I. A HERO
"You say he is handsome?"
"No; I said he was nice-looking, and gentlemanly, as of course Philip's cousin would be. But you know I judge only from a photograph."
"How vain you are of your lover, Jessie! You would be just as proud of him if he had not his handsome face, of course?"
"Of course I would."
"I will not marry a handsome man! However, tell me some more about the cousin. Why should he bury himself at Shellbeach? I should think a man of any aspiration could not endure such a contracted life. I suppose he is as gossiping and weak-minded as a country minister."
"My dear Margaret!"
"I know you think me uncharitable. The truth is, men exasperate me; and then remember I am twenty-five and not engaged."
"You have no one to blame except yourself."
"I don't know about that. Is it my fault that young men are all alike, and inexpressibly wearisome? Seriously, I am tired of being Miss Lester, and mean to change my condition. Why do you look at me in that peculiar manner?"
"I was wondering how you would suit the doctor."
"Does he want to be suited?"
"I should think so, from his letter."
"Jessie, give it to me this moment. I must see it."
"I will not give it to you. I will read you something he says. No, you are not to look over my shoulder; sit down peaceably, or else I shall put the letter in my pocket."
"Why Jessie, what is the matter with you? I never saw you so dignified in all my life. I suppose the letter is all about Philip, and that is why you choose to keep it to yourself. Well, here I am, meek as a lamb, actually submitting to you. It is too absurd!"
With these words, Margaret, who had seated herself on a sofa near her friend, jumped up, seized the letter and tore it open, while Jessie held out her hands imploringly, but did not offer to resist her impetuous companion. Margaret glanced at the first two pages.
"Philip, Philip. Don't be alarmed; I would not be hired to read it. Let me see; what is this? 'Why was not I fortunate enough to have you myself?' Aha! you have two irons in the fire, you artful little creature?"
"Don't be silly, Margaret, but read on."
"I don't know about this; I shall not scruple to warn Philip, if you are getting yourself into trouble. What comes next? 'But since so charming a companion is beyond my reach, cannot you undertake to find me some one as much like you as possible, or at least just as nice, who would not be afraid of a quiet, hard-working life with a poor doctor, in the dullest of country towns? A sweet temper is, of course, the first requirement; moderate personal attractions; some sense and experience, and a little money for herself. Of course I want a great many more things, but these will do for the present. So if you know of a young woman, strong and healthy--to think that a doctor should have almost forgotten those important items!--send her down here, will you? and I will marry her on the spot.' Well, I will not read any more of your letter, unless there are any more of this modest man's requirements. But seriously, Jessie, I think I would do very well for him, and you may write and tell him I am coming."
"Margaret, of course you are in fun? How can you look so sober? You would not surely mean any thing so improper."
"I am in very earnest, and really it is quite refreshing to be so. I am tired out with my third season of balls, operas, Germans, and all that kind of nonsense, and I would like to see a little of real life. I have not quite made up my mind what I will do; but I will go up-stairs for an hour, and then I will tell you what to write to the doctor. My good old aunty shall be favored with a long visit from her niece, whom she has not seen for five years; and in the mean time, you are not to say one word to your mother or to any one else. Do you hear, Jessie? Come, promise me."
The promise was given, and Jessie was left in great perplexity for nearly two hours, when a message was brought her that Miss Lester would be glad to see her up-stairs. She found her friend at a little writing-table, in a sort of boudoir between their rooms, where the girls used to work and read in the mornings, and receive calls from their intimate friends.
"There!" said Margaret, rising as she entered; "sit down there, Jessie, and read what I have written; you are to copy it in your answer to the doctor's letter. Read it aloud to me; I want to hear how it sounds."
Jessie read as follows:
"I highly approve of your wish to marry, and think I can help you in the matter. I have some one in my mind that comes pretty well up to your different requirements--at least those you have specified; for of course I cannot pretend to answer for the 'great many more things' which you want, but have not mentioned. Moreover, this young woman is a dear friend of mine, and is willing to marry, if she can be satisfied. She says she will go to Shellbeach and stay with a relation, in order to see and to be seen, on condition that you will be at her disposal to a reasonable degree during her visit, which she will limit to six months, and that, at the end of that time, you will write her a true statement of how you stand affected toward her. On her part, she will promise to marry you, if by that time you both desire it. I may as well tell you that her name is Margaret Lester, and that she will stay with old Miss Spelman, with whom you are on such friendly terms. This whole matter, you will understand, is to rest between you, Miss Lester, and myself."
Jessie was too much accustomed to her friend's eccentricities to be very much astonished by this unexpected termination to their morning's conversation. She disapproved, however, of the whole affair, and remonstrated as strongly as she dared; but she had grown to defer to Margaret's stronger will, and now felt it impossible to oppose her. "Besides," as Margaret said, "what could be more natural than that she should go to stay with old Aunt Selina? It was only what she ought to have done before." And, to crown all, Jessie was informed that a letter had been already written and sent to Miss Spelman, and Margaret intended to go, at any rate.
The discussion lasted some time, and ended by Jessie's unwillingly placing herself at the desk and writing a letter, which, though it contained the exact words of the copy given above, also enlarged, in Jessie's own affectionate language, on her friend's good qualities, attractions, and popularity, and had nearly alluded to the very handsome income, which would so far exceed the doctor's not unreasonable demand. But that Margaret cut short; it was enough, she said, that he should believe her to have a little pin-money; for of course he would expect to support the family, if he had any spirit, and if he had not, she would have nothing to do with him. Poor Jessie groaned over Margaret's downright speeches, but did not attempt to change her decision. The letter was at last sealed and sent, and Jessie could only wonder at Margaret's high spirits for the rest of the day. She had never looked handsomer, or been more amusing, or played more finely than on that evening, when Mrs. Edgar gave a little party. She was so kind to the young men, that they all were charmed with her and with themselves, and quite expanded under the warmth of her bright smiles.
Jessie, on the contrary, was preoccupied and distressed. She felt uncomfortable at what she had done, at the thought of the secret she was keeping from her mother, and troubled when she remembered the approaching separation from her friend. How she wished Margaret were not so hard to please! Why could she not like that pleasant Mr. Lothrop, who was so handsome, so rich, and who would so gladly have availed himself of the smallest encouragement to make her an offer? How kindly she smiled on him to-night! Why couldn't she be satisfied with pleasing him? And then what was the chance that this fastidious girl would take a fancy to Dr. James, whom, though she had never seen, she believed to be plain and unattractive? What could come of it, except trouble for the poor man? Of course he would fall in love with Margaret, while she would think of nothing but amusing herself. "And I shall have been the instrument of bringing disappointment and unhappiness to Philip's cousin and dearest friend."
All these thoughts kept Jessie in a very unenviable state of mind during the evening, and she was thankful when she could escape to her own room, and write a long letter, before going to bed, to her absent lover; of course not disclosing Margaret's secret, but disburdening her mind of many anxieties on her friend's account.
While the answers to the letters written in so impulsive a manner are being expected with some impatience, a few words should be said on the history and circumstances of Margaret Lester, about whom a good deal is to be written in these pages.
II. PRELIMINARY
Margaret's mother died when she was about fourteen years old, and her father, unwilling to take the direction of his daughter's education, placed her at an excellent boarding-school, where no expense was spared to give her every advantage, and where, being perfectly happy, she remained until she was nineteen. It was at this school that she formed the friendship with Jessie Edgar which was afterward to be so great a benefit to her. Jessie was the second daughter of a wealthy New York family, and it was at her home that Margaret passed her first Christmas vacation, and all her succeeding holidays.
Jessie's gentle, yielding nature found great enjoyment in Margaret's boldness and self-reliance, and Margaret, who began by protecting and supporting the other's timidity and shyness, ended by heartily admiring and loving her sweet and unselfish room-mate. They became "inseparables," in school-girl phrase, and when school-days were over, and Mr. Lester thought that the best completion to his daughter's education would be a little travelling, Jessie's mother consented to her accompanying her dear friend. For two years they visited beautiful places together, and felt their friendship drawn more closely, as their sympathies became enlarged.
But this happy experience came to a sudden and sorrowful end. Mr. Lester had a dreadful fall while they were coming down a mountain, and, after lingering a few weeks in extreme suffering, died, leaving the two girls quite alone in a foreign land. They had a sad journey home; he had been the life and soul of their expedition, and, having travelled a good deal before, had been able to be the pleasantest kind of guide for them. It had been hard to prevail on Margaret to leave the Swiss town where he lay buried in the little graveyard; but Jessie's love prevailed, and they came safely back together to Mrs. Edgar's hospitable house. Once there, the kind friends would not let Margaret think of leaving them, and she had grown to consider the pleasant house almost as her own home.
It was long before she recovered her high spirits, but at twenty-three she was induced to go into society with Jessie, who had waited for her. She was, from every point of view, a desirable match--young, rich, and fine-looking; gay and good-humored. Pleased with herself and her surroundings, she thoroughly enjoyed her first season, and was unmistakably a belle. The next year, however, was a disappointment; there was a sameness in her life and amusements that became irritating to her. Jessie was engaged to be married, and Margaret found herself jealous of her friend's divided confidence. But, though she said to Jessie that she would like to follow her example, "to be able to sympathize with lovers' rhapsodies," like the princess in the fairy-tale, she found fault with all her admirers; criticised them, nicknamed them, and discouraged their attentions as soon as these became exclusive. A very gay summer at a fashionable watering-place followed this wearisome winter, and Margaret entered upon her third season disposed for any thing but enjoyment. No one who saw her in society would have guessed her real character. High-spirited, gay, liking to astonish and slightly shock her friends by her behavior, a little of what is termed "a trainer," there lay underneath this careless exterior a depth of real sentiment that only one or two people whom she truly loved were aware of. To be loved for herself, and to love, were her aspirations.
First, she was perfectly aware of her own attractions, and believed she could have almost any man of her acquaintance, if she should choose to make herself agreeable to him; but she could not believe in any one's disinterested attachment to her.
"They all know I am rich," she would say to Jessie; "they would not take me and poverty. Now, I would be glad, if I were poor, to marry a poor man; then I could believe in his love, and we could have some trials to bear together."
Secondly, she earnestly wished to love; but this, with her, meant a great deal. She wanted to look up to some one, to honor and believe in him; she thought of this much more than of the sentiment; for she knew she should find that with the rest. She was tired of taking the lead, and of having her own way. How gladly would she submit herself to a noble guide! She imagined herself almost as a queen stepping down from her throne, resigning sceptre and authority, and saying, with Miss Procter,
"Love trusts; and for ever he gives, and gives all."
"But these young men," she said to Jessie, "are so intensely matter-of-fact! They would think my brain softening, if they knew what I wanted and expected to find." At another time she said, "If I could only find something a little different! I think I will go to Australia, marry a squatter, and see all the queer animals. My money would be worth while out there."
It has been said that Margaret had a maiden aunt living at Shellbeach, her mother's only sister. This lady she had seen but once since her return from abroad, when Miss Spelman came to New York on purpose to take her niece home with her. Margaret, however, was not willing to leave the Edgars, and so her aunt returned to Shellbeach, a little offended by her niece's preferring strangers to her own flesh and blood, but, on the whole, perhaps relieved that her quiet home was not to be invaded by a person of so startling a character as she conceived Margaret to be. A visit had been agreed upon between them; but this had been declined and deferred so many times that the old lady, again offended, had given up proposing it. If it had not been for Margaret's curiosity about Jessie's friend, Doctor James, she certainly would not have remembered her duty to her mother's only sister; while it is equally true that, if it had not been for that convenient relative, she could not for a moment have entertained the idea of taking the lion (that is, the doctor) by storm in his den. For of any likelihood of being captivated herself in this adventure, it must be acknowledged, she had no thought. Her curiosity, her strongest weak point, was thoroughly excited about this doctor. That a man with a fine education, a profession, and enough money to live respectably, (all which information she had obtained from her friend,) should isolate himself in a stupid little sea-side town, because he liked to do so and enjoyed it, was to her a mystery which demanded to be cleared up at once. How she should like to astonish this hermit! How she would dress! How she would shock his ideas of propriety, if he had any! He would be surprised and overpowered, of course, and then--well, then she would beat a graceful retreat, and come back to Jessie's wedding in the best of spirits.
"I shall take Cécile and the Marchioness and Jimmy, and you will see that we shall have an exciting time. I shall make myself so delightful to dear Aunt Selina that she will not hear of my staying less than six months; and I shall study housekeeping, economy, and medicine, and experiment on Cécile when she is sick."
"Why do you take the Marchioness?"
"How can you ask? I must have exercise; and who knows but I may make myself useful by visiting the distant patients when the doctor's horse is tired?"
"But why not take Lady Jane? She is much handsomer."
"She is too fine for my purpose. I don't want to seem wealthy, you know; and the Marchioness goes mousing along, her head level with her tail, in true Morgan style, and looks any thing but extravagant. Then Jimmy will keep us awake, and bark at Aunt Selina's cats when other excitement fails."
"How do you know she has any cats?"
"Of course she has cats! Half a dozen, I have no doubt. Who ever heard of an ancient maiden living alone without cats? How I wish the answers would come!"
They did come, in due time; Miss Spelman's first, cordially welcoming her niece to Shellbeach for any length of time, or for good and all. Margaret felt rather ashamed, as she saw how her aunt had fallen into the trap, and how completely her own good faith had been taken for granted. She mentally resolved that, if it depended on her, Miss Spelman should not repent her generosity; she would make herself as delightful as she could, cheerfully give up her own convenience, if necessary, and make up for her long neglect of so disinterested a relation.
This letter arrived on the third day of expectation; the doctor's, not until a full week had elapsed. "A doctor's time is not his own, and the number of invalids at Shellbeach has been greater than usual." It would be well to give the letter in full, at least so much of it as relates to Margaret and her proposition.
"If it were the first of April," wrote the doctor, "I should find no difficulty in comprehending your letter; as it is not, I am inclined to believe that I am being 'sold;' but I do not believe practical jokes are in your line, and you write apparently in good earnest. Therefore, if your original friend seriously recommends such an experiment as this, I can but acquiesce, of course. Miss Spelman also informs me that her niece 'is coming;' so I feel that any opinion I may express on the subject is superfluous. However, it seems to me that there should be an equality of position in this matter, and I will say that I agree to Miss Lester's terms, provided she agrees to mine. I have but one condition, and it is her own: that at the end of the time she appoints she will, simultaneously with me, that is, at a given hour, write me 'a true statement of how she stands affected toward me'--which means, of course, tell me honestly if she loves me. I have a right to say that I think this plan doubtful in its purpose, its practicability, and its probable results."
Not a word more was given to the subject; the letter spoke briefly of Philip, of Jessie, and terminated.
Margaret of course saw this letter in the same forcible way that she saw the other. Jessie thought she would be offended, and so she was, but that did not have the result Jessie secretly hoped for.
"He is not well-bred, and evidently thinks a great deal of himself. How I shall enjoy snubbing him!"
"You are going?"
"I should think so! Do you suppose I shall disappoint Aunt Selina for such rudeness as this? But I will have no more second-hand dealings." And so saying, she seized pen and paper, and wrote as follows:
"DR. JAMES: I accept your condition. Six months from next Monday, which will be July 18th, at eleven o'clock in the evening, we will write our letters.
"MARGARET LESTER."
Jessie was not allowed to see this note, which was at once dispatched to Shellbeach.
"And now," Margaret said, "comes the fun of arrangements. We will go up-stairs and consult about my clothes, and all that I shall take with me."
III. PASSENGERS FOR SHELLBEACH
Dr. James's letter had been received on Tuesday; the following Monday, at about three o'clock on a bleak and gray January afternoon, Margaret, accompanied by her maid and terrier dog, arrived at the little way-station of Shellbeach, and ascertaining that Miss Spelman's carriage had not arrived, walked into the little waiting-room and to the airtight stove, which was, however, barely warm. Her teeth chattered, and she stamped her feet and rubbed her hands; the French maid followed, bearing bag and shawls, shivering and casting forlorn glances around her. The little dog alone seemed in good spirits, and ran about, inquiring into every thing, and snuffled suspiciously at a man who sat wrapped in a shawl, reading a book, and at two small boys, who were partaking of frost which they scraped off the windows.
"Well, we're all frozen, so it's no use saying it's cold," said Margaret, walking about the room; "but I'm famished, and as cross as a bear."
"O mademoiselle! it is terrible," cried Cécile, with a sort of little shriek.
"It is a forlorn place, certainly; let me see if my provisions are exhausted," Margaret said, taking the bag. The little boys at the window became deeply interested, and paused in their unsatisfactory repast.
"One seed-cake! How exciting! What! you want it, do you? Well, take it," she said to the little dog, who jumped upon her, and while he devoured it she watched him, saying reflectively, "Little pig! if I were dying of starvation, and it were my last crumb, he would eat it. How do I look, Cécile? I am all covered with cinders."
"Yes, mademoiselle; you look like a fright."
Margaret smiled, and returned to the platform, where she made inquiries of a man who was looking helplessly at her trunks how they were to be got to Miss Spelman's. Having arranged that matter, she asked,
"Can't I have that buggy to drive up in? Does it belong to the man inside there?"
"It belongs to him," said the driver, with a grin, and Margaret turned away in despair.
"The train was early," said a boy standing by, "and perhaps the young lady's team will be along soon."
Margaret, who had her purse in her hand, at once presented the boy with twenty-five cents, as an acknowledgment for the ray of encouragement he had volunteered. He bore it philosophically, and she returned to the room.
"Cécile, it's only two miles to Miss Spelman's; suppose we walk; it will be warmer than waiting here. Give me the bag, and you take the shawls, and we will inquire the way."
She accompanied these words with a look of indignation at the man who was fortunate enough to have a buggy at his command; but to her great surprise, he rose, and, approaching her, said:
"The train was early, and I expected Miss Spelman's carryall; but it is evidently not coming, and you must manage with my buggy."
"You are Doctor James?" said Margaret with an inquisitive look.
"You are right; and you are Miss Lester," he replied. "I am sorry you have had to wait in the cold; but when I saw you had a companion, I thought it would be wiser to wait for the carryall. Miss Spelman said she should probably send; but asked me, at any rate, to meet you. I will drive you home and come back for your maid."
"But it's so cold here, and Cécile feels the cold more than I. Could we not possibly go three in the buggy? Would it be too much for the horse?"
The doctor smiled for the first time; he was pleased by her thought for her maid.
