yet retains much of the adornment of better days; but we can only see the top of the altar screen as we stand in the body of the church, for a large wall now runs entirely across the upper end of the nave, dividing it from the sanctuary. In consequence of this, the whole church looks desolate, empty, and cold. There are some cheap and mean glass lamps, a few ostrich eggs, and other trifling objects in the way of decoration, but the whole of this once beautiful and magnificent interior is desolate and neglected. Being common property of the Latins, Greeks, and Armenians, it receives care from none; or, rather, the jealousies of the Christians prevent any attempt at restoration. The stone pavement is broken and irregular. The main door of entrance from the village has been partly walled up, so that one can only enter by stooping low. This was done a long time since, to hinder the Turks from riding in on horses, mules, or camels; and the barrier against this sort of desecration is effectual enough.

The sanctuary of the church is directly over the spot where our Lord was born; and was once, as it should be, rich and gorgeous as loving devotion could make it--a brave sight in the day of its perfection. Raised six steps above the level of the floor of the body of the church, it is nearly square, and is large enough to accommodate the congregations who gather there. This sanctuary is in the possession of the Greeks and Armenians; for they, being richer than the Latins, have bought from the Turks the largest share in all the holy places in Bethlehem and Jerusalem.

The church, with its sanctuary described above, is over the crypt or grotto, which is the glory of Bethlehem, the place where Christ was born. Let us now go down to this most holy and blessed spot. It is reached by a flight of steps on each side of the great sanctuary, about thirteen in number, much worn by the thousands of feet which have pressed them. Language fails to convey the sentiments and emotions of the pilgrim as he descends these old steps. In a moment more he is to be there--there, where his Redeemer was born--there, where his heart has yearned to be thousands of times, through many long years, in the far distant land which is his home. Carefully he descends, and, when nearly at the bottom, he sees, at the right hand, a silver star fastened in the marble floor; over it a number of small lamps burning; three steps more--he kneels and flings himself prostrate--he is there! Blessed is the pilgrim to whom God has given this joy, the holiest and sweetest ever known on earth!

{467}

Doubtless we have all known, at some time or other, a gladness of heart whose power and intensity have caused it to be remembered in after-years, as marking the brightest day in our lives. With many it is that of the first communion; with others, something else has caused it. But the pilgrim to the holy places has a peculiar joy in addition to that shared with his brethren at home. And he will be forgiven if he say, as he feels, that there is no joy like that he has when he kneels where Christ was born. The superior of the convent at Jerusalem told me, on my first interview with him, "Jerusalem est locus crucis et spinarum." The superior of the convent at Bethlehem said, "Bethlehem est domus laetitiae." Both these excellent fathers spoke truly, and justly described the character of their respective cities. I subsequently found that Jerusalem was indeed the place of the cross and of thorns; but it needed only this day--only this hour--to prove to me, with all fulness of absolute certainty, that Bethlehem is indeed the house of joy. Think you that there is on earth another place so blessed and joyful as this? I know of none. Whoever has prayed at Bethlehem will say the same. The good tidings of great joy to all people from this place have been spread over the world.

Let us now look around and observe with carefulness the objects about us. We are in a grotto, apparently hewn in the rock, thirty-eight feet long, eleven feet wide, and nine feet high. The floor and walls are of large slabs of marble, once white, but grown dark by age and lamp-smoke and droppings of olive oil, for hundreds of years. The hangings are old, and in some places (especially the ceiling, which is covered with a blue stuff) dropping to pieces. Twenty-nine lamps, suspended from the roof, burn continually. The Holy Place is at the east end of the grotto; the two flights of stairs mentioned above land very near it. Imagine a semi-circular recess or apse, some four or five feet across, raised four inches above the floor. A marble slab, six inches in diameter, marks the spot where our Lord was born. Around this stone is a large silver star, which lies flat, as would a plate laid on the floor. The body of the star is cut out, so that it makes a rim around the stone in its centre. The star has fourteen rays or points, each about seven inches long, so that it is about twenty inches across the stone from one point to the opposite one. On the star is the inscription--the letters forming a circle around the marble centre--"Hic de Virgine Maria Jesus Christus natus est." Over the star hang sixteen silver lamps which ever burn; they are carefully tended day and night. There are eleven small and rude Greek pictures around the recess behind the lamps. Immediately over the star is an altar, used by the Greeks and Armenians, but not by the Latins; for the reason that Greek and Armenian gold has been largely given to the Turkish rulers for the privilege they possess. The Catholics are comparatively few in numbers and poor in money throughout the Holy Land; and to this circumstance is owing the melancholy fact that what ought to be our exclusive possession, is enjoyed by schismatics, or grudgingly shared with us by them. This altar is quite without decoration during the day. {468} When the Greeks say their mass, they dress it up, removing the things immediately afterward. The Armenians do the same.

Just at the foot of the stairs, as we came down to the shrine, at our left hand--the star being at our right--is a little recess two feet below the floor of the grotto, perhaps seven feet square, a spot of great interest, which happily belongs to the Catholics or Latins. A stone raised eight inches high above the floor of this little chapel marks the spot where the crib stood. Over and behind the stone is an excellent painting in a frame of silver. A screen of silver wire is in front of the painting and of the five silver lamps which hang over the stone. Opposite this, and in the same little chapel, is an altar standing in the spot where the wise men from the East offered their gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh to the newborn King. It was my happiness to have said Mass three times on this altar. The painting over this altar is very good; and a screen of wire is put up at the end of Mass, to protect the painting and the top of the altar during the day. In this little sunken chapel there is only just room for the celebrant and for the brother who serves the Mass; but, as it opens into the grotto on two sides, many persons can assist at the divine mysteries. Of all the shrines in Bethlehem this is the most favorable to devotion. Only a very little daylight comes down the stairs. The grotto is dimly lighted by the lamps, which are all like sanctuary lamps, with a small flame. The eye is attracted to the place of the nativity. All is silent, disposing to recollection and meditation. There are no crowds as in Jerusalem, and no Turks are seen here.