"You and I are good-sized people, but she is small. I think Rosanna can stand the weight; but it will not do to start cold. I propose we go over to the store and get thoroughly warmed."
"Oh! delightful," cried Margaret, "the thought of being warm again is almost too much for me."
The doctor led the way across the railroad track to a kind of variety store, where there was certainly no reason to complain of the cold. The air was stifling, and conveyed to Margaret's sense of smell the impressions of soap, molasses, peppermint drops, brown paper, and onions, at one breath; but she was too grateful to be warm even to make a face, which under other circumstances she would doubtless have done. Seated in chairs before the energetic little stove, she and Cécile toasted hands and feet while the doctor went for the horse. When he returned, they were quite ready to start, and the bag being stowed away in the box, they put on all their wrappings, by the doctor's advice, and packed themselves into the buggy. Jimmy curled himself under his mistress's feet, the buffalo robe was well tucked in, and the sturdy-looking mare started with her load with a willingness which showed she too was glad to have her face toward home. It was cold enough in spite of their comfortable start, and, to make matters worse, Margaret's veil blew away; but she would not have alluded to it for the world. The doctor seemed absorbed in his driving, and Cécile occupied with her aching toes; and allowing it to escape seemed to her so feminine and weak-minded a proceeding that she bore the cutting wind in silence rather than expose her carelessness. Her gratitude to the doctor for rescuing her from her uncomfortable situation, and the genial feelings produced by her warming at the stove, now gave way to reflections on this man's previous behavior, as he sat wrapped in his shawl, in the cold little waiting-room. What a hard-hearted, outrageous monster he must be! Why did he not speak at once, and be sympathetic and kind? Of course he was studying her, and no doubt criticising her, at that unfavorable moment. It chafed her to think to what an inspection she had been exposed, and how utterly she had been at a disadvantage. At last she broke the silence by saying abruptly,
"Does not extreme hunger add to one's capacity for being cold?"
She intended to embarrass him by reminding him of his profession, but she was disappointed; for he answered at once, with a slight movement of his mouth, not however a smile,
"Extreme hunger? Yes; especially such as the poor feel, who may have tasted nothing for two or three days, nor meat for as many months. How long is it since you breakfasted?"
"At eight," she replied shortly.
The doctor, remembering with a little compunction that he had both breakfasted and dined, hastened to say,
"That is a long time for a person accustomed to regular meals. I am quite sure you will find a better reception in the matter of dinner than you experienced at the station."
"I do not understand why my aunt did not send for me."
"Nor I; she said to me, 'I shall send the carryall, if possible; but you will oblige me by meeting my niece, and if any thing should happen to prevent my man's being there, you will bring her home.' I am sure only you and the dog were expected."
"Yes, I said my maid would probably come in a day or two; but she was able to get ready to accompany me."
Then there was silence once more, till Dr. James drew up his horse before a well-clipped, flourishing hedge, and, getting out, opened a small brown gate, and carried the bag and shawls up the neat gravelled path. The short afternoon had come to a close, though it was scarcely four o'clock, and the firelight shone pleasantly out from the windows, where the curtains were drawn aside. The doctor deposited the wrappings on the steps, said hastily, "Good-by, Miss Lester, I shall call on you as soon as possible," and was in his buggy and driving quickly away before she had time to utter a word. She had stood for a moment, expecting the door to be thrown open at once; she even wondered that her aunt was not awaiting her on the threshold; but as no one appeared, she gave the bell a rather decided pull. Instantly the door was opened by the neatest of maids, in a white apron, who beamed upon the guests while she took the bag and shawls. Margaret walked at once toward the bright fire, which shone out of an open door, and there in the middle of the room stood a little lady, who met and embraced her, saying in an agitated voice,
"Welcome, my dearest niece, a thousand times!"
"Thank you, aunt; I am almost perished! How pleasant the fire looks!"
Miss Spelman was trembling in every limb, but Margaret's decided tones, quite free from emotion of any kind, composed her. She drew an easy-chair to the fire, and then turned to Cécile, who stood hesitating in the hall.
"You brought your maid, did you not, dear Margaret? That is good; it will make you more at home. Ann, I hope you will make Miss Lester's maid quite comfortable. Her name, my dear? Oh! yes, Cecilia." And as the woman disappeared, she continued, "I am glad you have so respectable and steady an attendant, my dear; when I heard she was French, I feared she might be very dressy and flippant, and get restless in our quiet little household."
She gently helped Margaret to lay aside her things; then, as she seated herself in the comfortable chair and held out hands and feet to the grateful flame, the little lady once more placed her hand on her shoulder, and kissed her forehead.
"For all the world like your poor father," she said softly. As Margaret was silent, she continued, "But I must tell you why I did not send for you. I beg your pardon, my dear child, for such apparent neglect. The fact is, I have a new man, and dare not trust him alone with the horses, and I have a cold and was afraid to go out this raw day. If it had been milder, nothing should have kept me at home; but as I had asked our good doctor to meet you, I knew you would really be provided for. Then, I thought it would seem so uncourteous to let him give his valuable time to going to the station for you, and then disappoint him of the pleasure of bringing you home. You see, I did not look for your maid. O dear! how very rude you must think me." And the poor lady stopped short, quite appalled at her own conduct, the impropriety of which for the first time impressed her.
"No matter now, aunt, I'm safely here."
"And thankful I am to have you, dear; but to think that I should have allowed you to drive home alone with a strange young man!"
"I was not alone with him."
"But I did not know that; and, O dear me! how did you all get here?"
"Why, sandwiched, three in the buggy, of course; Cécile in the middle; it was the shortest way. He wanted to bring first me and then Cécile, but I would not let him. However, don't worry about it now, aunty. I would like to go to my room, I think, and make myself presentable; I am covered with cinders."
"Certainly. You will find a fire there, and, I hope, every thing you want. If not, you must let me know." So saying, Miss Spelman led the way up-stairs to a good-sized room, where a little wood fire was burning and candles were lighted. The trunks were already there, and Cécile was unpacking and laying out what her mistress would want.
"We have tea, generally, at six; but I have ordered it to-day at five, for I know you need both dinner and tea. Cecilia will find me down-stairs if you want any thing." With these words, Miss Spelman withdrew and closed the door.
"I have arrived at that period of starvation," remarked Margaret, "when I am resigned to wait indefinitely for my food, provided it comes at last." At that moment a knock announced Ann, who brought in a waiter with cup and saucer and tea-things. "Miss Spelman thought a cup of tea would be warming."
Very soon Margaret was sitting in her wrapper and slippers, in a little rocking-chair, sipping her hot tea, while Cécile brushed and arranged her hair. She began to feel fatigued; but that was rather a delightful sensation, now that she had nothing to do but rest and be comfortable. Before five, she went down to the parlor, where her aunt once more received her with a little speech, and then came the looked-for tea-dinner. It appeared that Miss Spelman knew what was good as well as Mrs. Edgar, and Margaret, as she surveyed the well-spread table, the spotless linen, the shining glass and silver, the temptingly brown chicken before her, the spongy biscuit and delicate cake, was glad to find that, at least, she would not starve.
"I begin to feel a sea-air appetite already," she exclaimed; "and O aunty! how good every thing tastes."
Miss Selina was pleased, for she was a hospitable hostess; and when she and Margaret were established before the fire, curtains drawn, and the lamp shining brightly, there was a mutual good feeling between them, which, from that time, nothing disturbed. Margaret, as she leaned back in her chair, holding a little screen before her face, had now time to examine her aunt more closely, and she studied her with considerable curiosity. She was decidedly petite, and so very neat and trim about her dress that she made Margaret think of a fairy godmother. Her hair was white, although she was not yet sixty; she wore a cap, and soft lace round her throat; her eyes were dark and bright, and her smile very sweet and cheerful. She must have been pretty, Margaret thought, and like that dear mother so well remembered.
After answering a good many questions about her life in New York, Mrs. Edgar, Jessie, and her lover, Margaret said rather abruptly,
"You see a good deal of Doctor James, don't you, aunt?"
"Oh! almost every day, my dear. He has to drive very often over to Sealing, and my house is right on his way. He feels quite attached to me, because, once when his sister was staying with him, she was sick, and I used to go and sit with her; and at last, when she was getting well, and was able to be moved, I got her to come and make me a visit; for I thought it must be dull for her, with her brother away so much. So he used to come every day to see about her, and he got into the way of dropping in as if he belonged here, and he has kept it up ever since."
"What sort of a girl was the sister?"
"Oh! she was a charming creature--pretty and picturesque; young, too, and very clever for her age; and the doctor thought every thing of her, though he used to find fault with her and try to improve her, and was always bringing some hard book for Lucy to read, or asking me to tell her this, or remind her of that, and not let her forget the other, till I used to think the poor child would have been vexed with both him and me; but she used to laugh and shake her pretty brown curls, and make the best of it all. I grew to love that child, Margaret, and I confess to you, if you had not come to me, I would very probably have offered to adopt her, and do for her as if she were my own. I did not suppose you needed any money, my dear," she added in an apologetic tone.
"Don't mention your money, please," cried Margaret. "Dear aunty, I can't manage what I've got now; why should I want any more? By all means make the pretty Lucy an heiress, and let her come and live here, near her brother."
Miss Spelman shook her head, and Margaret continued,
"But where does Lucy live, and where does the family come from originally?"
"They have had a country-seat in Maine for years, and are very nice people, I would think; the doctor, at least, is a perfect gentleman. He has been in the war, was wounded two or three times; and when it was all over, came here because the old doctor was about to move away. They knew each other, and so Dr. James just quietly took the other's place, and has a great deal more than filled it ever since."
"But why does he choose to live in a little place like this? Jessie told me something of his benevolence; but that doesn't seem reason enough to keep him here."
"That is the only reason, I am sure--that, and attachment to the place and people. He does an immense amount of good, my dear; why, he attends all the poor people, for miles around, for nothing!"
"But then what does he live on?"
"Certainly not on his fees. He has a little money of his own--enough for such a place as this--and that leaves him free, as he says, to have no hard money feelings between him and his patients. The consequence is, he is worshipped by the poor, and, in fact, by almost every one both here and at Sealing; they give him no peace, and he has to work like a horse all the time."
"I hope he enjoys it."
"He says he does; but I think the life is too hard for him."
"And does he intend to live here indefinitely?"
"He never alludes to living anywhere else; but I hope he may marry some day, and then, no doubt, he would go where his wife wished."
"Don't you think his wishes ought to be hers?"
"Certainly, my dear Margaret, I think so; but then, I believe I'm old-fashioned." Miss Spelman was pleased, that was evident; and then she said she knew her niece was a fine musician, but she was perhaps "too tired to touch the instrument?"
Margaret smiled, and though she was tired certainly, and sleepy besides, she went with a very good grace to "the instrument," which she found to be an old piano, excellent in its day, but now out of tune and jingling; the keys were yellow, and one pedal was broken, but no speck of dust was to be seen inside or out, or on any thing else in Miss Selina's house. Margaret, without thinking much about it, played some very modern music, such as she generally played in the evenings at Mrs. Edgar's, deep and difficult music, playing well and carefully, without notes; till she began to realize how impossible any execution would be on such a piano. When she paused, Miss Spelman said rather plaintively,
"That is very fine, my dear; but my taste is not up to the present standard. And--do you play from note, dear Margaret?"
On receiving an affirmative reply, she went into an adjoining closet, and brought out one or two old music-books, marked on the covers, "M. and S. Spelman," and with Margaret and Selina alternately written on the music within. Margaret had never seen such a collection of curious, old, simple music. She smiled as she played, to see her aunt's hands beating time, and watched the absorbed expression of her face, varying from a smile of content to a look of sadness and regret. As she at last closed the piano, she said,
"I will play these pieces over when I am by myself, and then I shall do them more justice when I play them for you again. Forgive my many blunders."
Then came cake, fruit, and wine, at nine o'clock, and then Margaret was glad to say "good-night" and go to her pleasant room, where she found, to her great satisfaction, that she was soothed to sleep by the breaking of the waves on Shellbeach.
IV. A CONFIDENTIAL LETTER
MY DEAREST JESSIE: I have received your most welcome letter, and only wish I could tell you how good it was to hear from you. It made me long to see you, dear; but as I am resolved I will not be so weak as to give up and go back to you yet, I will not sentimentalize now, nor dwell on my feelings, which, I assure you, are unusually tender for me.
I have now been here three whole days, and they seem as many months; the snow-storm which began the night after my arrival, lasted perseveringly till this morning, when there was a beautiful clear-away, and my spirits, which were rather drooping, rose at once. It was very cold, and Aunt Selina was afraid to go out, and I was lazy, and passed the morning in the house. After dinner, however, I became desperate, put on my shortest dress and rubber boots, and went forth with Jimmy on an exploring expedition. The snow was very deep; but I needed exercise, and enjoyed immensely plunging about in the fresh drifts, and getting rid, at the same time, if I must confess it, of a fair amount of wrath and resentment, of which your paragon of a doctor was the cause. Only think, my dear, of his allowing me to be three days here without calling! In such weather, too, when he must have known I was penned up in the house with nothing to amuse me, (not that I didn't amuse myself very well, but he could not have known that.) How did he know that I mightn't have caught a severe cold in that horrid waiting-room at the station, or driving with him in his freezing chaise? And after leaving me in that abrupt way, waiting on the steps here, without a single polite word to me or Aunt Selina, as if he said, "I have been dreadfully bored by having to bring you here; now let me get away as fast as I can!" Well, I was provoked with him, and with myself for caring; but I grew pleasanter every step I took; and when I at last found myself on a high bank right over the sea, and the pretty little beach with the dear, blue waves breaking and foaming below me, I was in a state of exhilaration and delight that I can't describe. I could hardly have torn myself away, except that I was very cold; and the sunset light had almost faded when I got home. Then, my dear, what do you think? Aunt Selina greeted me with, "O Margaret! what a pity you went out; here Doctor James has been waiting nearly an hour for you, and he wanted so much to see you, and was so sorry that he couldn't come before! But, my dear, he has been away, and only got home this morning." That was funny, was it not? "He looked so nice," Aunt Selina said. "I wish you could once see him nicely dressed; he doesn't take enough pains with himself generally." Now, I know that aunty was as much surprised as I that this call had not been made before, and a great deal more disturbed. She praises the doctor on every occasion, and I am sure she wanted him to make a favorable impression on me. She has been very curious about our drive from the station; but I have said very little about it, except that I thought we were all of us cold and cross.
Well, I was nicely wet from my snowy walk; but after I had changed my dress and had my tea, I felt splendidly. At eight o'clock the bell rang--a wonderful circumstance, so far--and after a little delay in the hall, in walked the doctor. I suppose he could not bear that his get-up should be thrown away, and he really looked very nice indeed. I am sure he prides himself on his feet and hands, which are small--not in themselves, but for his size--and well shaped. His clothes were any thing but fashionable; but they fitted him well, and looked as if he were at home in them, and something in his general appearance made me feel that he had intended to do me honor, and I was quite mollified toward him. Aunt Selina was enraptured. I was--can you imagine it?--a little embarrassed, having been wholly taken by surprise at his making his appearance; he was calm and at his ease. He explained his apparent neglect of me, expressed regret at finding me out this afternoon, and asked about my walk, etc. He is provoking in many ways, Jessie, but in one especially: he is so stingy of his smiles; I can express it in no other way. He is the most serious person I ever saw; even when it would be polite to smile, he will not; but moves the muscles round his mouth in a peculiar way that makes me want to say to him, "Well, why don't you do it? It won't hurt you!" His eyes are not particularly large, but gray, and look as if they saw as much as mine, only he does not stare as I do, but seems to take in every thing with one glance. I did not find him difficult to talk to, as I imagined I should, but am surprised to find how much he knows. He asked me to play, but did not like the piece; and when I tried him with a little of Aunt Selina's music--which I described to you in my first letter, you remember--he asked for Beethoven. That he enjoyed, I believe, and a few of my little French airs, one of which he recognized, and I discovered, to my astonishment, that he had been abroad. He spoke of organ music, and when I told him about my desire to learn to play on the organ, said he thought I could do so here, as there were both a good organ and organist at Sealing. And, if he arranges it so, I am to take lessons once or twice a week, and practise in the little church here. Well, dear Jessie, this letter must come to a close, as I am sleepy. Give my best love to your dear mother; write soon and tell me all about your own affairs and Philip.
Always your loving MARGARET.
SHELLBEACH, Dec. 21.
V. A SLEIGH-RIDE
On the morning after Margaret had written the letter to her friend, given above, she was finishing her breakfast at about nine o'clock, while little Miss Spelman bustled about in her china-closet, and around the room, when a jingle of bells was heard, and in a moment more, Dr. James appeared at the dining-room door.
"Miss Lester, do you feel in the mood for a sleigh-ride? I have to go over to Sealing, and shall be glad to take you."
"Oh! yes," cried Margaret, jumping up from the table, "of all things what I would like best; but I must change my dress, I am afraid. I will not be ten minutes, if you can wait."
"I have a call to make near here, and will come back for you."
In a short time Margaret appeared, dressed in a dark blue suit with black dog-skin furs, and a very jaunty round cap to match on her head.
"Will you be warm enough?" asked the doctor, surveying her.
"I have my cloak besides," said Margaret, displaying a very thick and heavy mantle, of every color of the rainbow.
As they drove off, Doctor James remarked,
"You will set this quiet little place on fire, with your bright colors; we don't see such brilliant things here very often."
"Gay colors are the fashion," said Margaret, "and I almost always wear them. I get very tired of them, however, and wish my style were not prononcé. I quite long sometimes to wear neutral tints, and cool, delicate colors."
"Miss Edgar wears such shades, does she not? She is so perfectly refined and lady-like."
Margaret glanced at him quickly and answered,
"She does, when she is willing to take the trouble; but I generally have to insist upon her dressing becomingly. When we were in Paris, we were both told about our different styles, and how we should dress; and I think it is worth while to consider the subject, and Jessie does not; that is all."
"Does not Miss Edgar care for dress?"
"I think she does; but for dress without any reference to herself. She is very fond of pretty things, and would be quite contented to wear a rose-colored bonnet, or a bird-of-paradise evening dress, if I did not prevent it. You admire Miss Edgar very much, do you not, Dr. James?"
"As much as I can admire a lady I have never seen. But why should you think that I admire her?"
"And if she were not already engaged, you would like to marry her yourself, would you not?"
Margaret spoke impulsively; and before she had uttered the last words would gladly have swallowed the sentence whole, but it was too late. The doctor's face flushed, and he said very slowly,
"Did Miss Edgar show you that letter?"
"Yes--I mean no; that is, I mean, Dr. James, that I took it away from her and read it myself. She did not want me to see it; it was all my fault. Jessie is gentle, and I am rough, and I tyrannize over her very often."
Margaret's voice sounded remorseful, and the doctor softened.
"There was no reason why you should not have seen that letter, any more than any other. I would not have Miss Edgar other than Philip's wife for any thing in the world; and my saying I would have liked her myself, was meant only as a joke, and I am sure she understood it so. Indeed, I was far from being in earnest when I wrote that letter."
It was now Margaret's turn to change color, and her face burned; an unusual and painful thing for her. She felt at that moment as if she would like to find herself on the opposite side of the world. What an absurd position she was in! This man must regard her as a fool, or worse. What business had she to be at Shellbeach at all, or here in this sleigh, beside one on whom she had not the smallest claim, and who had no reason to think her any thing but a forward, unlady-like girl, as she was? These, and many equally disagreeable thoughts rushed through her mind, before Dr. James said pleasantly,
"Is it possible you keep up your city hours here, and breakfast at nine o'clock? How luxurious your life must be!"
"Does nine seem late to you?" asked Margaret, making an effort to speak carelessly; "it is early to me. When we used to come home from parties at three or four in the morning, we breakfasted at eleven or even twelve. But there is no excuse for sleeping late here, I know; I might go to bed at eight o'clock in the evening, except when we have a visitor, as we did last night. But you see there are no bells; my room is dark, and Cécile never comes in till I ring for her. Then, Aunt Selina says she does not mind."
"Miss Spelman is not a very early riser herself. But, Miss Lester, I think a poor man's household ought to be up with the dawn." He smiled at her in a friendly way as he spoke, and Margaret laughed.
"And the mistress of a poor man's household ought to call all the members of the family, ought she not?"
"I think so; that is a very important matter. Yet I know few things in our daily life which require more heroism than getting up in the morning at the right time. Though I ought to be accustomed to being called at any and every hour, I never find it grows easy to forsake my pillow; and whenever it is not imperatively necessary for me to get up, I prolong my morning nap in the most cowardly way."
"Were you in earnest when you said getting up early was heroism?"
"It is a grand name for a small matter, certainly; but I was in earnest when I said it."
"I should so like to be a heroine! It is almost worth while to try the experiment."
They now drove into the main street of the town of Sealing, and there Dr. James showed Margaret a bookstore, the circulating library, and pointed out one or two more shops, and asked her if she thought she could occupy herself for half an hour, while he visited a few patients.
"I may be gone even longer than that," he said, "and it would be very cold for you to sit in the sleigh and wait."
"I should like to explore the town very well," she answered; "and I will meet you in an hour's time wherever you say. O Dr. James! I want a sled very much; I delight in coasting. Could I get a good one here?"
"There are no toy-shops, properly speaking, but there is an excellent carpenter across the street, and he would make you a satisfactory sled, I have no doubt."
"There is coasting about here, I hope?"
"Yes, there are one or two capital hills. If you like, we will go to the carpenter's now, before I leave you; perhaps my advice on the subject would be acceptable."
They ordered the sled, and Margaret added, with a sideway glance at Dr. James, that the word "Enterprise" was to be printed in red letters on one side, and "1867" on the other. The apothecary's shop was appointed as the place of rendezvous, and the doctor drove away.
He was back again first; but after waiting and wondering a few minutes, she came round the corner, looking at her watch, with a bright color, and her dress white with snow.
"I am on time," she cried; "just an hour, Dr. James; and I have had such a splendid time! But I have a few things at the different shops; will you stop for them?"
From a small shop, combining the establishments of a small watch-maker, a locksmith, and a bell-hanger, a man came out with a parcel which Margaret insisted on holding in her own hands all the way home.
"What do you think it is?" she asked.
"I can't imagine what you should want from that shop, but the shape is very much like a clock."
"You are right; it is an alarm-clock."
Dr. James smiled, but made no comment; and as they drove home, she gave him an account of the hour she had spent alone.
"I got one or two books from the library; pretty trashy, I should think, but it was entertaining to read the names of the well-worn volumes on the shelves. I visited the dry-goods store, and then determined to explore; and pretty soon I found a little street which was one steep hill, down which some small boys were coasting. They seemed harmless and meek, and after bestowing upon them a paper of sugar-plums I had just bought, I requested the loan of a sled. You should have seen the astonishment depicted on their faces, and heard the giggles and rapture when, taking the largest sled from the unresisting hand of its owner, I asked for instruction as to establishing myself upon it and starting, and then went full speed down the hill, regardless of the houses on either side and the shouts of my friends above me. It was splendid, Dr. James! I don't know when I have enjoyed any thing so much! Well, I dragged my sled up again, and asked for six more coasts, hinting at more candy to be forthcoming; but I found all offers of compensation quite unnecessary, as the little fellows were as enraptured as I at the performance, and each begged me pathetically to try his sled. But I held to my first choice; and though on the third coast I upset and rolled in the snow, I persevered till I found my hour was almost up, and then abandoned my sled to its owner."
Dr. James seemed much entertained by this description, and Margaret added,
"But for the credit of human nature, and especially of boy nature, which I have always considered to be remorseless to the last degree, I must tell you that when I fell off my sled into the snow the boys did not laugh at and deride me, but came running down the hill to see if I were hurt--a circumstance which pleased me very much."
The drive back to Shellbeach seemed all too short for Margaret; she was left, as before, on the doorstep with her several bundles; but this time she entered as a member of the family, glowing with the exercise and almost as noisy as Jimmy, who came barking and leaping to welcome his mistress. She gave a detailed account of her drive to her aunt, ending with the exclamation, "And Dr. James both smiled and laughed! I feel that I have achieved a triumph!"
VI. ANOTHER LETTER
The following is a letter which Dr. James wrote to his friend Philip:
"You ask me to tell you about Jessie's friend, who has come to stay with my old crony, Miss Spelman, and I see that you are curious to know my sentiments regarding her. I also suspect, from the tone of your remarks, that you think it would be a very good thing for a poor doctor like me, etc., etc. That this coincides with Miss Selina's course of reasoning on this matter, I am pretty certain; for before Miss Lester came she was continually praising her to me, and now I can see that every opportunity is improved to bring us together. Would you believe it, Philip?--when the young lady arrived, Miss Spelman manoeuvred so as to give me a tête-à-tête drive with her from the station to the house! She was disappointed in her plans, as there were both a maid and a dog to be packed into my chaise besides Miss Lester. But what seems so plain to other people's eyes, I cannot say is so to mine. You want a description of her, and add a hope that I have found the ideal of our college days. I laugh as I recall that ideal, and think of the reality before my mind's eye. Picture to yourself, then, a tall young woman--five feet eight inches, I should say--large in proportion, and a decided brunette. She is called handsome, as you know, but I do not agree to this; though if the adjective were showy, I should have no objection to make. Her style is rather loud, or, as she herself says, 'prononcé.' She has a pair of very brown, inquisitive eyes, which see, I am sure, much more than they have any right to see. She has a good deal of color, but not the changing blush we used to talk of. Her dress? Of course I cannot give you a correct description of that; but the first time I saw her in the house, she wore very deep purple with ornaments of gold, a gold band on her hair, and long, barbarous eardrops. The next time, in the morning, she was dressed (I am not joking) in bright scarlet, worked all over with black; and she went to drive with me in a round fur cap that would have been appropriate to a young swell in New York, but hardly to a lady. But all these objections are, after all, minor, when I come to the great one; my dear fellow, she is an heiress! Now, you know very well my mind on this subject; and I know you will think of my favorite verse,
'Where I want of riches find, Think what with them I would do, That without them dare to woo.'
"But in this case I feel sure that I should not be a disinterested lover. I could never forget her money. By the way, I suspect that she did not intend me to know she was wealthy; Jessie's note gave the impression that she had, as I wished, enough to secure her own comfort; but Miss Spelman took care to let me understand how very well her niece was provided with 'earthly goods.'
"I see I am allowing myself to find fault with Miss Lester and criticise her, a thing I have resolved I will not do. I will therefore suppress a good deal more of disapproval I was going to write, and see what I can tell you in her praise. In the first place, I think she is good-tempered; I have seen her thoughtful of her maid, and good-natured when she was both cold and hungry. She is entertaining, intelligent, and companionable. I enjoyed her society when I drove her over to Sealing, and she is wonderfully fresh and simple in her tastes for a blase New Yorker, surfeited with gayeties as she has been. She is a good musician, though she does not sing. Her hands are her best feature: large and shapely and well kept; they are also warm, smooth, and womanly.
"Where is my dream, Philip? Would not your gentle Jessie more nearly fulfil it? You will say that dreams 'go by contraries;' true perhaps of those we frame at night, unconsciously; but does that wise maxim hold good of day-dreams and castles in the air also? Now, you have chosen well and wisely for yourself, and my best wish is that you and your loving helpmate may live to enjoy all the bliss you hope for; but I must wait until my wife manifests herself, as I am sure she will, unmistakably, and for that I am content to wait until I am an old man."
It will be seen from this letter that Dr. James had not disclosed, even to his old friend, the secret of Margaret's visit to Shellbeach; neither was Jessie more communicative on the subject; for they were both rather ashamed of the affair. Margaret herself, to tell the truth, was not free from a like embarrassment; there was something manly and unassuming about the doctor, a freedom from all pretension and assertion, that made her feel, when with him, quiet and almost diffident. This, however, she did not acknowledge to herself; and her high spirits determined her to carry out her plan, and brave all the obstacles which her appreciation of the circumstances suggested to her. From one point of view, her coming was a success; Miss Spelman was charmed with her, and spoke of her remaining indefinitely. She made much of and petted her in a way Margaret was not accustomed to, and which was very pleasant to her. She could almost imagine, now, what it would be to have a mother's love and care during these years of her youthful womanhood. True, her aunt was no support, and her advice was not always wise; but Margaret was both by nature and habit self-reliant, and the person was not come, she thought, to whom she could abandon the reins of government, and in whose favor she might abdicate.
VII. FROM THE LABORING CLASSES
After a week had passed in her aunt's well-ordered household, Margaret received a few ceremonious calls from the ladies of Shellbeach and Sealing, which, in the course of another week, she returned with due formality with her aunt. The visiting acquaintance of Miss Spelman at Shellbeach consisted of a few elderly ladies, of whom Margaret saw but little during her visit, though they were kind and cordial, and always gave her a pleasant welcome to their houses.
There was one caller, however, of whom Margaret was destined to see a good deal, and who deserves a more particular description. She was a lady who might have been between forty and fifty, who came walking into the house without ringing, one windy evening, in rubber boots, with which she had been making herself a path in the newly fallen snow. She was tall and thin, with heavy eye-brows, and rather masculine bearing and manners, but a very genial smile beamed on her lips and in her eyes. Her voice was loud but cheerful, and she gave Margaret a warm squeeze of the hand and a good, steady look in the eye, that seemed to show she was disposed for friendliness.
"Well now, Martha," said Miss Spelman, helping her guest off with hood and cloak, and wheeling up a comfortable chair for her to the fire, "where have you been all this long time? And how are you and your poor old father? How does the house stand this cold winter, and how are you getting along altogether?"
The visitor seated herself in the chair, tucked up her plain brown gown over her knees, and clasped her rough, strong-looking hands, seeming to enjoy the cheery blaze; then she answered rather slowly,
"We are very well off, thank you, Miss Spelman. Father's about the same as usual; he misses the garden now the snow has come. The house is pretty tight, and I keep the fires going with Norah's help. You know Dr. James got Norah for us, and a more willing, good-natured creature I never wish to see. She really seems to have brought sunshine into the house, and says, 'May the queen of heaven send you good health, sir!' and, 'May the blessed saints look out for you, Miss Martha!' quite in the old-country fashion."
"I don't know about Irish help," said Miss Spelman; "I never can get along with them. I haven't had one these ten years, since my poor old Bridget died; and then they're always so set about getting to church, and dreadfully put out if they are prevented now and then."
"Do you think so? Well, Norah says to me, 'I dearly love to go to holy Mass, and to pay my respects on the saints' days; but the priest tells me to mind my duty in the house first, and I wouldn't feel easy to go and leave that poor lamb (one of her names for my father) with none to look after his dinner.'"
"Well, long may she prove a treasure, that's all," and the old lady shook her head doubtfully.
"You've come to a pretty place, Miss Lester," said Martha Burney; "it's pretty enough now, with its fresh white dress of snow; but I don't know what you'll say to it when the young green comes out, and the birds begin to sing. But what do you find to do with yourself?"
"Nothing very useful yet. I have given my attention principally to coasting; I have got a new sled, and have found some charming coasts about here. I go out before breakfast."
"Bless me! how many ages is it, I wonder, since I did that?" cried Miss Burney. "Then you do not keep late hours in the morning?"
"I did at first, through force of habit; but now I have an alarm-clock, and try getting up at six, and dressing without a fire."
"Very well, very well indeed, for a New Yorker! Ah! I see you will do for the country. You must never go away, but make up your mind to settle down here."
"That's what I mean to have her do," said Miss Spelman; "and Margaret said she would consider the subject."
Miss Burney's call lasted a full hour; then she enveloped herself in cloak and hood, and shaking Margaret once more warmly by the hand took her departure.
"Who is she, aunt? I think she must be a character, and mean to cultivate her acquaintance."
"Yes, she has a story. Her father--lamb, indeed!" cried Miss Spelman, interrupting herself; "that Norah had better call him 'poor wolf;' to be sure he is reaping the fruits of his misdeeds, but he has richly deserved his troubles. Well, he was a swindler; that is all. His poor wife died of the shame when the biggest of his robberies came to light, and he went steadily down-hill, with this brave daughter trying to keep him straight. He spent one or two poor little legacies she had left her, and at last became the broken-down, imbecile old man he is now. When he was too feeble to prevent her, Martha took him out of the great city where he lived, and they somehow found their way here; and then she went to work and has supported him ever since. She teaches in the public school over in Sealing; she is the head lady teacher now, and with that, and a little she has had left her within a few years, she supports herself and him."
"Is it not a hard life for her?"
"Very, but she prefers obscurity; and that is the best employment she can get here. She is a fine woman, independent and brave, owing no one any thing and taking care of herself. She had a lover once, they say," continued Miss Selina, dropping her voice; "but when it all came to light about her father's transactions, of course she released him."
"And he accepted it?"
"Why, certainly he did, dear Margaret; no man would wish to marry a woman with such a father."
Margaret drummed with her foot on the fender, but made no reply.
"I like Martha Burney's company, and I try to make her come here often; but it is hard to induce her to leave her father. She says she has to be away from him so much of each day, that it is not right to let him pass any more time alone."
"Well, I suppose she would not object to my going to see her."
"She would be delighted to see you. She has all her evenings, and Wednesday and Saturday afternoons. She is very fond of young people."
The Sealing callers do not demand a particular description. There were a few young ladies, none of whom Margaret much liked; she thought them assuming and silly. One of them crowned her other offences by replying to a question of Margaret's about Miss Burney, "Oh! yes, very estimable person, I believe; I do not know her. Were you aware that she teaches in the public school?"
TO BE CONTINUED.
THE IMMUTABILITY OF THE SPECIES.[57]
I.
For a century and a half, the attention of the scientific world has been repeatedly called to theories purporting to prove the evolution of the species. Before the last dozen years, they elicited nothing but deserved contempt from those conversant with the phenomena of which they treat. Their absurdity was transparent, alike in their conclusion and in the processes by which that conclusion was held to have been reached. They were in succession fully refuted. But there arose a class of men, somewhat superior in intellect and ingenuity to the propounders of these speculations, who were imbued with similar atheistic principles. They directed all their efforts toward the conception of a theory more capable than the others of attaining a respectable scientific status. It would have been matter of great surprise, then, if this concentration of intellectual energy had not resulted in something sufficiently plausible to startle the world.
In the year 1859, Mr. Charles Darwin, one of the first naturalists of England, propounded his theory of development, in a work termed The Origin of Species. This purported to be a full and conclusive confirmation of the hypothesis of evolution. The theory was elaborate and ingenious, and on its appearance was immediately advocated by many men to whom it was not wholly unexpected. Its congruity with their atheistic views can alone furnish an adequate explanation of the haste with which they declared themselves its advocates. This harmony with preconceived ideas was confessedly the chief inducement urging them to accept the theory. Hear Mr. Herbert Spencer's conception of the spirit in which a person should approach the subject: "Before it can be ascertained how organized beings have been gradually evolved, there must be reached the conviction that they have been gradually evolved." The italics are his own. Mr. George Henry Lewes, in an article in the Fortnightly Review for April 1st, 1868, says:
"There can be little doubt that the acceptance or rejection of Darwinism has, in the vast majority of cases, been wholly determined by the monistic or dualistic attitude of the mind. And this explains, what would otherwise be inexplicable, the surprising fervor and facility with which men, wholly incompetent to appreciate the evidence for or against natural selection, have adopted or 'refuted' it."
That Mr. Lewes and other really able men have been so influenced, we entertain not the slightest doubt. But their failure to discover and appreciate the evidence against the theory, we ascribe not to incompetency, but to the bias of a foregone conclusion. We hail with delight the efforts of these men to sustain the theory, confident that, the greater the light thrown upon it, the more glaringly palpable will become its absurdity.
We purpose to show, in this and other articles, that the facts which are seemingly so congruous with the conception of evolution are in reality grossly at variance with it, and strictly in accordance with the doctrine of special creations. We will proceed at once to their consideration.
Variations form the data of Darwin's theory. These, as facts, cannot be disputed. Variation is everywhere seen. Scarcely any species, either animal or vegetable, has escaped this tendency. While some species have not presented differences among their individuals sufficiently marked for the formation of varieties, a multitude of other species display modifications which form the characteristics of dozens of widely distinct breeds. Not less than one hundred and fifty distinct strains and varieties have descended from the original wild pigeon, columba livia. All these varieties result from man's careful selection, and his judicious pairing of those individuals which possess the required modifications. This he does in sure reliance on the law of heredity, which transmits to the offspring the most minute peculiarities of the parents, saving, of course, when they are brought into conflict with opposite characters. These variations are both in the direction of increase and in the direction of decrease. Here we find a variety formed by the appearance of a modification not observable in the species under nature, and there a variety formed by the total or partial suppression of one or more characters. Now, few portions of the organization are incapable of modification. Darwin has conclusively shown that even the bones and internal organs have been greatly modified. To realize fully the extent and scope of variation, it is necessary to consult Darwin's late work, Animals and Plants under Domestication. Many of the modifications--especially those most widely divergent--constitute differences greater than those which distinguish species from species, and, in some few cases, genus from genus.