Beside these objects of chief interest, there are several others adjoining the sacred grotto. A passage leads from the rear of the grotto, at the opposite end from the shrine, past the tombs of St. Eusebius, the tombs and altar of Santa Paula and Santa Eustachium, her daughter. Opposite is the tomb of St. Jerome, with a painting representing him resting on a lion. A short distance from this is a square vault, about twenty feet in length and breadth, and nine feet high, lighted from above by a window. A stone seat or dais is around the apartment. This was the study of the great St. Jerome. It is now a chapel, and over the altar is a painting representing the saint with a lion at his feet. For more than thirty years did this great Father live in this cell. Here he made the translation of the Holy Scriptures into Latin, which we yet use--the Latin Vulgate, as it is called. Here, also, he wrote his treatises, letters, and commentaries, which are of such value and estimation in the church. Here, also, he wrote those remarkable words concerning the day of judgment, which are sometimes appended to his picture: "Quoties diem illum considero, toto corpore contremisco; sive enim comedo, sive bibo, sive aliquid aliud facio, semper videtur illa tuba terribilis sonare in auribus meis: Surgite mortui, venite ad judicium." This is the reason why he is sometimes painted with a trumpet, illa tuba terribilis, blown by an angel over his head. He was one of the earliest and certainly the most illustrious of pilgrims from Europe to Bethlehem, and is justly honored as a doctor and father of the church. He died A.D. 420, and was buried here in his monastery; but his remains were subsequently removed to Rome, where they now are in the magnificent church of St. Mary Major.

{469}

In another place, some forty feet from the study of St. Jerome, is the tomb of the Holy Innocents, where were buried many of those so cruelly murdered by order of the wicked Herod, who hoped that in their number would be the new-born King of the Jews. With a single exception, the slaughter of the Holy Innocents is the only sad memory associated with Bethlehem. That exception is the poverty, fearful and extreme, in which some of the Catholics at this time live. Their desolation is great, and their appeals for assistance are urgent and painful to the traveller.

In Bethlehem, as in Jerusalem, there is a procession daily made to the sacred places in the church. The plan and idea of the office is the same in both places, that is, a hymn with antiphon and prayer at each station. There is a difference in the subject, of course. It was touching, when we came to the place where is the silver star, to listen to the words in the prayer, "Here Jesus Christ was born." Also, when we next went to the place where the wise men made their offerings, one of the acolytes stood at the corner of the altar and, pointing with his finger, chanted "Hic magi offerabant munera." Few things in life can equal in impressiveness this daily visit to the holy places.

At night I went up on the convent roof to see the stars shining on Bethlehem; to be in Bethlehem and see the stars look down on the spot where I stood. The sky was clear and pure. Countless thousands of the heavenly bodies were there, each in its brilliancy. Starlight is always beautiful; especially is it grateful to the eye which has been pained with the dazzling and blinding power of the Eastern sun. How often, at home, had I thought of Bethlehem and the stars, not alone that one which is so memorable in the gospel history, but also of those which may now be seen; for, ever in the future, Bethlehem and the starlight are intimately associated. I looked up with a thankful heart. Countless as these lights had been God's mercies to myself. Another was added in its being granted me to come to Bethlehem to see it, to pray there, to look up to the sky and recall the sacred events belonging to the place. That night I went to rest in joy.

The next morning, Monday, February 5th, I said mass at the altar of the Magi or Three Kings. In the afternoon, Father Wadhams, Father Luigi, and myself went out to visit a place of great interest, a mile or so from the convent. We passed through the village of the shepherds--yet retaining that name--where dwelt those who kept their flocks. Beyond this we walked over the plain and fields of Boaz and Ruth to the place where the shepherds were abiding, keeping watch over their flocks by night, and where the angel came upon them in glory, saying, "Fear not: for behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day, in the city of David, a Saviour who is Christ the Lord." And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying, "Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace to men of good will."

We recalled this history with joy, and, taking off our hats, chanted the Gloria in Excelsis on the spot where those holy words were first heard by men. How often has not that grand and touching chant been sung throughout the world, melting the hardest hearts into penitence, and subduing the roughest natures into gentleness and love!

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The place where the shepherds rested while watching their flocks was a grotto, of which there are very many throughout the Holy Land, and in it they would be sheltered from the night air, needing less protection in the day time, as the winter is not very cold. The grotto had long ago been converted into a chapel by the Greeks, and we went into it and prayed. The neighborhood--especially the place were the shepherds heard the angel's message--is planted with olive trees; and I broke a few leaves from the tree under which we stood while singing the Gloria to keep as a memorial of the place. A Catholic priest is now building a church in the village of the shepherds. Returning, we saw the place where Santa Paula lived and died; it is a mile or less from the Church of the Nativity toward Jerusalem. We came home in time to join the procession which is daily made.

Later in the evening, and when there was no one present but ourselves, we went into the sacred grotto. Perfect silence reigned. Prostrate on the marble floor, I passed an hour close to the very spot where our Lord was born. Over and over again did I pray for the good people of Nativity Church at home, and for all who were commended to my prayers. Then, in this unbroken silence, which not even our breathing disturbed, I meditated on all that had taken place here, and on the mercy from God of which the birth of the Divine Infant was the seal. Repeatedly I kissed the stone which marks the spot, and the silver star by which it is surrounded. God has often in time past been gracious to me; but I say it with a thankful heart, that this one hour was the most blessed and happy of my whole life.