It may here be thought that we have made too great concessions; that the logical and inevitable conclusion from the facts, as we state them, is the evolution of the species. Not so. For the more numerous and the more widely divergent the modifications are shown to be, the more easily will we be able to prove to demonstration the fixity of the species.
As these varieties (or incipient species, as Darwin conceives them to be) were formed through the selection by man of slight successive modifications, Darwin affects to believe that variations arose in the wild state; that they were accumulated and preserved by nature by a process analogous to man's selection; and that by the long continued accumulation and conservation, through countless ages, of these modifications, the species have evolved from one another. This selective power of nature he infers from the struggle for existence constantly carried on in the wild state, wherein the weak succumb, and the fittest, strongest, and most vigorous survive, and, according to the theory, attain to a higher development.
Many objections have been urged against Darwin's theory. Some have questioned the efficiency of natural selection; and others have contended that selection necessarily implies a selecter. Some have considered Darwinism sufficiently disproved by the absence of the transitional links between the different species. Others have asserted the inconceivableness of the primordial differentiation of parts in organisms when they all presented the simplest structure. Another argument has been adduced from the tendency of domesticated animals and plants, when neglected, to recur to the ancestral form under nature. Some assume a limit to variation; while others have contended that domestication of itself has introduced something plastic into organisms, enabling them to vary, and that, therefore, the analogy drawn between animals and plants under domestication and those under nature is inadmissible. Others assert that domestic animals and plants have been rendered in an especial manner subservient to the uses and purposes of man. In conformity with this view, they also affirm that the conception of species is, for that reason, not applicable to the creatures under domestication. For ourselves, we concede that the analogy between domesticated and natural animals and plants is a just one, in the light in which the phenomena of variation are generally regarded. For we wholly dissent from the opinion of the introduction by domestication of any thing plastic into organisms, and firmly believe in the operation of secondary causes in the formation of varieties.
These arguments, in the form in which they are adduced, are inconclusive. Their weakness springs from an error into which those who have urged them have fallen, which vitiates at the start all their reasoning. To this error we shall presently advert. But while we cannot concur in their premises, we have something more than an intuition of the truth of their common conclusion.
The facts, of which the Animals and Plants under Domestication is a vast repertory, admit of a theory more conformable than that of Darwin to the phenomena of variation; a theory which fully accounts for the appearance of the profitable modifications under domestication, (confessedly inexplicable on Darwin's theory,) and for the formation of races under nature; a theory admitting of still further variation; and which is at the same time strictly in accordance with the doctrines of special creations and of the immutability of the species. This teleological explanation, of which we conceive the phenomena of variation to be susceptible, we will render amenable to all the canons of scientific research. And in doing so, we will rely for our proofs upon no evidence but that furnished us by noted evolutionists.
The seeming concurrence of all the evidence in favor of Darwinism results from a misconception by all of the true nature of its data. In all the arguments adduced by the advocates of special creation in disproof of Darwin's hypotheses, these variations have been tacitly admitted to arise by evolution. That they have thus arisen seems to be taken for granted. In this admission lies their error. Upon this current conception of varietal evolution rests the whole evolution hypothesis. Upon the validity of this assumption we join issue with Darwin, as we conceive that upon this point the whole question hinges. For it is not a little illogical to concede the evolution of varieties, and to deny the evolution of species. If we can show that this assumption is invalid, the whole evolution fabric will fall.
Darwin tacitly assumes that the existing state of nature is the normal or primordial condition of animals and plants. The difficulty hitherto experienced in confuting his errors springs from acquiescence in this assumption. True it is that Darwin does not believe in the validity of this assumption, but merely makes it to show the inconceivableness of the negation of evolution. With him a species is not fixed but fluctuating, and is merely a subjective conception, having no objective reality. Believing in the converse assumption, we advance the following theory: That animals and plants have degenerated under nature, and that the favorable modifications arising under domestication are due to reversion to the perfect type.
Darwin, in treating of variations, refers them indiscriminately to reversion and to evolution. This he does according to no law, rule, method, or formula. The mere circumstance that he has one subject under consideration, suffices to induce him to ascribe to reversion a modification which, in another portion of his work, he, with strange inconsistency, attributes to "spontaneous variability." He affects to deem it a sufficient answer to the ascription of characters to reversion, to appeal to the absence of such characters in the species under nature. If the assumption of degeneration and subsequent favorable reversion can lay even the least claim to tenability, this answer is in no wise satisfactory. If it can be conclusively shown that most, if not all, creatures in a state of nature, are in a degenerated condition, then the irresistible inference will be, in the absence of any other rational explanation, that favorable variations are ascribable to reversion.
While, as Herbert Spencer says, "a comparison of ancient and modern members of the types which have existed from paleozoic and mesozoic times down to the present day shows that the total amount of change (in animals) is not relatively great, and that it is not manifestly toward a higher organization," paleontology furnishes us with many facts showing the great size of ancient mammals, and marked degeneracy in their descendants. Thus, Darwin concurs with Bell, Cuvier, Nilsson, and others in the belief that European cattle--the Continental and Pembroke breeds, and the Chillingham cattle--are the degenerate descendants of the great urus, (bos primigenius,) with which they cannot now sustain a comparison, so greatly have they degenerated. Cæsar describes the urus as being not much inferior in size to the elephant. An entire skull of one, found in Perthshire, measures one yard in length, while the span of the horn cores is three feet and six inches, the breadth of the forehead between the horns is ten and a half inches, and from the middle of the occipital ridge to the back of the orbit it is thirteen inches, (Owen's British Fossil Mammals, pp. 500, 501, 502.) The common red deer have so greatly undergone degeneration that the fossil remains of their progenitors have been held to be those of a distinct species, (strongylocerus spelæus.) An advocate of Darwinism--a writer in the Edinburgh Review for October, 1868--differs with Owen on this point, and holds that the common red deer are their descendants, greatly degenerated. From their antlers it is inferred that they equalled in height the megaceros, whose height to summit of antlers was ten feet four inches, (Owen's British Foss. Mam.) So marked is the difference in the size of the antlers, says the Edinburgh reviewer, that it would be possible to ascertain approximately the antiquity of a deposit in which they might be found from that fact alone. The horse and the elephas antiquus have also been shown to have decreased in size.
Changes similar to these have been adduced by the advocates of evolution, to show the manner in which species have been formed under nature. But these, we apprehend, imply devolution rather than evolution. They also serve, contend they, as illustrations of the harmony subsisting between the organism and its environment. If by this is meant that the organism responds to every marked change in the environment, we admit the harmony. But if congruity between a perfect physiological state and the changed conditions is implied, we demur. Certain conditions are absolutely essential to the growth of characters and to general perfection. When they are so modified as to entail the diminution or loss of any positive feature, this tells upon the organism. Darwin, noting that the appearance of certain characters was invariably consequent upon the presence of certain conditions, says (in order to avoid any thing like a teleological implication) that we must not thence infer that those or any conditions are absolutely necessary to the growth of any organs or characters. That Darwin errs, and that full physiological perfection cannot exist except where there is full general growth, and full growth of all parts or organs, we shall clearly demonstrate when, in a future article, we treat of the laws of compensation or balancement of growth, of correlation, of crossing, and of close interbreeding. But whether there exists harmony between the organism or not, there is none the less deterioration. And when reversion to the type from which the organism has degenerated takes place under domestication, it is termed evolution.
But those proofs of degeneration and subsequent favorable reversion upon which we chiefly rely are those afforded by Darwin himself. On page 8, Vol. I. of his late work, he says, "Members of a high group might even become, and this apparently has occurred, fitted for simpler conditions of life; and in this case, natural selection would tend to simplify or degrade the organism; for complicated mechanism for simple actions would be useless or even disadvantageous." The efficiency of natural selection in this respect we fully concede.
And again, on page 12, "During the many changes to which, in the course of time, all organic beings have been subjected, certain organs or parts have occasionally become of little use, and ultimately superfluous, and the retention of such parts in a rudimentary and utterly useless condition can, on the descent theory, be simply understood." We heartily concur in this explanation furnished by the descent theory, as we fully believe all that is attributed to the law of hereditary transmission, the particularities of the hypothesis of pangenesis excepted.
Treating of a symmetrical growth, he cites the cases of "wrong fishes," gasteropods or shell-fish, of certain species of bulimus, and many achitinellæ, verucca, and orchids, and infers, from their being as liable to be unequally developed on the one as on the other side, that the capacity for development is present, and that it is due to reversion. "And as a reversal of development occasionally occurs in animals of many kinds, this latent capacity is probably very common." (P. 53, vol. ii.)
On pages 58, 59, and 60 are given cases of "the re-development of wholly or partially aborted organs." The corydalis tuberosa properly has one of its two nectaries colorless, destitute of nectar, and only one half the size of the other. Its pistil is curved toward the perfect nectary, and the hood, formed of the inner petals, slips off the pistil and stamens in one direction alone, so that when a bee sucks the perfect nectary, the stigma and stamens are exposed and rubbed against the insect's body. "Now," says Darwin, "I have examined several flowers of the corydalis tuberosa, in which both nectaries were equally developed, and contained nectar; in this we see only the re-development of a partially aborted organ; but with this re-development the pistil becomes straight and the hood slips off in either direction; so that the flowers have acquired the perfect structure, so well adapted for insect agency, of dielytra and its allies. We cannot attribute these coadapted modifications to chance, or to correlated variability; we must attribute them to reversion to a primordial condition of the species." Upon Darwin's hypothesis, all the beautiful, delicate, involved, and harmonious adjustments, coadaptations, relations, and dependencies in organic nature must, at some time, have arisen by evolution. But here he apparently assigns their coadaptation as a reason for not ascribing these modifications to chance, or to correlated variability; as if their evolution were inconceivable. Does this consist with his theory? What difficulty exists against their evolution now, which is not susceptible of being urged with equal if not greater force against their evolution ages ago? Why push the question further back in time? Was the evolution of these modifications less inconceivable then than now? If so, why? In default of an answer, we have no alternative but to conclude that all favorable modifications arise by reversion.
Having given several cases of the "reappearance of organs of which not a vestige could be detected," he declares it "difficult to believe that they would have come to full perfection in color, structure, and function unless those organs had, at some former period, passed through a similar course of growth." We surmise that at the moment in which Darwin conceived such a difficulty, his singularly powerful imagination was impaired by over-exercise. We trust that, on the recurrence of such a mental state, he will cease to marvel at us for experiencing a like difficulty in conceiving the evolution of any favorable characters.
After giving the opinion of several naturalists--in which he concurs--"that the common bond of connection between the several foregoing cases is an actual though partial return to the ancient progenitor of the group," he says, "If this view be correct, we must believe that a vast number of characters capable of evolution (!) lie hidden in every organic being." Here Darwin, as if he had demonstrated the tendency to revert too clearly for the tenableness of his theory, asserts that the appearance of these characters, which have been by him attributed to reversion, is attributable to evolution. The inconsistency is manifest. But this may be taken as a type of the whole of Darwinism. For the author, after acquainting us, without the slightest apparent hesitation, with facts showing degeneration to have been little short of universal, declares that he is forced to believe that favorable modifications are due to "spontaneous variability," as they are otherwise inexplicable; seeming to be wholly oblivious of ever having mentioned previous degeneration. This reminds us of another inconsistency of which evolutionists are guilty. They never tire of inveighing against the reference of phenomena to what they term "metaphysical entities," such as "vital power," "inherent tendency," "intrinsic aptitude," etc. But this by no means precludes their use of the same phrases when treating of phenomena which refuse to be moulded into even seeming conformity to their hypotheses. Again, these characters cannot be due to evolution if they are a return to the ancient progenitor of the group; for that implies the possession of a larger number of characters in the progenitor than in its descendants; which directly militates against evolution, which is an advance from the simpler to the more complex. But Darwinism is in part but an ingeniously disguised and elaborate revival of the idea of Geoffroy St. Hilaire. He conceived "that what we call species are various degenerations of the same type." Races under nature are, upon our theory, caused by degeneration; they are various degenerations of a specific type. Observing that races were thus caused, Geoffroy St. Hilaire, we apprehend, instituted an analogy between races and species, and inferred from the former being various degenerations of a specific type, that the latter were the various degenerations of a generic (or a still higher) type. He was also induced thus to conclude by the fact that characters, which were held in common by all the species of a genus, were in some species in a rudimentary state. But the sterility of hybrids precludes the possibility of this common origin of the species. In so far as this hypothesis relates to species, Darwin adopts it. The fact that races have been similarly caused, he ignores, as that is grossly at variance with his hypothesis of evolution, which lays claim to plausibility only in the absence of any rational explanation of the appearance of favorable modifications under domestication. Were races confessed to be the degenerations of a specific type, then it would be apparent to the capacity of a boy that the appearance of characters under domestication was due to reversion. Had not Darwin accepted the idea of St. Hilaire, his theory would be devoid of its present semblance of unity and coherency. Having started out to prove the common origin of the species by evolution, he preserves the appearance of consistency in his illustrations by assuming an identical conclusion, but one arrived at, as he unwittingly shows, by postulating degeneration. This furnishes him with a seeming confirmation of his theory; but as these hypotheses of degeneration and evolution are wholly incongruous, the vain endeavor to blend them harmoniously involves him in many inconsistencies and absurdities. Thus, in endeavoring to prove community of origin of the species, he, in conformity with the conception of degeneration, accounts for the appearance of characters by reversion, and then, apprehensive that this attribution would be wholly subversive of his theory of development, ends by inconsistently and gratuitously terming them instances of evolution. The expressions quoted above illustrate this. He has shown that the modifications are due to a return to the ancient progenitor of the group, and then says, "If this view be correct, we must believe that a vast number of characters capable of evolution (!) lie hidden in every organic being." Many other instances of this inconsistency could be given, but the following will, we trust, suffice. After adducing cases of bud variation, he says, "When we reflect on these facts, we become deeply impressed with the conviction that, in such cases, the nature of the variation depends but little on the conditions to which the plant has been exposed, and not in any especial manner on its individual character, but much more on the general nature or condition, inherited from some remote progenitor of the whole group of allied beings to which the plant belongs." Mark the consistency. The appearance of nectarines on peach-trees by bud variation is here ascribed to reversion, while in numerous other places it is adduced as one of the most striking instances of evolution. He has cited the cases of bud variation as instances of evolution, to prove community of origin of the species, and then assumes the community of origin of the species to account by reversion for the appearance of nectarines and all bud variations. But Darwin may go on involving himself in a succession of absurdities, in the just confidence that, however gross they may be, they will not be observable so long as his opponents admit the evolution of varieties.
On page 265, he declares it "impossible in most cases to distinguish between the reappearance of ancient, and the first appearance of new characters." This of course implies that some characters arise by evolution. Now, how are we to discriminate between those arising by reversion and those arising by evolution? What is the distinguishing characteristic of the latter? Darwin has failed to inform us. We deny evolution in any case--"sport," strain, race, variety, or species. Darwin takes it for granted in the cases of "sport," strain, and variety, after having shown degeneration to have been almost universal. He professes to believe that these are due to evolution. What is evolution? Is it not "a name for a hypothetical property which as much needs explanation as that which it is used to explain"? Whence results this belief in evolution? From intuition? This knowledge of the existence of such a potent factor is doubtless very enviable, especially when it is possessed by able scientists. But--to follow a train of thought pursued in another connection--it needs some guarantee of its genuineness. For the first impulse of a scientific scepticism is to inquire by what means these scientists have acquired such a knowledge of the cause of variations. If it was gained from a study of nature, then it must be amenable to all the canons of scientific research; and these assure us that the appearance of favorable modifications is wholly inexplicable except upon the hypothesis of reversion, and that evolution is merely a name for a cause of which we are presumed to be ignorant. In science an explanation is the reduction of phenomena to a series of known conditions, thus bringing what was unknown within the circle of the known. Does the hypothesis of evolution fulfil this requirement? Has it not been confessed that "spontaneous variability," or evolution, stands in the place of ignorance? Is not the ascription of characters to evolution a "shaping of ignorance into the semblance of knowledge"? Has not Darwin shown that such it is, when he frankly acknowledges his ignorance of the cause of the appearance of favorable modifications, and when he attributes them to "an innate spontaneous tendency"? Of what validity, then, can an hypothesis be, when the assumption upon which it is grounded is, confessedly, wholly gratuitous? Before it can be entitled to a hearing in a scientific court of inquiry, it is necessary that it furnish some warrant for assuming evolution. We rely with the most implicit confidence upon Mr. G. H. Lewes concurring with us in deeming this requisite.
On page 350, Darwin says, "Many sub-varieties of the pigeon have reversed and somewhat lengthened feathers on the back of their heads, and this is certainly not due to the species under nature, which shows no trace of such a structure; but when we remember that sub-varieties of the fowl, the turkey, the canary-bird, duck, and goose all have top-knots or reversed feathers on their heads, and when we remember that scarcely a single natural group of birds can be named in which some members have not a tuft of feathers on their heads, we may suspect that reversion to some extremely remote form has come into action." A high development of the "extremely remote form," together with degeneration under nature and subsequent favorable reversion, is here manifestly implied.
On page 247, the tendency to prolification is ascribed to reversion to a former condition.
"With domesticated animals," says Darwin, on page 353, "the reduction of a part from disuse is never carried so far that a mere rudiment is left, but we have good reason to believe that this has often occurred under nature."
Speaking of the gradual increase in size of our domesticated animals, he says, "This fact is all the more striking, as certain wild or half-wild animals, such as red deer, aurochs, park-cattle, and boars, have, within nearly the same period, decreased in size." (P. 427.)
On page 61, Vol. II., he says, "It is probable that hardly a change of any kind affects either parent without some mark being left on the germ. But on the doctrine of reversion, as given in this chapter, the germ becomes a far more marvellous object; for besides the visible changes to which it is subjected, we must believe that it is crowded with invisible characters, proper to both sexes, to both the right and left side of the body, and to a long line of male and female ancestors, separated by hundreds or even thousands of generations from the present time; and these characters, like those written on paper with invisible ink, all lie ready to be evolved (!!!) under certain known or unknown conditions." If this is the case, is not the scope of reversion sufficiently wide to cover every favorable modification which has arisen, or may arise, under domestication?
But these extracts from Darwin's Animals and Plants under Domestication, strongly confirmatory as they are of our hypothesis, ill sustain a comparison with the last we shall adduce. Fuller concession no one could reasonably desire.
"With species in a state of nature," says Darwin, on page 317, "rudimentary organs are so extremely common that scarcely one can be mentioned which is wholly free from a blemish of this nature." Stronger confirmation of our hypothesis, short of a full and unequivocal confession of its validity, we are utterly unable to conceive. Are we not, after this, justified in ascribing to reversion every favorable modification which has arisen or may arise?
Having thus furnished full warrant for assuming degeneration and subsequent favorable reversion, and for alleging the complete gratuitousness of the converse assumption of evolution, let us turn our attention to the grand principle of natural selection.
It is scarcely possible to read Darwin's graphic description of the struggle for existence among animals and plants, and not marvel at their survival. Creatures under nature are subjected to the greatest vicissitudes of climate. Thousands are born into the world with delicate constitutions, inherited from their progenitors. These enter into competition with their fellows for the means of subsistence; and although they eventually succumb, they have, during their short lives, by this competition, induced the deterioration of their stronger companions. All without exception have to struggle, from the hour of their birth to the hour of their death, for existence. Natural extinction carries off those whose impaired constitutions are inconsistent with prolonged existence. Consequent upon natural extinction is the survival of the fittest and strongest. Darwin avers that the weaker portion of the species having been carried off by natural extinction, the next generation, having been derived only from the stronger portion of the race, will be of a still stronger constitution. This is not the case. Natural extinction does not arbitrarily carry off the weak, but merely those whose extremely impaired constitutions are incompatible with life. Many survive between which and the conditions there is little compatibility. And even the offspring of those which are the strongest are subjected in their turn to the same if not worse conditions, and to the same if not severer competition; for the probability is, that the increase in the number of animals and plants has been great. Thus degeneration is ever active. If the climate fails to entail deterioration, and becomes favorable, the same result is produced by the severe competition consequent upon "an astonishingly rapid increase in numbers."
Darwin implies that natural selection is something more than the correlative of natural extinction. That it is, he has not shown. All the facts show that the one is merely the correlative of the other. The semblance of the converse being the case is given, we conceive, by the constant use, when speaking of those preserved by natural selection, of the superlative, as strongest, fittest, most vigorous. Under nature, unfavorable modifications are ever arising, and those animals and plants which possess them in a marked degree are carried off by natural extinction. Natural selection, in its turn, operates merely by the preservation of those organisms which have undergone little or no modification. The two factors are only different aspects of the same process. One necessitates the other. More than this, natural selection is not. That it acts by the preservation of successive favorable modifications, Darwin has signally failed to adduce a single instance to prove. Instances of adaptation he has adduced, but they are invariably, except where man has intervened, those of degeneration. A description of the process of natural selection is always accompanied with an account of the incessant war waging throughout nature, resulting in natural extinction. Following this is natural selection, preserving the fitter, stronger, and more vigorous. Now, a tolerably clear conception of our view may be gained by considering that, although those preserved may be the fitter, stronger, and more vigorous, in comparison with their brothers or contemporaries, they may be--and the vast majority of the instances adduced by Darwin show this to be the case--less fit, less strong, and less vigorous than their progenitors. Those instances adduced which do not imply this, show no advance on the progenitors, but merely a struggle against degeneration and a continuance in the same state. For animals and plants under nature can scarcely hold their own. Many of them are reduced to the lowest condition compatible with life. If they do not remain stationary, their movement is in the direction of degeneration. Does not Darwin's assertion, before adverted to, that rudimentary organs are so extremely common that scarcely a single species can be mentioned which does not possess such a blemish, imply the preëxistence of conditions sufficiently adverse to entail unfavorable changes in almost every point or character in an organism? It is not a little amusing to see that, in numbers of the exemplifications of the process of natural selection given by Darwin, the animals and plants are subjected to extreme vicissitudes of climate, the severest competition, and other unfavorably modifying influences, and although deterioration is acknowledged to result, and it is manifest that all are unfavorably modified, he invariably concludes with the assertion that the strongest and most vigorous survive. This assertion is true in one sense, but is false when viewed with reference to the inference intended to be drawn. It will be seen that the more correct assertion would be, those survive which have undergone less modification or none.
But independently of these considerations; even upon the supposition that natural selection was equally powerful with man's selection in the formation of varieties or races, that as strongly pronounced and as widely divergent modifications as those observable under domestication had arisen under nature, the efficiency of natural selection is a matter of no moment. For the argument therefrom begs the whole question. It takes for granted the whole point really in controversy. It assumes that those modifications which may arise, or which have arisen, are due to evolution. It is not in the least inconsistent with our views that favorable varieties or races should arise under nature. As a matter of fact, we deny their ever having arisen. But we are not by this denial estopped from believing it possible for them to arise in the future. For were the conditions to change, and to become as favorable as those to which animals and plants are subjected under domestication, races would then arise. They would probably be fewer in number, but a nearer approach to perfection could be attained, the conditions admitting; for man's improvement of the animals and plants under his care is retarded, owing to his not being as yet perfectly conversant with the conditions requisite for their full development. But the modifications which may arise under nature will be due to reversion. The improvement of natural species will imply their previous degeneration. Darwin conceives variations to arise by evolution, and concession of this is essential to the validity of his argument. The question then recurs, Are the favorable modifications which have arisen, or which may arise, due to evolution or to reversion? Until this point is settled in favor of the ascription to evolution, Darwin's argument from natural selection is wholly irrelevant.
An illustration may perhaps conduce to a clearer conception of the relation in which the theories of evolution and reversion stand to each other. The following will, we believe, fully serve this purpose.
Conceive a glass tube, bent into the shape of the letter V, of which the left leg alone is clearly visible. In this, water is seen slowly ascending by a succession of apparently spontaneous impulses. "Now," argue a certain class of philosophers, "this is a peculiar case. The water here manifestly does not acknowledge the law of gravitation. It must, then, conform to a law sui generis; a law of which we are wholly ignorant; a law which transcends the scope of our intelligence. This law, be it what it may, we will term evolution. Now, as this name, given arbitrarily, is the only explanation of which the singular ascent of the water will admit, we are forced to conclude that the water will, if similarly confined above as here below, continue to rise for ever. Any theory other than this is inconceivable. The assumption of a limit to the ascent of the water is manifestly wholly gratuitous. What evidence is there to induce the belief that there exists such a limit?" But would not the calculations of these philosophers be signally confounded by the removal of the covering of the right leg of the tube, disclosing the downward course of the water from a certain height? The analogy, we presume, is clear to all. The ascent of the water in the left leg answers to the appearance of the profitable modifications under domestication, the apex of the tube to the existing state of nature, and the descent of the water in the right leg answers to degeneration under nature; while the height from which the water has descended in the right leg, and to which in the left leg it is ascending in conformity to the rule that water always seeks its own level, in like manner answers to the perfect type of the species from which the animal or plant has degenerated, and to which it is reverting.
But, even assuming that the argument from the gratuitousness of the assumption of varietal evolution, together with that from the explanation afforded by the theory of reversion, is inconclusive, there is yet another which may be adduced.
Darwin's theory is condemned by its advocates. For it is one of a class of theories which, they contend, are not entitled to any consideration or hearing in a scientific court of inquiry. Doubtless many of our readers, at least those conversant with science, have spent many a pleasant hour perusing numerous well-written pages filled with protests against the ascription of phenomena to such entities as "plastic force," "vital power," "intrinsic aptitude," "inherent tendency," etc. This attribution is one of the stock objections against every thing which does not tally with the ideas current among positivists. The advocates of Darwin, of whom most, if not all, are followers of Comte, wax eloquent and enthusiastic while on this theme. Here they disport themselves after the manner of men conscious of having alighted on a subject highly calculated to call forth their most happy thoughts. Here their rhetoric is consummate, and their turns of expression singularly felicitous. Their affected indignation at the assumed absurdity of thus accounting for phenomena knows no bounds. So thrilling is this tirade, and so perfect the simulation of honest indignation, that we, though of a somewhat cold temperament, have, through sympathy, often caught and retained for a moment the infection of enthusiasm. When our feelings ceased to have full sway, and when our reason returned, we were in a fit state to appreciate fully the great power of eloquence.
After animadverting thus severely on this ascription of phenomena, it was not to be expected that these positivists would be guilty of the inconsistency of advocating a theory the basis of which was one of these "metaphysical entities." Very little credence, we are sure, would be given to the assertion that the foundation of Darwin's theory was an occult quality. For that theory has again and again been held up to the world as a shining sample of what can be effected in science by conformity to the positive process of discovery. Yet such is the case. Darwin, on page 2, Vol. I. of his late work, says, "If organic beings had not possessed an inherent tendency to vary, man could have done nothing." In numerous other portions of his work may be found the reference of variations to "an innate spontaneous tendency," (p. 362, Vol. I.,) to "spontaneous or accidental variability," (p. 248. Vol. II.,) to the "nature or constitution of the being which varies," (p. 289, Vol. II.,) and to "other metaphysical entities." So frequent is the recurrence of these expressions that it is scarcely possible to open any portion of his work and not alight on one. The whole of Darwin's theory is deduced from this occult quality in animals and plants. And this is a theory advocated by G. H. Lewes, and a number of others who have given in their adhesion to positivism! If this explanation is, as they claim, unphilosophical, are they not bound to withdraw their support from such a theory? Does not their present position argue a total want of consistency? Which is the more entitled to support, even from their own professed stand-point, a theory which refers favorable variations to an innate tendency in organisms, or that which ascribes variations to reversion? No; as any other view would be incompatible with the success of their darling theory, they are perfectly content to consider variation as an ultimate law, even though such a consideration involves a gross inconsistency. Regardless of this, they advance the theory, and, when engaged on a collateral point, marvel at their opponents for doing that which they have done at the start, and complacently extol the clearness of their own views, which have been arrived at by the aid of an hypothesis based upon the same occult quality against which they are now exhausting all their eloquence.
The truth is, that these "metaphysical entities" are in almost as frequent use among positivists as among their adversaries. They are, perhaps, more ingeniously disguised. But a close examination of their speculations will elicit the fact that they are guilty of the same (alleged) absurdity, and on a point, as in the present instance, most materially affecting their whole theory. But these explanations are denounced as metaphysical merely to facilitate the reception of their finely spun theories. The dawn of science in any department of knowledge is invariably preceded by a mist. This acts as a false medium, through which the subjects of science are dimly seen, presenting a most monstrous aspect. This is rendered still more distorted by the ingenious but absurd theories of men bent upon tracing a want of harmony between science and religion. Their hypotheses, at first sight, apparently preclude the need of these phrases, but they are at last necessitated to use them in accounting for phenomena of which the ascription to known factors would be grossly at variance with their views. The use of these entities is in some cases only provisional with us, to be abandoned on the advent of true knowledge; for religion does not shun the light of true science. In this transitional period between complete ignorance and full knowledge, these speculative theories are propounded. They purport to furnish an explanation of all phenomena, and to dispense with the necessity of using "metaphysical entities." Their adoption is necessitated, contend their propounders, if the converse theories are conceded to be unscientific. This we deny, and appeal to the existing low condition of scientific knowledge, which precludes for a time the possibility of the formation of any well-founded theory. This theory of evolution, for instance, is confessedly founded on ignorance--ignorance of the law to which its data conform. But when science advances, and when facts are exposed to the clear sunlight of precise and impartial investigation, perfect harmony is observable between science and religion; and the absurdity of the theories which were urged for our adoption becomes manifest. Past experience justifies our belief that such will ever be the case. For it is only those departments of knowledge which are abandoned to speculation which present facts seemingly at variance with religion. We refuse to accept the alternatives which they offer, confident that, as they are at variance with religion, they are not the legitimate products of true science.
Races under nature have been formed exclusively by degeneration. By this we do not wish to imply any innate tendency in organisms to degenerate. The degeneration of which we speak is solely induced by the direct and indirect action of the conditions of life. Upon assuming certain conditions necessary to full growth, the formation of natural races becomes deductively explicable. It is with regret that we observe a disposition on the part of some of the advocates of special creation to believe growth independent of the conditions. The dependence of growth upon the conditions cannot be disputed. Nor do we wish to dispute it; for it is, to our mind, strong confirmation of the doctrine of final causes. The supporters of the evolution hypothesis maintain that an organism has the capacity for adapting itself to any conditions, so that they are not so marked and sudden as to entail extinction. We acquiesce in this thus far--where the conditions are favorable, improvement ensues. But with us improvement implies previous degeneration. And when the conditions are adverse, a change for the worse results in proportion to the change in the conditions. Such adaptation as this we admit. But we fancy Darwin would consider this too teleological to be a concession. Adaptation, with him, implies harmony. This harmony we will not gainsay. But if the conditions induce the total or partial suppression of any part or character, we contend that this adaptation of the organism to the conditions is not consistent with complete physiological integrity. The departure from a state of integrity is directly proportioned to the retardation of growth of either the organism as a whole, or of only one or more of its organs or characters. This repression is the criterion by which to judge of the adverseness of the conditions. For our belief in this incompatibility between full integrity and conditions which entail the loss or diminution of any part, character, feature, or organ, we will, in a future article, furnish full warrant.
Starting out, then, with perfect specific types, we will be able to account for the formation of races without the aid of an equivocal process, without postulating any occult quality, and by means in every way analogous to those which, as Darwin has shown, play an important part in inducing modification.
From the instances of degeneration adduced by Darwin, we may infer that the conditions of life were at one time extremely adverse. And surely, if they were sufficiently unfavorable to involve the reduction of most important organs to a rudimentary condition, they must also have caused the suppression of many minor characters. The climate in most countries has been adequately rigorous to act upon the organization as a whole, and thus entail deterioration in size; and as these unfavorable conditions ranged from those but little unfavorable to those barely compatible with life, the retention of the organism in each or several of these stages would create diversity of size; for climate acts with different degrees of force in different countries. Then in a single country the animals or plants would be subjected to closely similar conditions, and long continued subjection to these would produce uniformity of size, and indigenous races.
In addition to these modifications consequent upon the direct action of the climate on the whole organization, there would result minor changes. The conditions of life would in different districts or countries be unfavorable to different parts or characters. The reduction of these parts would follow, and this would, through correlation of growth, involve modifications in other portions of the organization. For, says Darwin, "all the parts of the organization are to a certain extent connected or correlated together."
Owing to these causes there would be disproportionate deterioration of the characters. When an organ of which the function is activity would be little exercised, it would become atrophied. Different situations would occasion more or less disuse of organs, and these would consequently be differently modified. Then their modification would call for the modification of other characters. Thus, the legs in some animals are made more or less short by disuse, and by correlation the head is reduced in size, and changed in shape. Loss of characters, such as the crest of feathers on the head, and wattle, conjoined with changes in other parts of the organism, would, through correlation, produce more or less diminution in size of the skull. General decrease in size, and loss of tail or tail-feathers, would lessen the number of the vertebræ, which result would induce other changes. When the hair is affected by humidity of climate or other causes, the tusks, horns, skull, and feet become modified. There is also correlation of degeneration between the skin and its various appendages of hair, feathers, hoofs, horns, and teeth; between wing-feathers and tail-feathers; between the various features of head and skull.
With animals, a small supply of food would cause decrease in size; and with plants, an insufficient quantity of the necessary chemical elements, together with the starvation consequent upon the close contiguity of other plants, would produce the same result. Diseases peculiar to certain localities, heights, and climates have also played their part in the modification of animals and plants.
Given, then, a perfect type, the unfavorable action of these elements--heat and cold, dampness and dryness, light and electricity, disuse, disease, absence of some of the necessary chemical elements, and insufficient supplies of food--together with that of their countless modifications, acting separately and conjointly, directly and indirectly through correlation, is amply adequate to the production of the modifications by which, as we conceive, races have been formed.
That it is possible for characters to appear after having been lost for a great length of time, is amply shown by Darwin in his chapters on reversion. Individuals of breeds of cattle that have been hornless for the last one hundred or one hundred and fifty years occasionally give birth to horned calves. Characters, he assures us, may recur after an almost indefinite number of generations. "From what we see of the power of reversion, both in pure races and when varieties or species are crossed, we may infer that characters of almost any kind are capable of reappearance after having been lost for a great length of time." Speaking of the transmission of color during centuries, he says, "Nevertheless, there is no more inherent improbability in this being the case than in a useless and rudimentary organ, or even in only a tendency to the production of a rudimentary organ, being inherent during millions of generations, as is well known to occur with a multitude of organic beings. There is no more inherent impossibility in each domestic pig, during a thousand generations, retaining the capacity to develop great tusks under fitting conditions, than in the young calf having retained for an indefinite number of generations rudimentary incisor teeth which never protrude through the gums." The power of reversion is further shown in the cases of pelorism before given. And again, he urges that, "It should also be remembered that many characters lie latent in organisms ready to be evolved (?) under fitting conditions." But it is scarcely necessary to adduce proofs of the possibility of reversion; for, if characters arise in species which have confessedly degenerated, it is the height of absurdity to attribute them to evolution, rather than to reversion.
Many objections, we are sure, will suggest themselves, and many doubts will be expressed whether the theory here enunciated will cover all the facts. We feel confident of succeeding in obviating every difficulty, and in dissipating all such doubts. In this article we have shown upon what an infirm basis the evolution hypothesis rests, and have suggested a legitimate alternative. In our forthcoming articles, we shall show still further weakness of the views of Darwin and Spencer, and point out facts which, while grossly at variance with the development doctrines, afford conclusive proof of the objective reality of the species.
FOOTNOTE:
[57] The Origin of Species. By Charles Darwin, A.M., F.R.S., etc. Fourth edition.
The Variation of Animals and Plants under Domestication. By Charles Darwin, A.M., F.R.S., etc. Two volumes, 8vo. London: John Murray. 1868.
The Principles of Biology. Vol. I. By Herbert Spencer. London: Williams & Norgate. 1864.
HAYDN'S FIRST LESSONS IN MUSIC AND LOVE.
I.