I have thus attempted to describe the holy city of David, and the objects of interest within and near it. My fourth and last visit was made on the return from Hebron; and I had more difficulty in tearing myself away from Bethlehem than in leaving any other place in the Holy Land. At the Greek convent of Elijah, of which mention has been made, I turned to take my last look at the city where Christ was born. Gazing long and earnestly, the whole scene was stamped indelibly on memory, and I said "Good-bye, Bethlehem, dearest city of holy mercy, house of joy, good-bye. Peace be with thee, and peace with them who love thee!"

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{471}

Lines on the Ceremonial Sandal of his Holiness.

Preserved At Burton Manor, Staffordshire, The Seat Of Francis Whitgreave, Esq.

"How beauteous on the hills the feet of him" ('Tis thus Isaias sings) "Who preaches heavenly peace, and brings to man Glad tidings of good things!"

Christ first, his vicar now, to us fulfils This gracious work of God; No land by seas or mountains so concealed But Peter there hath trod.

Hail, dearly-prized memorial, in late days By our loved Pius worn! Hail, emblem of the foot that walked the waves In our redemption's morn!

Before the little cross embroided here Princes have bended low, And owned the presence of a greater power Than the proud world can show.

Here love hath left a kiss; here guilt hath been. Nor dropped her tear in vain At his dear feet who can absolve all sins, Or, when he wills, retain!

Here learning to the truthful Roman See Hath noble homage paid; Here to religion's lovelier majesty Beauty hath bowed her head.

Oh! by this sacred relic here I swear, As all my life shall prove, To him who sits in Peter's holy chair True loyalty and love.

E. Caswall. Oratory, Birmingham.

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{472}

The Labor Question.

Translated From Le Correspondant.

Address Of Rev. Father Hyacinthe Before The Catholic Congress Of Malines.

Your Eminence, My Lords, And Gentlemen:

I will not attempt to conceal from you the emotion which thrills me. I behold and am dismayed. I am abashed before this assembly, which will presently give me inspiration. I speak before a prince of the church, who is also a prince of wisdom and virtue; before this illustrious circle of bishops, my fathers in the faith; before these eminent statesmen, masters of science and of eloquence, and I find this tribunal still warm and palpitating from the hands which have touched it and the words which have made it tremulous. I speak before this grand assemblage, convened from the four quarters of the world to discuss, upon this little spot of free ground that we call Belgium, the religious interests of the Catholics of two worlds. Gentlemen, I was alarmed at first, but I will fear no longer. I feel that I am not a stranger here; I meet brothers. Your acclamations I accept, for they are not addressed to the individual, who is nothing, but to the cause, which is grand; I had almost said, which is every thing. This cause I can define in two words--the Catholic Church, and the Catholic Church in the nineteenth century.

On that day which no priest forgets--on that day when, lying upon the pavement of the temple, I took for my only and virginal spouse the Holy Church of Jesus Christ; my lips in the dust, my eyes in tears, my heart in ecstacy and in thrills of rapture--I vowed in silence to love her well, and, if I could, to serve her well, not only in her grand past, which is no more, and in her glorious future, which is not yet come, but in her present, so sorrowful and so grand also; in her present, which is the product of the past ages of her history, and, consequently, the work of God.

Those who undertake to serve the church in the nineteenth century have one especially profound and threatening question to encounter: I mean the Labor Question.

This question is one which transcends all fixed limits, but I will limit my treatment of it to one especial point of view--the education of the laboring classes. The hope of the harvest is in the seed, and Leibnitz was right in saying, "Give me the instruction of the youth during one century and I will change the face of the globe." This transformation cannot be accomplished until the working classes shall be educated under the conditions designed by the nature of man and the general harmony of the divine plan.

There are three degrees in this education--the primary education by the family, the professional education by the workshop, the religious education of the Sunday.

I.

Family Education.

I place the family in the first rank. It occupies it in the order of time; it ought to occupy it in the order of influences.

Among the many elevated minds occupied with the fate of the working classes, I am astonished that there are so few who comprehend their real wants. {473} The remedy for the evils which they suffer, the means of the progress that they wish to realize, are vainly sought for in new inventions and combinations, in specious theories, or even in private or public charitable institutions. They are in the family; that institution which is as ancient and universal as the world, and which has its roots in the inmost depths of the strength and tenderness of humanity; that institution which came from the hands of God himself, a vestige of the primal order of Eden, which Christ has empurpled with his blood, and raised to the dignity of a sacrament, making it one of the seven pillars destined to uphold for ever the edifice of regenerated human society. (Applause.)

It is, then, the family that embodies the strength to sustain or to restore in all classes of society; but above all in the working class of our cities. It is especially to the family that the first education of the child must be entrusted.

In primary education, there are two things which need especial consideration--the place and the agent. The place is the domestic hearth; the agent is the mother.

The domestic hearth! There it is that the cradle of the child ought to be, there that its first years ought to be passed. Has not Providence implanted this instinct in the heart of all his creation, even in the species inferior to ours? Does not the bird build its nest in the soft moss, under the shelter of the hedge and among the branches of the tree? Is there not in all the orders of nature a special place, a sacred spot, where the first hopes, the first joys, and the first sufferings of life should be experienced? Ah, well! among all these other cradles, the human race has a right to a sacred cradle, too; it has a right to a domestic hearth which shall be free from the infection of filth and disease, and whose atmosphere shall not be fatal to the life either of the body or of the soul of the child.

It is at this fireside that must first begin the education of this young soul, of its imagination and budding perceptions. These walls are not merely walls, this roof is not alone a collection of shingles and slate, this furniture is not merely collection of common objects: I say that all this speaks a deep language, that all this exercises a powerful influence in the moral order. Have not we Catholics, in our divine religion, sensible signs that are called sacraments, water, wine, bread, oil; in short, matter--but matter which reveals and communicates in different degrees invisible things! In the order of nature, and in what I will call the religion of the fireside, there is also a mysterious influence of places and of things--a secret communication of the habits, of the virtues, of the soul of the family by these material objects themselves. The child will see what its parents have seen; it will mingle its life with objects filled with recollections of them, and, so to speak, penetrated by their souls; he will receive some impress from it, and as an indelible character that he will carry through the errors of youth and even under the white hairs of the old man. If there be poetry in this, gentlemen, it is practical poetry; it germinates in facts; it has its roots in the nature of things. It makes us feel, besides, of what importance it is for the child to be reared with its father and mother, and not under a strange roof.

I have said that the mother is the principal agent in the fireside education. It is not that I disregard the part of the father; and if it were appropriate for me to say all I think, I should reproach some Catholic writers, who fail to make sufficient account of it. {474} We are in danger of forgetting the father in the presence of the mother--this type so pure, so gracious, so Christian.

But I cannot give here an exhaustive treatise upon family education, and I insist above all upon the importance of this primary education of which the care devolves almost exclusively upon the mother. At this period of life, the body and the heart of the child must be formed; reason will have its turn later, but it will only develop itself upon the double soil, physical and moral, a body and a heart worthily prepared. Now, the hands of the wife are alone capable of this divine field-culture, agricultura Dei; they alone are pure enough and tender enough to touch this virginal and suffering body that an imprudent touch might bruise or blight; they alone are powerful enough to awake in him that organ of the heart which is, according to science, the first to be born and the last to die, primum saliens et ultimum moriens, the power to love which remains so often stifled or corrupted in its germ. As the hands of the priest are consecrated to touch the body of Christ upon the altar--this body glorious but subjected to the fragile conditions of the sacrament--so the hands of the Christian woman, by the benediction of marriage and through the graces of maternity, are sanctified to touch worthily the body of the child, a body infirm but glorious, because it contains a soul; I had almost said because it contains a god. By baptism it has been made a living member of Jesus Christ. (Applause.)

The fireside and the mother! Where are they to-day for the people of our great cities? Ah! I touch two great, hideous sores of our contemporaneous society: the pitiable condition of the working part of the community, and the absence of the mother from the domestic hearth. Here is one of the most unrecognized and most active principles in the evil which we suffer; it is here, in this disorganization of the family, in this demoralization of the people, that are formed those black spots which finally rise in the atmosphere, and become there an ever-increasing cloud which at last bursts in a great tempest.

Is it a fireside or is it a den, this damp, dark, infected cellar from which the poor are absent all day, and in the evening return only to horrible poverty and disorder? Is this the dwelling of the living or the tomb of the dead, this narrow, suffocating garret, where, in order to extend himself upon his bed--I cite a fact recently come to my knowledge in Paris--the fatigued workman is obliged to open the garret window during the night and to put his feet upon the roof? I ask, are such dwellings tolerable for the free citizens of France or Belgium; for men redeemed by the blood of Jesus Christ? (Applause.)

If at least the mother were there, her look and her smile would illumine the clouds, transform the ugliness, and make a joyous festival in the midst of this sadness. But labor, barbarous labor, has deprived her of performing the sacred duties of the mother, and has drawn her, weak and tottering, into the great workshop, full of the noise of work and the sound of blasphemy, whence she can not hear the cry of her son carried far from her to an indifferent or covetous stranger, who will restore him to her dead or at least blighted.

{475}

I do not exaggerate, gentlemen; these are but too common facts, and which are tending to become the law in these great industrial masses. Ah! well, it is the duty, the imperious duty of Catholics to unite among themselves and with the Christians of all churches and feeling men of all opinions, to make one supreme effort in favor of the working classes. Let us work to restore to them the family which has been taken away from them. Let us work to restore the fireside, modest and poor undoubtedly, but decent and pleasant, where the mother remains with her children and gives them those cares of the heart and the body in which no one in the world can replace her. (Applause.)

I do not wish to be a Utopian, and I have not the credulity to believe that these things can be accomplished in a day. Whatever assistance may be rendered, it will require years and still years before the family life, so deeply violated among the people of our cities, retakes its vigor and beauty. In the meantime, gentlemen, what shall we do? Charity has marvellous inventions. To those who are homeless, it has opened children's homes and asylums; to those who have no mother, it has prepared devoted hearts of teachers, whatever may be the dress and name they bear. It has prepared, above all, three centuries ago, through the heart of Vincent de Paul, that extraordinary woman whose mission was reserved especially for the nineteenth century, for the great crisis of the laboring classes, the helper of the workman as of the soldier, upon the field of battle, of labor, and of suffering--the sister of charity. If any one could replace the mother at the cradles of the people, it would be the sister of charity, (applause;) it would be this nun, unsecluded and unveiled, who, not being of the world, yet lives in the world, and who unites, in an unexampled combination, the heart of the virgin and the feelings of the mother. (Prolonged applause;) Let us leave the child to the sister of charity; we will leave it to the instructor and instructress who fill to it the place of parents, to the infant-asylum and school that supplies to it the place of home. Let us not permit that any hand, under any pretence, snatch it from this cradle-education, and give us that spectacle, which would be loathsome if it were not lamentable-- the workman eight years of age. I feel the need of speaking the truth with regard to this grand industry, that has been flattered even to baseness by some, and disparaged even to abuse by others. I belong neither to the class of courtiers nor to that of traducers, and I estimate that the best homage one can render to a power of this world is to believe it great enough to hear the truth. I will say, then, to trade, that it has never a right to put its hand upon a child before the age denoted by nature and by religion. To do this is to commit a crime more odious than that which has so long stained America, and that she has been obliged to wash out in waves of blood. Among those men who owned other men there were those who were just and good, who were more the benefactors of their slaves than their masters. But there were also those who were without conscience and without feeling. They saw in the negro only an instrument, and they required of him unmeasured labor without repose. This was the oppression of the body. But all oppression, as all liberty, passes from that of the body to that of the soul. If the truth could come in them, the truth would deliver them! No communication, then, with those who possess science, with men who speak too high, nor with books that teach too thoroughly. And, finally, to intellectual oppression, these cautious and cruel tyrants added moral oppression. {476} They were doubly right, for, of all the accessories of liberty, the most dangerous is not science but virtue. No virtue, then, for the slave! He has been deprived of the gospel; he must also be deprived of nature! And because in the absence of the gospel, and even in the ruins of human nature, when this nature has not entirely perished, there yet dwell two noble sentiments, two powerful roots, whence all can spring up again and flourish--conjugal love and paternal love--family life was rendered impossible, and in these horrible cases men could no longer embrace, in honor as in tenderness, the companion of their misfortunes and the fruit of their love.