The Hungarians, like the Austrians and Bohemians, have great love for music. "Three fiddles and a dulcimer for two houses," says the proverb; and it is a true one. It is not unusual, therefore, for some out of the poorer classes, when their regular business fails to bring them in sufficient for their wants, to take to the fiddle, the dulcimer, or the harp, playing on holidays on the highway or in taverns. This employment is generally lucrative enough, if they are not spendthrifts, to enable them not only to live, but to lay by something for future necessities.
An honest wheelwright, called "merry Jobst," on account of his stories and jokes, lived with Elschen his wife, in a cottage in the hamlet Rohrau, on the borders of Hungary and Austria. They were accustomed to sit by the wayside near the inn on holidays; Jobst fiddling, and Elschen playing the harp and singing with her sweet, clear voice. Almost every traveller stopped to listen, well pleased, and on resuming his journey threw often a silver twopence into the lap of the pretty young woman. Jobst and his wife, on returning home in the evening, found their day's work a good one.
The old cantor of the neighboring town of Haimburg passed along the road one afternoon, and in the arbor, opposite the tavern, sat merry Jobst fiddling, and beside him pretty Elschen, playing the harp and singing. Between them, on the ground, sat a little chubby-faced boy about three years old, who had a small board shaped like a violin hung about his neck, on which he played with a willow twig as with a genuine fiddle-bow. The most comical and surprising thing of all was, that the little man kept perfect time, pausing when his father paused and his mother had a solo, then falling in with his father again, and demeaning himself exactly like him. Often, too, he would lift up his clear voice, and join distinctly in the refrain of the song.
"Is that your boy, fiddler?" asked the music-teacher.
"Yes, sir, that is my little Seperl."[58]
"The little fellow seems to have a taste for music."
"Why not? I shall take him as soon as I can to one who can teach him."
The cantor came from this time twice a week to the house of merry Jobst to talk with him about his little son, and the youngster himself was soon the best of friends with the good-natured old man. So matters went on for two years, at the end of which time the cantor said to Jobst, "If you will trust your boy with me, I will take him, and teach him what he must learn to become a brave lad and skilful musician."
Jobst did not hesitate long, for he saw clearly how great an advantage the instruction of Master Wolferl would be to his son. And though it went harder with pretty Elschen to part with Joseph, who was her only child, yet she gave up at last. She packed up the boy's scanty wardrobe in a bundle, gave him a slice of bread and salt and a cup of milk, embraced and blessed him, and accompanied him to the door of the cottage, where she signed him with the sign of the cross three times, and then returned to her chamber. Jobst went with them half way to Haimburg, and then returned, while Wolferl and Joseph pursued their way till they reached Wolferl's house, the end of their journey.
Wolferl was an old bachelor, but one whose heart, despite his gray hairs, was still youthful and warm. He gave daily lessons to the little Joseph, and taught him good principles, as well as how to sing and to play on the horn and kettle-drum; and Joseph profited thereby, as well as by the other instructions he received in music.
Years passed, and Joseph was a well-instructed boy; he had a voice as clear and fine as his mother's, and played the violin as well as his father; he likewise blew the horn, and beat the kettle-drum, in the sacred music prepared by Wolferl for church festivals. Better than all, Joseph had a true and honest heart; had the fear of God continually before his eyes, and was ever contented, and wished well to all.
The more Wolferl perceived the lad's wonderful talent for art, the more earnestly he sought to find a patron for him, for he felt that his own strength could reach little further, when he saw the zeal and ability with which his pupil devoted himself to his studies. Providence so ordered it at length that Master von Reuter, chapel-master and musical director in St. Stephen's Church, Vienna, came to visit the deacon at Haimburg. The deacon told Master von Reuter of the extraordinary boy, the son of the wheelwright Jobst Haydn, the pupil of old Wolferl, and created in the chapel-master much desire to become acquainted with him. The next morning, accordingly, Von Reuter went to Wolferl's house, which he entered quietly and unannounced. Joseph was sitting alone at the organ, playing a simple but sublime piece of sacred music from an old German master. Reuter, astonished and delighted, stood at the door and listened attentively. The boy was so deep in his music that he did not perceive the intruder till the piece was concluded, when, accidentally turning round, he fixed upon the stranger his large dark eyes, expressive of astonishment indeed, but sparkling a friendly welcome.
"Very well played, my son!" said Von Reuter at last. "Where is your foster-father?"
"In the garden," said the boy; "shall I call him?"
"Call him, and say to him that the chapel-master Von Reuter wishes to speak to him. Stop a moment! You are Joseph Haydn, are you not?"
"Yes, I am Seperl."
"Well, then, go."
Joseph went and brought his old master, Wolferl, who with uncovered head and low obeisance welcomed the chapel-master and music director at St. Stephen's to his humble abode. Von Reuter, on his part, praised the musical skill of his protégé, inquired particularly concerning the lad's attainments, and examined him formally himself. Joseph passed the examination in such a manner that Reuter's satisfaction increased with every answer. After this he spent some time in close conference with old Wolferl; and it was near noon before he took his departure. Joseph was invited to accompany him and spend the rest of the day at the deacon's.
Eight days after, old Wolferl, Jobst, and pretty Elschen, the younger son, little Michael, on her lap, sat very dejectedly together, and talked of the good Joseph, who had gone that morning with Master von Reuter to Vienna, to take his place as chorister in St. Stephen's church.
FOOTNOTE:
[58] The diminutive for "Joseph," in the dialect of the country.
II.
Wenzel Puderlein, a noted hair-dresser in the Leopoldstadt of Vienna, was one day dressing the hair of the Baron von Swieten, first physician to the empress, when he heard the great man's son ask permission to present to him a wonderful young musician, whose talents were beginning to attract public attention. Puderlein was happy to say he knew all about him, having long been hair-dresser to the chapel-master Von Reuter, in whose house young Haydn had lived ten or eleven years. He had been chorister at St. Stephen's, but had been obliged to relinquish the position two years before, having lost his fine, clear soprano voice after a severe illness.
"And what does young Haydn now?" asked the baron.
"Ah! your honor, the poor fellow must find it hard to live by giving lessons, playing, and thus picking up what he can; he sometimes also composes, or what do they call it? He lives in the house with Metastasio; not in the first story, like the court poet, but in the fifth; and when it is winter, he has to lie in bed and work, to keep himself from freezing; he has a fireplace in his chamber, but no money to buy wood to burn therein."
"This must not be; this shall not be!" cried the Baron von Swieten, as he rose from his seat. "Am I ready?"
"One moment, your honor--only the string around the hair-bag."
"It is very good as it is. Now begone!"
Puderlein vanished.
"And you, help me on with my coat, give me my stick and hat, and bring me your young teacher this afternoon." Therewith he departed; and young Von Swieten, full of joy, went to the writing-table to indite an invitation to Haydn to come to his father's house.
Meanwhile Joseph Haydn sat sorrowful, and almost despairing, in his chamber. He had passed the morning, contrary to his usual custom, in idle brooding over his condition. Now it appeared quite hopeless, and his cheerfulness seemed about to take leave of him for ever, like his only friend and protectress, Mademoiselle de Martinez. That young lady had left the city a few hours before. Haydn had instructed her in singing, and in playing the harpsichord; and by way of recompense, he enjoyed the privilege of boarding and lodging in the fifth story in the house of Metastasio. All this now ceased with the lady's departure, and Joseph was poorer than before; for all that he had saved he had sent conscientiously to his parents, only keeping so much as sufficed to furnish him with decent though plain clothing.
"But where now?" thought he; and asked himself, sobbing aloud, "Where shall I go, without money?"
Just then, without any previous knocking, the door of his chamber was opened, and, with bold carriage and sparkling eyes, entered Master Wenzel Puderlein.
"Come to me!" cried the hair-dresser, while he stretched his curling-irons like a sceptre toward Joseph, and pressed his powder-bag with an air of feeling to his heart. "To me! I will be your father; I will foster and protect you; for I have feeling for the grand and the sublime, and have discerned your genius. I will lead you to art--I myself; and if, before long, you be not in full chase, and have not captured her, why, you must be a fool, and I will give you up!"
"Ah! worthy Master Puderlein," cried Haydn, surprised, "you would not receive me when I know not where to go nor what to do?"
"Now, sit you down on that stool," said Puderlein, "and do not stir till I give you leave. I will show the world what a man of genius can make of an indifferent head."
"Are you determined, then, to do me the honor of dressing my hair, Master von Puderlein?"
"Ask no questions; but sit still."
Joseph obediently seated himself, and Wenzel began to dress his hair according to the latest mode.
When he had done, he said with much self-congratulation, "Really, Haydn, when I look at you and think what you were before I set your head right, and what you are now, I may, without presumption, call you a being of my own creation. Now pay attention: you are to dress yourself as quickly as possible, and collect your movables together, that I may send to fetch them this evening. Then betake yourself to the Leopoldstadt, to my house on the Danube, No. 7; go up the steps, knock at the door, present my compliments to the young lady my daughter, and tell her you are so and so, and that Master von Puderlein sent you; and if you are hungry and thirsty, call for something to eat and a glass of Ofener or Klosteruenburger; after which you may remain quiet till I come home, and tell you further what I design for you. Adieu!"
Therewith Master Wenzel Puderlein rolled himself out of the door, and Joseph stood awhile with his hair admirably well dressed, but a little disconcerted, in the middle of his chamber. When he had collected his thoughts at length, he gave thanks with tears to God, who had inclined the heart of his generous protector toward him, and put an end to his bitter necessity; then he gathered, as Puderlein had told him, his few clothes and many musical notes together, dressed himself carefully in his best, shut up his chamber, and after he had taken leave, not without emotion, of the rich Metastasio, walked away cheerfully and confidently, his heart full of joy and his head full of new melodies, toward the Leopoldstadt and the house of his patron.
III.
When young Von Swieten came half an hour later to ask for the young composer, Signor Metastasio could not inform him where "Giuseppe" had gone. How many hours of despondency did this forgetfulness on the part of the renowned poet prepare for the poor, unknown, yet incomparably greater artist, Haydn!
When Joseph, after a long walk, stood at length before Puderlein's house, he experienced some novel sensations, which may have been consequent on the thought that he was to introduce himself to a young lady and converse with her; an idea which, from his constitutional bashfulness and his ignorance of the world, was rather formidable to him. But the step must be taken, nevertheless. He summoned all his courage and knocked at the door. It was opened, and a handsome damsel of eighteen or nineteen presented herself before the trembling young man.
In great embarrassment he faltered forth his compliments and his message from Master Wenzel. The pretty Nanny listened to him with an expression of pleasure, and of sympathy for the forlorn condition of her visitor. When he had ended, she took him by the hand, to his no small terror, without the least embarrassment, and led him into the parlor, saying in insinuating tones, "Come in, Master Haydn; it is all right. I am sure my papa means well with you; for he concerns himself for every dunce he meets, and would take a poor wretch in for having only good hair on his head! But you must give in to his humors a little; for he is sometimes a trifle peculiar. Now tell me, what will you have? Do not be bashful; it is a good while since noon, and you must be hungry from your long walk."
Joseph could not deny that such was the case, and modestly asked for a piece of bread and a glass of water. Nanny, laughing, tripped out of the room. Ere long she returned, followed by an apprentice whom she had loaded with cold meats, a flask of wine, tumblers, etc. She arranged the table, filled Joseph's glass, and invited him to help himself to the cold pastry and whatever else awaited his choice. The youth fell to, timidly at first, then with more courage, till, after he had, at Nanny's persuasion, emptied a couple of glasses, he took heart to attack the cold meats more vigorously than he had done for a long time before; making the observation mentally that if Mademoiselle Nanny Puderlein was not quite as distingué and accomplished as his departed patroness, the honored Mademoiselle de Martinez, still, as far as youth, beauty, and polite manners were concerned, she would not suffer by a comparison with the most distinguished dames in Vienna. When Master Wenzel Puderlein came home an hour or two later, he found Joseph in high spirits, with sparkling eyes and cheeks like the rose, already more than half in love with the pretty Nanny.
Joseph Haydn lived thus many months in the house of Wenzel Puderlein, burgher and renowned friseur in the Leopoldstadt of Vienna, and not a man in the imperial city knew where the poor but gifted and well-educated artist and composer was gone. In vain he was sought by his few friends; in vain by young Von Swieten; in vain, at last, by Metastasio himself. Joseph had disappeared from Vienna without leaving a trace. Wenzel Puderlein kept his abode carefully concealed, and wondered and lamented, like the rest, over his loss, when his aristocratic customers, believing he knew every thing, asked him if he could give them any information as to what had become of Joseph. He thought he had good reason and undoubted right to exercise now the hitherto unpractised virtue of silence; because, as he said to himself, he only aimed at making Joseph the happiest man in the world!
Joseph cheerfully resigned himself to the purposes of his friend, and was only too happy to be able undisturbed to study Sebastian Bach's works, to try his skill in composing quartettos, to eat as much as he wanted, and, day after day, to see and chat with the fair Nanny. It never occurred to him to notice that he lived, in a manner, as a prisoner in Puderlein's house; that all day he was banished to the garden behind the dwelling or to his own snug chamber, and only permitted to go out in the evening with Wenzel and his daughter. It never occurred to him to wish for other acquaintances than their nearest neighbors, among whom he was known simply as "Master Joseph;" and he cheerfully delivered every Saturday to Master Wenzel the stipulated number of minuets, waltzes, etc., which he was ordered to compose. Puderlein carried the pieces regularly to a music-dealer in the Leopoldstadt, who paid him two convention-guilders for every full-toned minuet, and for other pieces in proportion. This money the hair-dresser conscientiously locked up in a chest, to use it, when the time should come, for Joseph's advantage. With this view, he inquired earnestly about Joseph's greater works, and whether he would not soon be prepared to produce something which would do him credit in the eyes of the more distinguished part of the public.
"Ah! yes, indeed," replied the young man. "This quartetto, when I shall have finished it, might be ventured before the public; for I hope to make something good of it. Yet what can I do? No publisher would take it, because I have no distinguished patron to whom I could dedicate it!"
"That will all come in time," said Puderlein, smiling. "Do you get the thing ready, yet without neglecting the dances."
Joseph went to work; yet every day he appeared more deeply in love with the pretty Nanny; and the damsel herself looked with very evident favor on the dark though handsome youth. Wenzel saw the progress of things with satisfaction; the lovers behaved with great propriety, and he suffered matters to go on in their own way, only interfering, with a little assumed surliness, if Joseph at any time forgot his tasks in idle talk, or Nanny her housekeeping.
But not with such eyes saw Mosjo Ignatz, Puderlein's journeyman and factotum hitherto; for he thought himself possessed of a prior claim to the love of Nanny. It was gall and wormwood to Ignatz to see Joseph and the fair girl together. He would often fain have interposed his powder-bag and curling-irons between them when he heard them singing tender duets; for Nanny had really a charming voice, was very fond of music, and was Joseph's zealous pupil in singing.
At length Ignatz could no longer endure the torments of jealousy. One morning he sought out the master of the house, to discover to him the secret of the lovers. How great was his astonishment when Master Wenzel, instead of falling into a violent passion and turning Joseph out of doors without further ado, replied, with a smile, that he was well pleased to have it so. In vain Ignatz urged his own prior claims to Nanny's favor, and the encouragement he had received from father and daughter. His pretensions were treated with the utmost scorn.
The journeyman declared he would instantly quit the hair-dresser's treacherous roof, and him and his periwig stock. He hastened to pack up his goods, demanded and received his wages, and left the house vowing vengeance against its inmates. Puderlein was incensed; Nanny laughed; Joseph sat in the garden, troubling himself about nothing but his quartetto, at which he was working.
Wenzel Puderlein saw the hour approaching when the attention of the imperial city, and of the world, would be directed to him as the protector and benefactor of a great musical genius. The dances Joseph had composed for the music-dealer in the Leopoldstadt were played again and again in the halls of the nobility. All praised the lightness, the sprightliness and grace that distinguished them; but all inquiries were vain, at the music-dealer's, respecting the name of the composer. None knew him, and Joseph himself had no idea what a sensation the pieces he had thrown off so easily created in the world. Master Wenzel, however, was well aware of it, and waited with impatience the completion of the first quartetto. At length the manuscript was ready. Puderlein received it, took it to the music publisher, and had it sent to press immediately, which the sums he had from time to time laid by for Joseph enabled him to do. Haydn, who was confident his protector would do every thing for his advantage, committed all to his hands; he commenced a new quartetto, and the old one was soon nearly forgotten.
They were not forgotten, however, by Mosjo Ignatz Schuppenpelz, who was continually on the watch to play Master Puderlein some ill trick. The opportunity soon offered; his new principal sent him one morning to dress the hair of the Baron von Fürnberg. Young Von Swieten chanced to be at the baron's house, and in the course of conversation mentioned the balls frequently given by Prince Esterhazy, and the delightful new dances by the unknown composer. In the warmth of his description the youth stepped up to the piano and began a piece which caused Ignatz to prick up his ears, for he recognized it too well; it was Nanny's favorite waltz, which Joseph had executed expressly for her.
"I would give fifty ducats," cried the baron, when Von Swieten had ended, "to know the name of the composer."
"Fifty ducats!" repeated Ignatz. "Your honor, I can tell your honor the name of the composer."
"If you can, and with certainty, the fifty ducats are yours," answered Fürnberg and Von Swieten.
"I can, your honor. It is Pepi Haydn."
"How? Joseph Haydn? How do you know? Speak!" cried both gentlemen to the friseur, who proceeded to inform them of Haydn's abode and seclusion in the house of Wenzel Puderlein; nor did the ex-journeyman lose the opportunity of be-powdering his ancient master plentifully with abuse as an old miser, a surly fool, and an arch tyrant.
"Horrible!" cried his auditors, when Ignatz had concluded his story. "Horrible! This old friseur makes the poor young man, hidden from all the world, labor to gratify his avarice, and keeps him prisoner! We must set him at liberty."
Ignatz assured the gentlemen they would perform a good deed by doing so; and informed them when it was likely Puderlein would be from home, so that they could find an opportunity of speaking alone with young Haydn. Young Von Swieten resolved to go that very morning, during the absence of Puderlein, to seek his favorite; and took Ignatz along with him. The hair-dresser was not a little elated to be seated opposite the baron, in a handsome coach, which drove rapidly toward Leopoldstadt. When they stopped before Puderlein's house, Ignatz remained in the coach, while the baron alighted, entered the house, and ran up stairs to the chamber before pointed out to him, where Joseph Haydn sat deep in the composition of a new quartetto.