You shudder, gentlemen, and you are right. But nothing which has been lost, however great may be the evil, is ever entirely without remedy. This negro is an adult, a man grown; and if, in a childhood more happy than his maturity, he has been warmed upon the bosom of a black but Christian mother, nigra sed formosa, and has drawn the chaste and healthful milk of virtue; if he has known the gospel, and if he has loved Jesus Christ, he holds in his innermost life concealed resources; he will feel the sudden and powerful awakenings of an honest conscience and of Christian truth, and against the triple tyranny of the body, of the intelligence, and of the heart there will be victorious rebellions.

Gentlemen, the being most effectually oppressed, the victim irremediably crushed, is not the man; it is the child. It is the little white slave of our Europe, who has known neither his cradle nor his mother, and who has awakened to life in the dark workshop, a kind of hell on earth, of which we may write--

"You who enter here leave all hope behind."

His active lungs breathe in full draughts of air which are simply draughts of poison; his little limbs, bent under the work before being formed, are dedicated from infancy to decrepitude. His intelligence, too, arrested in its early budding, is sadly locked in darkness. It is in vain that, later, in fruitless remorse, we would attempt to imbue him with some truths. The negro will recollect himself after years of brutishness; the child will learn no more after a few months of this odious system. He will never hold in his hand the three keys, at once common and sublime, which open so many things in life and in the soul--reading, writing, and arithmetic. He will never possess those rudiments of science which ought to be the portion of all--something of the form and life of this globe that he inhabits, and much of the glory and destinies of that country which he ought to love and to serve. Never, above all, will he have the clear and strong revelation of his own soul and of God. His soul and God! it is not only ignorance which steals them from him, it is vice. What has taken place in this dark workshop, in this hell, precocious but not the less hopeless? I will not attempt to speak it, but will listen to the words of a poet [Footnote 46] of our age, eloquent interpreter of the frenzies and anguishes of evil in the depths of the human soul:

"The heart of man, unspotted, is a vase profound; If the first water poured into it be impure, The sea may pass over without washing away the stain, For the abyss is unfathomable and the spot in its depths."

[Footnote 46: Alfred de Musset.]

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(Applause.) O hands that have abused the child! you will be cursed in spite of all your splendor, in spite of all your science, and in spite of your riches! Hands of a relentless industry, you will remain dry and withered as the hand of the tyrant of Israel under the malediction of the prophet of Judos, "The hand of Jeroboam withered and he was not able to draw it back again to him, because the Lord had cursed it." You have committed the most cowardly, the most revolting, and the most irreparable of crimes. (Prolonged applause.)

II.

The Education Of The Workshop.

I have been too diffuse upon the primary education of man. The fault, gentlemen, is in your attention and sympathy; and then in the empty cradle, the absent mother, this gloomy fireside, where I had need to weep and hope with you.

The home education is concluded by that grand religious ceremony, the first communion, which serves as the first emancipation of the child. More precocious in that than the sons of the rich, the sons of the workman enter from there a sort of public life; from the family, they pass to the workshop. Am I mistaken, gentlemen; is there not a school between the family and the workshop, the primary school first and the professional school afterward? No; the school is not between the family and the workshop, it is beside them. It does not form, in connection with them, a third degree in the popular education. In a word, its part is not principal and independent, but secondary and subordinate. I am full of sympathy and respect for those modest and courageous teachers of the people, to whatever corps of instructors they may belong, whether they wear the religious or the layman's dress, provided they remain at the height of their profession. I will never associate myself with the gross and unmerited injuries of which they are the objects, in different senses, on the part of all extreme parties. But grand as is their mission, I repeat it, it is secondary; and practical reason fails to see in the school what a large number of our contemporaries see in it--the most efficacious instrument for the elevation of the laboring classes. Permit me, gentlemen, to cite the words of an economist, a patient, impartial, and wise observer, whose name and works I would wish to popularize among Catholics. "With a free and prosperous people," says M. Le Play, "the instructor occupies only a subordinate position. The true education is given by the family, aided by the priest; it is completed by apprenticeship to a profession, and by the observance of social duties." [Footnote 47]

[Footnote 47: Social Reform in France, by M. Le Play, author of European Laborers, Commissioner-General to the Universal Exhibitions of 1855, '62, and '67. 3d edition, vol. ii. p. 369.]

The workshop is, then, after the family, the second centre, the second home, for the education of the people. But what is a well-planned and well-organized workshop? It is one where the dignity and rights of personal being are recognized in the workmen, and especially in the child. A personal being is always an end, never a means; it cannot be used as an animal without reason, nor as an instrument without consciousness. If one expect services of it, and receive profit from it, it is necessary to dispose of it, as God does of us, with a great respect; cum magna reverentia disponis nos. What is a well-appointed workshop? It is one which has at its head a patron who is an honorable man, a patron truly worthy of the name he bears. Some have seen something ridiculous and disagreeable in this name; but, for my part, I find it very grand, very elevated, and, above all, very Christian. {478} I see in it the idea of paternity, and in this very idea the practical solution of our problem, by the relations of mutual affection in a free but, nevertheless, close and durable association between the masters and the workmen. In such a workshop, under this father of the laborer, an immediate gain will be sacrificed, however great it may be, to the formation of intelligent and virtuous apprentices. It is not proposed to produce only much and quickly; it is desired that trade may be grand by its workmen as well as by its works; from its moral as well as its material side. The kingdom of God and his righteousness is sought first; and all the rest is added, for righteousness and utility have more bonds between them than we think, and science has recently stated that in the products of labor not only the degree of intelligence, but also the degree of morality of the workmen, may be recognized.

Aided by devoted and qualified foremen, such a patron will make the workshop he directs the best of professional schools. The good workman is made, like the good soldier, less by precept than by example, less by general and theoretical knowledge than by a practical struggle with the realities of his trade.

Come, then, young conscript of labor! I would have many more of this kind and many fewer of the other. (Applause.) Yes, the conscripts of agriculture, in these vast open workshops that we call the fields, and the conscripts of trade, in the more confined but not less fruitful workshops of our cities--the great, peaceful army which forms the true power and superior influence of a nation. (Renewed applause.) Come, conscript of labor! Enter upon the field of battle of the workshop! Fight those combats which are not always without dangers, never without courage and glory! And you, inured foreman, captain of this noble militia, follow it, guide it, exercise it by look, and word, and gesture! See how it avenges its first defeats by valiant exploits; how it puts its victorious hand upon this wild beast, this matter, revolted against man. It seizes it, it twists its mane, and finally curbs it, subdued, pliant, and docile, to carry on the inventions of science and the creations of genius. (Applause.)

Gentlemen, yet a word with regard to the workshop. It is a place which ought to complete the formation of the moral and religious character, at the same time that it perfects the intelligent and qualified workman. It is not alone the school of excellence in the profession; it is also the school of life. The family, with its auxiliaries, the school and the catechism, has provided the theory of life more than it has given the practice. The good precepts have fallen upon the consciousness of the child in the form of a mysterious revelation, of which he has felt the power and the beauty, but of which he has not been able to seize all the significance. Every theory, so far as it remains abstract, differs more or less from the reality; it is essential that it descend into the region of facts, and that it enter into a contact with them which, far from destroying, confirms, but at the same time modifies and fructifies, it. This is the true tendency of practical life.

When, then, the mother and the priest have grounded this sublime, true, and eternal theory of religion and of virtue, it belongs to the workshop to submit it to its necessary and decisive proof, to give or refuse it citizenship in practical existence. {479} If, finally, everything in this new school says to the young apprentice, Your teachers have deceived you or are themselves deceived; the great movement of men and things is not, and cannot be, what they have told you; if this contradiction of the faith of his childhood penetrate his mind and heart through the constant teachings of word and example, by all the influences of these moral mediums, which act upon us with far greater force than physical mediums, it will come to pass that he will abandon the principles of his parents and instructors as a weak support, and will allow himself to glide down the seductive declivities of doubt and pleasure. But if, on the contrary, he find one of these workshops too rare to-day, which are the continuation of the school and fireside experience; if he hear and see the practical commentary on all he has believed and loved; if he breathe the pure air of healthful souls which refreshes and fortifies the conscience and the heart; you will soon see developed to manly stature those virtues of childhood instilled in him by the sacred influence of home and of religion, warmed by the contact of those two hearts which are equal--I dare not say that one surpasses the other; God has clothed them with so nearly the same tenderness and the same piety, for the cradle of mankind--the heart of the mother and the heart of the priest. (Applause.)

III.

Education By Means Of The Sunday.

I have just compared the priest and the mother. And indeed, gentlemen, if I have spoken separately of the family and the workshop, I have not intended by that to separate them from religion. With these two primordial laws of love and of labor of which I have indicated the double home--the family and the workshop--is connected, and, as it were, interlaced, a third still grander law, which forms with them the divine net-work of human existence--prayer.

We cannot be the disciples of an independent morality, because we are not participators in an impersonal deity. We have a morality which comes from the living God and which returns to him, and in this golden chain which binds the earth to heaven all the links are not the duties of man in respect to man; and when one desires to be an honorable man in the fulness and holiness of this term, so often profaned, he must not disregard in his practical respect the most living and sacred of all personalities. Now, this intercourse of the living and personal soul with the living and personal God is what we call prayer, in the fullest and most comprehensive sense of the word. It is not sufficient to think of God; it is necessary to pray to him. When one habituates himself to reach him only by thought, he finishes by no longer believing in God; he vanishes, or at least he transforms himself into a mass of confused and icy clouds--evanuerunt in cogitationibus suis--and of the Being of beings there remains only a sublime but chimerical ideality. It is necessary to have a heart, to have the arts and movements of a soul which looks up with respect and tenderness to the God who makes it to live upon the earth, to the Father who awaits it in the heavens. Not even individual prayer suffices; collective prayer is necessary--the meeting and communion of souls in the same illumination and fervidness of love. This prayer has a sacred day and place--the Sunday and the temple. It is of this day and this place, gentlemen, that it remains to say to you that they are, after as before the first communion, the highest school of the child, of the youth, and of the man.