Great was the youth's astonishment when he perceived his distinguished visitor. He did not utter a word, but kept bowing to the ground. Von Swieten, however, hesitated not to accost him with all the ardor of youth, and described the affliction of his friends (who they were Joseph knew not) at his mysterious disappearance. Then he spoke of the applause his compositions had received, and of the public curiosity to know who the admirable composer was and where he lived. "Your fortune is now made," concluded he. "The Baron von Fürnberg, a connoisseur, my father, I myself--we will all receive you; we will present you to Prince Esterhazy; so make ready to quit this house, and to escape, the sooner the better, from the illegal and unworthy tyranny of an avaricious periwig-maker."
Joseph knew not what to reply; for with every word of Von Swieten his astonishment increased. At length he faltered, blushing, "Your honor is much mistaken, if you think I am tyrannized over in this house; on the contrary, Master Puderlein treats me as his own son, and his daughter loves me as a brother. He took me in when I was helpless and destitute, without the means of earning my bread."
"Be that as it may," interrupted young Von Swieten impatiently, "this house is no longer your home; you must go into the great world under very different auspices, worthy of your talents. To-morrow the baron and I come to fetch you away." Therewith he embraced young Haydn with cordiality, quitted the house, and drove back to the city, while Joseph stood and rubbed his forehead, and hardly knew whether all was a dream or reality.
But the pretty Nanny, who, listening in the kitchen, had heard all, ran in grief and affright to meet her father when he came home, and told him every thing.
Puderlein was dismayed; but he soon collected himself, and commanded his daughter to follow him, and to put her handkerchief to her eyes.
Thus prepared, he went up to Haydn's chamber. Joseph, as soon as he heard him coming, opened the door and went to meet him, to inform him of the strange visit he had received.
But Puderlein pushed him back into the chamber, entered himself, followed by the weeping Nanny, and cried in a pathetic tone, "I know all; you have betrayed me, and are now going to leave me like a vagabond."
"Surely not, Master Puderlein. But listen to me."
"I will not listen! Your treachery is clear; your falsehood to me and to my daughter! O ingratitude! see here thine image. I loved this boy as my own son. I received him, when he was destitute, under my hospitable roof; clothed and fed him. I have dressed his hair with my own hands, and labored for his renown; and for my thanks, he has betrayed me and my innocent daughter!"
"Master Puderlein, listen to me. I will not be ungrateful; on the contrary, I will thank you all the days of my life for what you have done for me."
"And marry that girl?"
"Marry her?" repeated Joseph, astonished. "Marry her? I--your daughter?"
"Who else? Have you not told her she was handsome? that you liked her?"
"I have indeed; but--"
"No buts; you must marry her, or you are a shameless traitor! Think you a virtuous damsel of Vienna lets every callow bird tell her she is handsome and agreeable? My innocent Nanny thought you wished to marry her, and made up her mind honestly to have you. She loves you; and now will you desert her and leave her to grief and shame?"
Joseph stood in dejected silence. Puderlein continued, "And I--have I deserved such black ingratitude from you, eh? have I?" With these words, Master Wenzel drew forth a roll of paper, unfolded and held it up before the disconcerted Joseph, who uttered an exclamation of surprise as he read these words engraved on it, "Quartetto for two violins, bass viol, and violoncello. Composed by Master Joseph Haydn, performer and composer in Vienna. Vienna, 1751."
"Yes!" cried Puderlein, triumphantly, when he saw Haydn's joyful surprise--"yes, cry out and make your eyes as large as bullets. I did that; with the money I received in payment for your dances I paid for paper and press-work, that you might present the public with a great work. Still more: I have labored to such purpose among my customers of rank that you have the appointment of organist to the Carmelites. Here is your appointment. Now go, ingrate, and bring my daughter and me with sorrow to the grave."
Joseph went not; with tears in his eyes he threw himself into Puderlein's arms, who struggled and resisted vigorously, as if he would have repelled him. But Joseph held him fast, saying, "Master Puderlein! listen to me! There is no treachery in me! Let me call you father; give me Nanny for my wife."
Master Wenzel was at last quiet. He sank exhausted into an arm-chair, and cried to the young couple, "Come hither, my children; kneel before me, that I may give you my blessing. This evening shall be the betrothal, and a month hence we will have the wedding."
Joseph and Nanny knelt down and received the paternal benediction. All was festivity in No. 7, on the Danube, that evening, when the organist, Joseph Haydn, was solemnly betrothed to the fair Nanny, the daughter of Wenzel Puderlein, burgher and proprietor in the Leopoldstadt in Vienna.
The Baron Von Fürnberg and young Von Swieten were not a little astonished, when they came the next morning to take Haydn from Puderlein's house, to find him affianced to the pretty Nanny. They remonstrated with him earnestly in private; but Joseph remained immovable, and kept his word, pledged to Puderlein and his bride, like an honorable young man.
At a later period he had reason to acknowledge that the step he had taken was somewhat precipitate; but he never repented it, and consoled himself, when his earthly muse caused a little discord among his tones, with the companionship of that immortal partner, ever lovely, ever young, who attends the skilful artist through life, and who proved herself so true to him that the name of Joseph Haydn shall, after the lapse of centuries, be pronounced with joyful and sacred emotion by our latest posterity.
FROM THE REVUE DU MONDE CATHOLIQUE.
A SKETCH OF THE IRISH VOLUNTEERS.
BY COUNT FRANK RUSSELL KILLOUGH, LATE OF THE PONTIFICAL ARMY.
It was worthy of Catholic Ireland, that noble daughter of the church, which has preserved intact the faith of St. Patrick in the midst of struggles, trials, and persecutions of every kind, to send to the pope a legion of her sons to fight beside the generous volunteers whom every vessel brought from France, Belgium, Germany, and Switzerland. As my thoughts revert, after an interval of eight years, to this noble band, whose organization I superintended temporarily, I love to recall the great natural qualities which redeemed their defects, and, despite their disorders and uproar, and their incessant quarrels, won for the Irish the admiration of Lamoricière, and merited the approval of the pope, who, after the crisis, desired to form around him a guard of these valiant soldiers, these indomitable heroes, these Catholics faithful to the death.
Unfortunately, in the midst of the fatigues and excitement of this period, amid marches and countermarches, orders and countermands, it was impossible for me to keep a journal of the thousand and one strange incidents, daily events, interesting or amusing, of which I was a witness; indeed, they would furnish Alexander Dumas abundant matter for dramas and endless tales. I must limit myself to those scenes which have left the deepest impression on my memory.
The 30th of May, 1860, found me in garrison in a small hamlet on the frontiers of Tuscany, Titta della Pieve, situated some leagues from Lake Trasimene, famous for the struggle between Hannibal and the Romans, which took place upon its border. Thence a sudden order despatched me to Macerata, a small town of the Adriatic Marches, where I was to organize the Irish Legion. Already a hundred and fifty recruits had arrived, and the order was couched in terms admitting of no delay. I left with regret, for in this little hamlet I had found a family, whose hospitality had touched me. It was that of the gonfalonnier.
The young matron, simple in her tastes, well educated, and handsome as Italians naturally are, had undertaken by her kindness to make us forget the ungracious reception which our uniform had won for us in Perugian society. And in this she manifested not only sound judgment and education, but also rare courage, at this dangerous time, when the least respect toward a pontifical officer merited the stroke of the assassin's dagger. A little later, I was to find her in Rome, proscribed for her fidelity by a violent, iniquitous, and vindictive government. Will she be able to return to her home despite the cruel vexations to which she has been exposed? I know not, and dare not hope any thing of Piedmontese mercy. Could I separate myself from that noble Swiss regiment, dear for so many reasons, beneath the shadow of whose flag I for the first time drew my sword for the pope? Alas! I was obliged to quit for a long time, perhaps, my brethren in arms, whose friendship had become a pleasure and encouragement and even a necessity, to find in a new corps new associates; and this at the moment when great events were vaguely rumored, when each could foresee the necessity of all that was dear to brace up against the storm, whose distant echoes were already to be heard. But military obedience exacted this sacrifice. I left early on the following morning, and, after escaping an attack on the diligence by twelve masked brigands, in the gorges of the Apennines, I arrived at Macerata on June 1st.
I immediately received a visit from the almoner of the volunteers, whose appearance deserves particular description.
He was an Irish Franciscan father, and by his lofty stature and sonorous eloquence reminded me of the portrait of the great O'Connell, which in my childhood I had seen traced by enthusiastic admirers of his oratory. When Father Bonaventure appeared in the midst of the recruits, the men made way for him respectfully. One of them had been guilty of some breach of discipline. The priest spoke sweetly to him, and a few words of tender severity brought tears to the eyes of the offender. Indeed, this monk, with his lofty brow and stately gait, his coarse habit falling in ample folds from his massive shoulders, was well calculated to impress these children of nature, at once simple but keen, enthusiastic but fickle, good in heart but hasty in character, on whom the priest alone has fitted the yoke of authority.
I immediately saw the necessity of establishing the best possible relations with this influential man. The preliminaries of our conversation being ended, he said, "My dear captain, will you--"
"Pardon me, reverend father, but you give me a title to which I have no right. I am only a lieutenant."
"Why, captain dear, this will never do. I have announced to the recruits the arrival of their captain; they are prepared to receive you, and all the prestige of your authority will be lost if they find that you are only a lieutenant. No; permit me without offence to attribute to you the rank to which you won't be long coming, if all that I have heard of you be true."
"You flatter me infinitely, and I am much obliged for your high opinion; but as we have many things to do, let us save our compliments for some future occasion, and look at the men, whom I must inspect without delay."
"Immediately, mon cher commandant--"
"Still another thing, Monsieur l'Aumonier--"
"They are in the barracks, and I will present you to them. Come with me; these good fellows await you with impatience, and I hope you will be pleased with them. Remember, you are captain."
I found the recruits, about a hundred and fifty in number, ranged in two lines along the vast corridor, and I must confess that my first impression was not favorable. They were for the most part ragged, evidently fatigued by the long voyage. A long bench stood before them.
"We must remove this bench," said I to the priest. "It will be in the way during my inspection."
"Not a bit of it, captain dear," he answered; "on the contrary, it will assist wonderfully for the ceremony of your presentation. You are shorter than I, and my height destroys the effect that you ought to produce, (he was six feet eight inches in stature.) Get up on that bench, and you will appear as tall as I, and your prestige will increase proportionally."
"All right, reverend father; here goes for the bench. You are a decided master of scenic art."
I acted on his advice, and mounted my platform, while the chaplain prepared his countenance and attitude for the grand discourse that was to follow. He waited for silence, and, when he saw all eyes directed toward me and all ears open to him,
"Boys," he said, swinging with majestic movement the loose sleeves of his habit, "welcome this happy day, the object of your ardent desires, on which you will enjoy the honor of enrolling yourselves in the army of the sovereign pontiff, and on which your names, children of St. Patrick, will be inscribed on the great list of the defenders of the papacy. You see before you, at this moment, the representative of that august sovereign for whom your Irish and Catholic hearts beat with filial love. Welcome with acclamations him whom God has sent us--the illustrious Captain Russell," (here he laid his heavy hand on my head as if he wished to flatten it,) "the noble descendant of your ancient kings, the worthy nephew of the gallant Marshal McMahon, the hero of Perugia, into whose hands I gladly resign the authority which I have hitherto exercised. Now, boys, from the bottom of your throats, hurrah for Captain Russell."
"Hurrah for the captain!" shouted the hundred and fifty.
"And you, captain," (here he turned his great, benevolent eyes toward me,) "whom the pope has invested with the powers of commander until the arrival of their regular chief, consider in the goodness of your heart the devotion of these true sons of Ireland, who, abandoning their homes and families, came through fatigues, dangers, and privations, over mountains and seas, to place at your disposal their lives, their strength, and their heart's blood."
I answered this harangue as well as I could, giving with all my might a hurrah for the pope, which was repeated along the line; then, descending from my pedestal, I shook warmly the hand of the reverend chaplain, to testify publicly my trust in him, and, after the inspection, occupied myself immediately in forming the companies. Alas! the first act of my administration was unlucky, and showed that my brains were not equal to the organization of an Irish regiment.
Having learned from the chaplain that the recruits of different provinces mutually entertained profound jealousy, I thought I would succeed well in putting all the Dublin men in one company and all the Kerry men in another. This disposition having been made, I assigned to each of the companies one or more apartments of the barracks, and ordered them to take immediate possession of their quarters.
This order, simple in appearance, was the occasion of a prodigious storm; and you would be long divining its cause.
While the Dublin men executed my order without delay and betook themselves quietly to their quarters on the upper story, the Kerry men, on the contrary, gathered in several noisy groups under the conduct of as many leaders, as if they did not understand the orders, and finally declared point blank that they would not obey them.
"Peste, Monsieur l'Aumonier," said I to the chaplain, who observed with a certain anxiety the disturbance which was brewing, "if things begin thus, they do not augur well for the future."
"Wait a bit, captain, before dealing harshly with the culpable. Let me find out the motives of their resistance."
"All right, father. I await your rendering an account of them."
The monk stepped firmly up to the mutineers and endeavored to speak with them.
"We want the upper floor! We'll have the top floor!" was the only answer he received.
"But, boys, the upper floor is no better than the lower."
"We want the upper! The Kerry lads are not made to be stowed away on the ground-floor."
"For mercy's sake, listen to reason, or else the captain--"
"Down wid Dublin! Kerry for ever!"
The monk returned, pale as death, to explain the cause of the tumult.
The volunteers from "county Kerry," whose blood is proverbially warm, were indignant because I had quartered them on the ground-floor, while the Dublin lads occupied the upper story; wherefore they were determined not to budge until this insult was repaired and Kerry vindicated.
"But, reverend father, the order is given, and cannot be revoked without compromising my dignity. Try to point out to me the leaders; I will have them arrested. As to the others--"
"Ah! captain, remember their inexperience of discipline."
"That is the very reason why I wish to be severe with the leaders."
I had the leaders of the disturbance arrested, and, on seeing this, the remainder quietly dispersed and occupied without further difficulty their allotted barracks.
"Boys," said I, going among them, "the leaders who have brought you astray are scoundrels, whom I am going to punish. They have trifled wickedly with that proud sentiment of rivalry which does honor to the different provinces of Ireland. Keep this sentiment of noble jealousy, of just emulation, keep it for the field of battle, where you can make better use of it than here."
"Hurrah for the pope! hurrah for the chaplain! hurrah for the captain!"
A few days later, on a beautiful afternoon in June, the detachment of volunteers from Limerick arrived. They numbered about two hundred, conducted like the others by their chaplain, a man at once indefatigable and full of courage, whose almost juvenile ardor was irresistibly communicated to his companions.
I thought that these brave men, fatigued by a long journey and numerous privations, deserved to be well treated by that pope to whom they came thus to offer their arms and blood. Hence, I had prepared for them at the barracks fresh straw mattresses and warm soup, and, having made these arrangements, went forward to meet them on the road to Ancona.
Confused cries and sounding hurrahs soon announced the approach of the column. I presented myself to the new almoner, whom I recognized by his long black coat and high gaiters. At once he gave a prodigious hurrah for the pope, which was instantly repeated by the two hundred volunteers with an enthusiasm of which the pure races are alone capable. At the same time they brandished enormous cudgels, which served them alike as walking-sticks and weapons, and with which each man had provided himself before quitting his native parish.
It would be difficult to portray the terror which such scenes produced on the peaceful inhabitants of the town, little accustomed to such noisy demonstrations. They always avoided meeting the Ollandesi, as they then ignorantly termed them--the Verdoni, (canary color, half green and half yellow,) as they afterward called them, from the colors of their uniform. The women were content to gaze timidly from the windows at these strange guests; the urchins alone, braver or more frolicsome, escorted the newly-arrived, and strove to keep step with these giants of the north, four times as great as themselves.
During the bombardment of Ancona, which lasted six days, I occupied with the fourth Irish company a bastion of the intrenched camp, situated on a height which commanded the city and the defence from the land side. For some days we had nothing to shelter us; and to add to the annoyance, the earth having been lately turned for the works ordered by the general, the first rain changed it to thick mud. On this couch my men had to sleep, with naught above them save the arch of heaven. Nevertheless, they did not complain, as I might have expected from their previous conduct, and they remained the whole night exposed to a driving rain on this wet soil without uttering one complaint, so much had the sight of the enemy excited their ardor and developed their military virtues. Strange! It had only required a few bomb-shells to change these peasants, so untractable the evening before, into sober, patient, and warlike soldiers, ready for all sacrifices. Every afternoon, about five o'clock, the bombardment ceased, as if by agreement, and then commenced the most original scene which can be imagined.
In the midst of the terreplein of my bastion they kindled a fire, and grouped themselves pell-mell around it, just as chance arranged them, soldiers, non-commissioned and commissioned officers. For the latter seats of honor were reserved, consisting principally of inverted wheel-barrows, water-buckets, and old pieces of lumber. The pipes struck up, the gourds of brandy passed from hand to hand, and tongues were unloosed; and as the day had been more or less exciting, so was the conversation animated. One of a dramatic turn, endowed with a long and neglected beard and draped majestically in some old cloak, recited with upraised hands some scene of mighty Shakespeare. Another, somewhat younger, sung tenderly a national air, a sweet melody of the poet Moore. I have always remembered one of these touching ballads, and cannot resist giving it here:
"Rich and rare were the gems she wore, And a bright gold ring on her wand she bore; But oh! her beauty was far beyond Her sparkling gems or snow-white wand.
"'Lady, dost thou not fear to stray, So lone and lovely, through this bleak way? Are Erin's sons so good or so cold As not to be tempted by woman or gold?'
"'Sir knight! I feel not the least alarm; No son of Erin will offer me harm; For though they love woman and golden store, Sir knight, they love honor and virtue more!'
"On she went, and her maiden smile In safety lighted her round the green isle, And blest for ever is she who relied On Erin's honor and Erin's pride."
Another, an inhabitant of the mountains, began some interminable legend, in which the ghosts of his ancestors played an important part. Sighs and cries of joy accompanied the recital, broken only by the monotonous "All's well," which the sentries on the parapet passed from one end of the camp to the other. All listened, awed, wonder-stricken, and transported in spirit to the hearths which they had left, and around which they had often kept joyous vigil by the light of the burning turf. Fortunately, no inopportune shell came from the enemy's batteries to cast its lurid glare over the joyous group or glitter on the beard of the singer. O pure and romantic natures! Oh! what a natural poesy and gayety surrounds this race, which we are wont to cover with a cloud of melancholy sadness. Were I to live a hundred years, I could not efface the vivid remembrance of those noisy vigils at Bastion No. 8, at the bombardment of Ancona in 1860.