{480}

This is why the first and most essential of all popular liberties is the liberty of keeping the Sunday. There are men who do not comprehend this need of repose for the soul and for the body. They are usually those who direct work, but who do not perform it; who receive the profit without knowing the fatigue. They are those who have not pricked their hands on the hard asperities of labor, with the thorns and briers of the workshop, and who have not been bowed down during six days over the earth with their brows bathed in sweat and their souls exhausted with suffering. As for such, I can conceive of their objections to the law of repose. I can comprehend their repugnance to the liberty of the Sunday. But the laborer, whenever he is not under the pressure of material or moral violence, whenever he is left to his own instincts; he claims as his most dear and sacred right the enjoyment of this day which makes him truly free, truly husband and father, truly a child of God. The sentiment of human dignity requires it; it is the exigency of family life; it is the religious need of souls; it is the cry of all that is most noble and imperious in our nature.

I still recollect what I experienced in my childhood. Permit me this confession, which is yours as well, and which would be also that of our workmen. In the morning, when I awoke, I felt distinctly that it was Sunday! In the clump of trees near the window, the birds sang more sweetly; the church-bells pealed more joyously; the air was filled with more harmonies and perfumes; the sky was so beautiful, the sun so brilliant! I did not understand this mystery. I asked myself many times how nature thus became transformed on a fixed day. Later, I understood it. Child, still warm from the waters of thy baptism, throbbing from the caresses of thy mother, it is a reflection of thy religious soul which passes over nature and makes it more beautiful and more like thyself. (Applause.)

The child will arise transported. It will go into the temple, which is the house of God, but which is also the house of the people. The rich have their palaces; they can content themselves with a modest chapel. For the people we must have cathedrals, (applause,) and festivals such as are not given to the princes of the earth, such as religion alone can realize. The true popular festival--let me speak the word so much abused, the true democratic festival--is Sunday. In the vast basilica, all the arts, united around the altar, have mingled their enchantments into one supreme enchantment--architecture, statuary, painting, music, above all, eloquence. Yes, eloquence! However unpolished the words of the priest may sometimes be, by the nature of the truths he must announce, by the chords which he is sure to touch in the human heart, the priest is necessarily eloquent. (Applause.) The people enter, and they feel its grandeur. And the little children, as they cross the threshold, are welcomed like kings by the grand voice of the organ; they breathe the perfumes of incense and of flowers; they listen to those majestic and tender chants, those Latin words, which they do not comprehend, and which nevertheless say to them so many things--words of eternity dropped down into time, mysterious secrets of the fatherland, a glimpse caught in exile. Transported with faith, with hope, and with love, they come from the fireside to the altar; from the altar to the fireside they recarry to the mother the kiss of God, as they have carried to God the kiss of the mother.

{481}

This is the day of which their friends wish to deprive the people--false friends, who believe only in the body, who see in it only material needs, the work and the pleasures of the beast of burden! Courtiers of democracy, you who flatter the people and despise it, believe in its soul, crede animae, and by that begin to believe in your own. (Applause.)

Yes, this law of Sunday, so religiously democratic, is to-day everywhere unrecognized. Patriotism imposes upon me still greater consideration for my country when I speak upon soil which is not her own. I am mistaken; my country asks of me only equity, and I know that if much evil can be said of France as she is to-day, much good may also justly be said of her. I will speak, then, freely; I will complain of the violation of the Sunday in the great industrial cities of France. Sometimes I must pass through the streets in going to the church to speak the sacred word. I revolve in my heart the lessons of the Gospel and all along the way are visions of hell; heavy wagons, axle-trees that groan, pavements that reek, clouds of dust which hide from me the sun and the face of God. I cover my eyes with my hands and say, groaning, It is France that does this.

The answer comes, Undoubtedly; but this is liberty. Respect the liberty of France! Respect the conscience of your fellow-citizens! Ah! I have nothing to say against liberty. I speak of it with lips as much more sincere and fervent as they are more Christian and more Catholic. The hour is not yet come, gentlemen, but the hour will come, in which misapprehensions shall cease, and it will be said before the end of this century that the pontiff so great and so unappreciated, Pius IX., who has most valiantly combated against revolution, is the same who has opened the initiatives the most bold and most fruitful--yes, in spite of apparent reverses, I say the most fruitful for the liberty of Europe. Let us not do that with which St. Paul reproaches the Christians of Corinth. We will not depart from Christ; we will not divide ourselves from Pius IX., divisus est Christus! As for me, in all the extent of his glory I accept him; from his prosperity so pure to his misfortunes so touching; from the raising of the standard of reform and progress in his royal and priestly hand, previous to 1848, to the convocation of the ecumenical council which unites at this hour to the applause of Catholics the sympathy of Protestants and Rationalists.

No! we will not lessen liberty. We will not wound the interests of labor nor the exigencies of trade. What contemptible sophisms these are! Do you not see two great free nations, two great industrial nations, which are equal to yours, if they do not surpass you--England and the United States? I have had the happiness to visit London. I shall never forget the emotion which filled me at the sight of this city, similar to the ancient metropolis of the sea which the prophets paint; the woman who is seated upon the waters, mulier quae sedet super aquas. And in the deep waves I saw no abysses, but only an immense and solemn fluctuation, and as the majesty of an ever moving but firmly established throne. And the great queen of the seas was there, commanding the islands and the continents, reaching out in the distance over kings and peoples, no longer, as her predecessors, the rod of oppression, but the beneficent sceptre of her riches and her liberty. {482} And I heard the sound of her vast trade, and in the streets passed the living flood of men and chariots. Then one day broke as the days of my childhood; one day such as public life no longer shows me in my country; one day which did not resemble other days. No longer the noisy cars in the streets, no longer a crowd full of business; the gigantic machine which muttered and thundered the evening before had suddenly stopped, as before the vision of God. The grand movement of English trade was arrested, and I saw in the streets only those who went, collected and happy, to the place of prayer, and I heard only the sweet harmony of the Protestant bells, which remembered having been Catholic while waiting to become so again. (Applause.)

Let not any one say, England is an aristocratic and feudal power; its Sabbath-rest is one of the remnants of the middle ages which modern breath will soon have swept away. I look to the other side of the sea, and I find again this Anglo-Saxon race which can clothe the same grandeur under the most diverse forms; this time it is not the middle age and aristocracy; it is the most advanced prow of modern civilization, sailing across all glories and indiscretions toward an unknown future. This is, I love to think, the people chosen by God to renew things and to prepare for truths and institutions which can no longer do without newer and stronger vestments. Well, the United States observe the Sunday as England does, and send back to us across the ocean this same response of the silence of God to the blasphemies of men. (Applause.)

In praising these great countries, gentlemen, I do not intend to recommend to you a servile imitation, and I do not ask that what is not in our manners shall be inscribed in our laws. The law exists in France, it is true, but in the state of a dead letter. I do not desire to see it applied. I am persuaded that in such countries as France and Belgium great inconvenience would arise by this means. What I ask is not the obligation, it is the liberty of the Sunday; liberty by the Sunday and the Sunday by liberty. (Cries of Good. That is it.) Yes, I repeat, the liberty of the people by the Sunday and the observance of the Sunday by liberty. If I had the right to speak to governments, I should do it with that respect which is their due even in their faults. Even here, we have applauded the beautiful words of M. de Maistre on the subject of Russia: "I respect all that is respectable, the sovereigns and the people." I say, then, to them, Give your example, and I ask of you no other support for the cause that I defend. Let the public works scrupulously respect the Sunday, and the state force the individual to blush before it. (Applause.) And you, princes of trade, organizers, legislators, and monarchs of labor and of wealth, you can do more here than crowned heads; you have been powerful agents in suppressing the liberty of the Sunday; you will be more powerful in restoring it. (Applause.)

And now, gentlemen, before closing, suffer me to address one last and earnest appeal to your zeal in favor of these three great restorers in the bosom of the laboring classes--the family, the workshop, and the Sunday.

Yesterday, in language which belongs only to himself, but which interprets our feelings as well, M. Le Compte de Falloux said to the illustrious Bishop of Orleans, "My Lord, you have recommended us to arise early; but you have joined example to precept; you have ever been the standard-bearer in all good causes." {483} Well, what I could wish is, that each one of us could also be among the standard-bearers; that we could have the honor, we Catholics, of being in advance of others in the practical knowledge of what is preparing in the approximate future.

What is approaching? It is called by an illy-defined name, which awakens passions and dissensions--democracy. Two years ago I attempted to explain this word at Notre-Dame de Paris, [Footnote 48] and I have been blamed for it by some. I have since found a similar definition in the recent writings of the honored bishop whom I have just named. I retake it, then, with pride, and I say to all those who invoke this name, There are two democracies in the world. Which is yours? Is it radical revolution? Does social hierarchy, entirely prostrated before the force of numbers, constitute the grandeur of intelligence and virtue? Is it the brutal level which passes over all things to crush and to lower? If this be your democracy, it is the worst of barbarisms, and we will combat it, if necessary, even to the shedding of our blood. But if democracy be the gradual and peaceable elevation of the laboring and suffering masses, who are called peasants in the country and workmen in our cities; if it be their elevation to a more extended knowledge, to a more secure well-being, to a more efficient and refined morality, and by legitimate consequence to a more extensive social influence; we are with this democracy, not only because we are the sons of our century, but because we are the sons of the Gospel. [Footnote 49]

[Footnote 48: Advent Conferences of 1865. (3d conference.)]

[Footnote 49: "If democracy be the rising of the common people, of the peasants and the laborers, to a higher standard of education, of well-being, of morality, of legitimate influence, the church is with democracy." --Atheism and Social Peril, by Monsignor the Bishop of Orleans. 1866. p. 166.]

I see it arise. I salute it in your name; this Christian democracy, having its deep and solid foundations in the homes, the workshops of trade, and in the sanctuary of our temples. It will change history, which, in the past, has only recorded the intrigues of the wily or the conquests of the strong, the powerlessness of policy, the too frequent corruption of riches and art. It will give to the sages a subject of meditation in the intelligent and faithful working out of the laws of private life, to which public life itself is subordinate when it is understood. It will cause a great people to spring up who will seek the practical welfare of their existence, as well as the inspiration of their literature and art, in family affection, the struggles and joys of labor, and in the chaste emotions of prayer and the splendid festivities of religion.

Undoubtedly, the crisis that we are passing through is one of the most important and terrible that our race has known. Let us raise our efforts, our courage, and our faith to the height of these solemn events, but never doubt the final issue. I can explain the ruins of pagan society; but the society which has touched Jesus Christ, the humanity which has possessed for centuries the spirit of the Gospel--in a word, Europe--she may suffer, she may be in the pangs of death, but she cannot die. (Prolonged applause.)

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{484}

Mater Filii.

Behind this vast and wondrous frame Of worlds whereof we nothing know Except their aspects, and their name,-- Behind this blind, bewildering show

Of shapes that on the darkness trace Transitions fair and fugitive, Lies hid that power upon whose face No child of man shall gaze and live.

As one that in broad sunshine stands While minster organs near him roll, Screening his forehead with his hands, And following through the gulfs of soul

Some memory that before him flies-- Thus, power eternal and unknown, We muse on thine immensities, Yet find thee in thy Son alone.

Immanuel--God with us--in him The lineaments divine are glassed Like mountain outlines, vague and dim Upon the mists of morning cast.

The "Word made Flesh!" O power divine! Through him, through him, we guess at thee, And deepliest feel that he is thine When throned upon his mother's knee.

"If I but touch his vesture's hem, I shall be healed, and strong, and free--" Thou wert his vesture, Mary;--them His virtue heals that cling to thee!

Aubrey De Vere.

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{485}

The Sacrifice and the Ransom.

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