Momentary enthusiasm was their great motive power. Whoever knew how to excite them, could obtain from them whatever he wished. And then, to see the play of their chests, their arms and shoulders; they seemed like so many Vulcans. The heaviest weights, which an Italian could scarcely move, gun-carriages, shell, beams, blocks of stone, they raised without difficulty, and, placing them on their stalwart shoulders, carried them with the greatest ease, one after another. From this I derived much benefit in a critical situation.
The Piedmontese having, half by surprise and half by main force, seized one of the outposts of Monte Pelago, and having there posted a battery, whence a raking fire entirely commanded the bastion which I occupied, I saw that, in order to protect my men, I must construct a traverse in the midst of the bastion. But how remove the earth? How perform all the necessary work under the fire whose balls rained among us and whistled unpleasantly in our ears? Fortune favored me; a heavy rain storm interrupted the bombardment.
"To work, boys! to work!" I cried. "In three hours you must raise twelve feet in length of a traverse, eight feet high, five feet thick at the top, and ten at the bottom, which will withstand every thing they may send from Monte Pelago. Here, you terrace-makers, come on with your picks and shovels. And you, Sergeant Tongue--you are a master carpenter; dress these logs and slabs for me, to make a frame for the work. In this manner, by God's grace, we will get ready a traverse that would keep the devil out, even if we had not the Pope with us. To work, boys! to work!"
In a few hours we had the bastion sheltered from the fire of the enemy. Alas! my poor traverse, fruit of such generous labor, we did not keep you long. In fact, the following day all was over, unfortunately ended; Bastion No. 8, along with all the others, passed into the hands of the enemy.
I did not take part in the defence of Spoleto, that feat of arms so glorious for the Irish Legion; but after seeing these volunteers at the bombardment of Ancona, I can easily imagine what must have been that struggle of twenty-four hours of their two companies against ten thousand Piedmontese.
An old cannon of heavy calibre, for many years laid aside as condemned, was buried in a corner of the fortress. Instantly it was extricated from the débris, transported by main force to a height whence it commanded the enemy, and mounted on a gun-carriage; and the rusty old piece, astonished at its resurrection, killed more men on that one day than during the entire century of its past existence.
A decayed, half-ruined gate afforded an entrance into the citadel. The enemy directed their efforts against it. The athletic sons of St. Patrick fell to work, and in an hour it was braced up and barricaded with gabions, and firmly resisted two successive assaults of the enemy's column.
I could cite twenty instances of this kind, where heroic courage joined to prodigious muscular strength worked miracles. But if a more prosaic example will suffice to form an idea of the strength of these iron limbs, I would add, softly and not without a slight blush, that during the period of my command I never saw a guard-house door which could resist their opposing efforts more than two hours, however well bolted it might be. After the iniquitous bombardment, which did not respect the white flag floating over all the works of the citadel and fort, our general capitulated, and we were obliged to abandon the place. The departure was very trying, and I cannot recall without grief the humiliation of that disastrous day. I do not wish to speak of it, nor could I do so without bitter tears; but it gives me pleasure to remember a spirited act of the Irish Legion.
It was six o'clock in the evening; our companies, of which I commanded the last, marched in close column, flanked, alas! by a line of Piedmontese, who, I must admit, had more regard for our misfortune than the dastardly population of the city. We passed gloomily the gate which leads to the Porta Pia, quickening our step as much as the escort would allow, when some of my men came to me. "Captain," said they, "we have come to say that Ireland will blush for her children if she learns that we abandoned this city without bidding a last adieu to the pope; we ask permission to salute him after our fashion at this last moment."
"I understand; be quiet for a moment, and Ireland will be content with you and with me."
A few moments after this, we reached the boundary of the suburbs. As the last man passed the gates of this unfortunate city, judging the moment opportune for the execution of our project, I gave with all the strength of my voice a last hurrah.
"Hurrah for the pope!" shouted all in unison. The walls, the city, the gate, even the ocean itself, were shaken. To paint the astonishment of our guards would be impossible. They consulted together for an explanation of what had just occurred. Finally, I heard a sous-officer say to his neighbor,
"Lasiamo fare, sono Irlandesi! Bah! these are Irishmen; of what use is it to trouble yourselves about their savage cries?"
Such was our departure from Ancona, on the 29th of September, 1860, and such the solemn adieu of the Irish Legion to the pontifical soil.
NEW PUBLICATIONS.
THE LITERATURE OF THE AGE OF ELIZABETH. By Edwin P. Whipple. Boston: Fields, Osgood & Co. 1869.
The volume of essays bearing this title is a contribution to our critical literature by a writer who is, perhaps, the best of American critics. If "to see things as they really are" is, as Matthew Arnold says, the end and office of true criticism, Mr. Whipple, we think, is in literary matters fairly entitled to the distinction we have mentioned; and although we are far from having in this country such critics as Taine, or St. Beuve, or even Arnold himself, it is one which, in these days of improved and improving literary taste among Americans, is real and desirable.
The essays in the present volume, written originally to be delivered as lectures before the Lowell Institute, and then published during the years 1867 and 1868 in the Atlantic Monthly, are upon those subjects in which he is most at home, and appears always at his best. He is an enthusiastic and thoroughly appreciative student of English literature, and though, as the authors and the works which form the topics of these essays have been long ago thoroughly discussed by such critics as Lamb, Hazlitt, and Leigh Hunt, the critical scholar will find but little strikingly new in the book, he cannot fail to derive pleasure and profit from many things in it which are preëminently suggestive, and from the greater clearness and precision which many of his previous ideas will gather.
The most striking characteristic of Mr. Whipple in these essays is the masterly manner in which he connects the work with the author. He deals less with words than with things; less even with ideas than with mind. He presents to us especially the mental characteristics, the habits of thought and feeling--in a word, the inner self of the author of whom he is treating. From a careful study of the works he has traced the man, and he gives us now the result; and using the works for illustration and proof, asks us if they are not the expression of the individual character which he has drawn. Thus, it is the arrogant and conceited Jonson, the bitter and misanthropic Marston, the "one-souled, myriad-minded" Shakespeare, rather than arrogance, misanthropy, or universality in their writings, that he portrays by his criticism.
The book manifests also Mr. Whipple's usual independence, which prevents him from becoming the slavish admirer of any author, however great, and his innate love of moral purity, which he shows especially in his criticisms upon the dramatists.
Its style is marked by that wonderful control of language and facility of expression for which Mr. Whipple has always been distinguished. But we think it bears evidence of the object for which the essays were originally prepared--delivery as popular lectures. Such a sentence as we give below seems to us to detract from the dignity of style which we might rightfully expect in the author. Referring to Jonson's brief occupation as a mason, Mr. Whipple says:
"We have no means of deciding whether or not Ben was foolish enough to look upon his trade as degrading; that it was distasteful we know, from the fact that he soon exchanged the trowel for the sword, and we hear no more of his dealing with bricks, if we may except his questionable habit of carrying too many in his hat."
Such things as this, which occur more or less frequently throughout the book, might have been advantageously omitted when Mr. Whipple transferred his essays from the judgment of a mixed audience at a lecture-hall, to that of the readers of a book which will be likely to find its way only into the hands of those who are interested in its subject. But, as a general rule, he uses allusions and anecdotes appositely and well, and gains much sprightliness and vivacity in treating of subjects which might otherwise appear somewhat dull to the general reader by witty and humorous illustrations.
He has also shown a singular felicity of expression in many phrases and figures which seem to embody the result of a careful study of the author, and by them he often succeeds in conveying in one condensed and vivid sentence more of the essential idea of his criticism than he could have done in pages of elaborate discussion. Thus, speaking of Jonson's tragedies, he says:
"They seem written with his fist."
Of Chapman he says:
"Often we feel his meaning rather than apprehend it. The imagery has the indefiniteness of distant objects seen by moonlight."
And of Spenser:
"In truth, the combining, coördinating, centralizing, fusing imagination of the highest order of genius--an imagination competent to seize and hold such a complex design as our poet contemplated, and to flash in brief and burning words details over which his description lovingly lingers--this was a power denied to Spenser. He has auroral lights in profusion, but no lightning."
Mr. Whipple's work seems to us more peculiarly valuable in the discussion of the minor dramatists and poets of the time--authors who are comparatively unknown to the general mass of readers. But these writers are neglected only on account of the great wealth of genius in which the age abounded. Their real brilliancy appears only as darkness by the side of the overpowering light of Shakespeare and Jonson, Spenser and Bacon. We hope that many will be induced by this book to cultivate an acquaintance with the works of the men of whom it treats, and we have the more expectation that this will be so from the fact that not its least praiseworthy characteristic is the care and good taste with which the extracts from these authors, by which Mr. Whipple illustrates his criticisms, have been made. We can only regret that they have been so sparingly introduced.
The author's treatment and discussion of Bacon's genius, and his claim to be the founder of the inductive philosophy, are unsatisfactory to our mind; but this subject involves a question into which it is impossible to enter in this notice.
We regret that we cannot take leave of this pleasant and on the whole admirable book without being obliged to say, that though it is by no means dangerous, it is often annoying to the Catholic reader. Mr. Whipple seems to be imbued with that prejudice and unfairness which is so common in English and American literature when alluding to the church, and in several places by slight words and phrases expresses that sneering contempt in which authors of his "liberal and tolerant" views are so apt to indulge toward those who differ from them in belief. We think, too, that in his introductory chapter he gives altogether too much prominence to the "Reformation" as a means of intellectual awakening. The so-called Reformation may indeed have been partially, and in a peculiar sense, a result of the intellectual ferment of the time--an unhappy and deplorable result--but it was not one of its causes, as the author seems to think. Those lie further back, in those other great events which Mr. Whipple names--the revival of classical learning, the invention of printing, and the discovery of America; events which he and his class of writers would do well often to remind themselves were brought about by loyal and devout Catholics.
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THE WRITINGS OF MADAME SWETCHINE. Edited by Count de Falloux of the French Academy. Translated by H. W. Preston. New York: The Catholic Publication Society, 126 Nassau street. 1869.
The Life and Letters of Madame Swetchine, published some eighteen months since, might dispense us from any more special mention of her Writings than to say that she is in both works well and eloquently portrayed as a character "destined to hold a front place among the most powerful, original, pure, and fascinating revealed in all history."
Madame Swetchine was of aristocratic birth, very wealthy, accomplished, and even learned. Better than all these, she was liberal in ideas, the friend of the poor and lowly, modest, humble, and pious. The greatest minds of the age--De Maistre, De Bonald, Cuvier, Frayssinous, De Falloux, De Broglie, Lacordaire, and Montalembert--sought her friendship and hung upon her words. And yet even such homage as this never inspired her with the slightest literary vanity or worldly ambition. She wrote much, but never for publication. She never specially preserved what she wrote, never desired to. The material of the book before us, collected after her death by her executor, Count de Falloux, of the French Academy, was written without any fixed plan, at various periods, upon loose leaves in a rapid, illegible hand, most of it in pencil. The manuscript was distributed among several of her literary friends, with whom it was a labor of love to arrange and prepare it for the press.
Rarely has unpublished writing had so bright a constellation of posthumous interpreters. The "Thoughts" are arranged by the Abbé de Cazalès and Count Jules de Berton; "Old Age," by Count Paul Resseguier; "Resignation," by Count Albert De Resseguier and Prince A. Galitzin.
The general title "Writings" is eminently proper here, as Madame Swetchine never entertained the premeditation implied by the term "works." They are marked by a knowledge of the world, a philosophical range of thought, a purity of soul, and an elevation of piety rarely united in one person. Here are a few of her scattered "Thoughts," which we take almost at random:
"Loyalty is patriotism simplified."
"I like people to be saints; but I want them to be first, and superlatively, honest men."
"The root of sanctity is sanity. A man must be healthy before he can be holy. We bathe first, and then perfume."
"We forgive too little--forget too much."
"Good is slow; it climbs. Evil is swift; it descends. Why should we marvel that it makes great progress in a short time?"
"We must labor unceasingly to render our piety reasonable, and our reason pious."
"Years do not make sages; they only make old men."
"Antiquity is a species of aristocracy with which it is not easy to be on visiting terms."
"The choicest of the public are not always the public choice."
"The inventory of my faith for this lower world is soon made out. I believe in Him who made it."
"I allow the Catholic only one right; that, namely, of being a better man than others."
"Only those faults which we encounter in ourselves are insufferable to us in others."
"A vast number of attachments subsist on the common hatred of a third person."
The treatise on old age is a classic Christian De Senectute, with an elevation and morality impossible to Cicero.
The Airelles (flowers that ripen under the snow) are a series of beautiful reflections, as remarkable for their strength as for their delicacy. They are utterances which sprang from Madame Swetchine's own heart, but reached no other; impressions which clothed themselves in images to people her solitude. Here are a few which we select with hesitation, as we must necessarily confine our choice to the shortest:
"To have ideas is to gather flowers. To think is to weave them into garlands."
"Our vanity is the constant enemy of our dignity."
"The chains which cramp us most are those which weigh on us least."
"O widow's mite! why hast thou not, in human balances, the immense weight which celestial pity accords thee?"
"Travel is the frivolous part of serious lives, and the serious part of frivolous ones."
"We are always looking into the future, but we see only the past."
"We are often prophets to others only because we are our own historians."
"We are early struck by bold conceptions and brilliant thoughts; later, we learn to appreciate natural grace and the charm of simplicity. In early youth, we are hardly sensible of any but very lively emotions. All that is not dazzling appears dull; all that is not affecting, cold. Conspicuous beauties overshadow those which must be sought; and the mind, in its haste to enjoy, demands facile pleasures. Ripe age inspires us with other thoughts. We retrace our steps; taste critically what, before, we devoured; study, and make discoveries; and the ray of light, decomposed under our hands, yields a thousand shades for one color."
"Slavery, for example. Christianity has no need to ordain its abolition--it inspires it; and that is enough for the man who would be governed by the spirit of Christ. It is the imperfect reception of Christianity in the soul which allows slavery to continue; and truth has made no progress unless human bondage has been rendered impossible by its advance. To combat slavery solely from a philanthropic point of view, is too often to lose one's labor, for lust and cupidity mount guard over the system; but to encourage, develop, and stimulate the moral element most antagonistic to human bondage is to accelerate the chances of emancipation, and to multiply them a hundred-fold."
There are various other chapters, comprising a remarkable range of subjects--on the soul, the intellect, on nature, courtesy, music, the fine arts, on resignation, the world, the affections, etc.
The translation is well executed by Miss Harriet W. Preston, and the typography and paper are excellent.
* * * * *
CATHOLIC DOCTRINE, AS DEFINED BY THE COUNCIL OF TRENT, EXPOUNDED IN A SERIES OF CONFERENCES, DELIVERED IN GENEVA. By the Rev. A. Nampon, S.J. Proposed as a means of reuniting all Christians. Translated from the French, with the approbation of the author, by a member of the University of Oxford. Philadelphia: Peter F. Cunningham. 1869.
We know of no work recently issued by the American Catholic press whose appearance we more cordially welcome than this of Father Nampon's, Catholic Doctrine, as defined by the Council of Trent. It is truly a book for the times; and we unite with the most Rev. Archbishop of Baltimore, whose approbation, together with that of the Archbishops of New York and Cincinnati, and of the Bishop of Philadelphia, it bears, in expressing the conviction that "it is well calculated to do a great amount of good," and the "hope that it may be extensively circulated." When the illustrious Bossuet gave to the world his incomparable work on Catholic doctrine in contrast with "Protestant Variations," Protestantism was but in its seed-time; and the harvest of errors, which it has since so abundantly brought forth, had scarcely begun to show itself. Since then, to use the words of the author of the book before us, "How many new variations and divisions have appeared among Protestants! What ruins has the explosion of rationalism scattered on that desolated plain! And what weakness has been produced in that which yet remains among them of Christian belief! How many doctrines, at that time respected, are now thrown aside with contempt in the exercise of private judgment! How much has the authority of Scripture been shaken! To what an extent have the sublime mysteries of the Trinity, the Incarnation, and, indeed, all mystery, all notions of the supernatural, become, in the eyes of an ever-increasing number of those who heretofore were Christians, superannuated, absurd, mythological ideas!"
But the author of the present volume does not propose to himself to add to the work of the great Bossuet--to be a continuator of the history of the variations. He adopts a different method. Translating and setting before the reader the definitions and decrees of the sacred Council of Trent, whose work was called forth by, and mainly directed against the errors of the so-called Reformers, or to which their revolt against the church's authority had given rise, he first expounds the true Catholic doctrine impugned by them, and then contrasts with it the ever-varying opinions and fading beliefs which they undertook to substitute for that doctrine. And this is done so clearly and eloquently, and yet so kindly withal, that his book may be specially commended to the Protestant reader, as one wherein he will find Catholic doctrine set forth in its verity, and Protestant error in its deformity, without occasion given to take offence. May it fall into the hands of many such readers; and may its perusal be to them, as was happily the case with the excellent translator of the book, the occasion of their recognizing the verity of Catholic doctrine, and of their conversion to the Catholic Church!
The volume is got out in a handsome dress, as are all of Mr. Cunningham's later publications.
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MAN IN GENESIS AND IN GEOLOGY; OR, THE BIBLICAL ACCOUNT OF MAN'S CREATION, TESTED BY SCIENTIFIC THEORIES OF HIS ORIGIN AND ANTIQUITY. By Joseph P. Thompson, D.D., LL.D. New-York: Samuel R. Wells, 389 Broadway. 1870.
This is a short treatise of considerable value, showing both research and a power of clear reasoning on the part of the author. To a very great extent we concur with his conclusions and opinions, and altogether in his estimate of the importance and utility of such investigations. The student of biblical science will find his book useful to a greater extent than its unpretending size and appearance would indicate; and its general effect, so far as it is circulated in the ordinary reading community, must be wholesome, as furnishing an antidote to the pseudo-scientific trash which is such a common article of intellectual diet in our day. The lack of a sufficient authority to define what is revealed with certainty prevents the author from affirming with due assurance some revealed verities, such as the unity of the race, and brings down his argument too much to a mere balancing of probabilities, a defect which is inherent in modern popular theology and philosophy. He makes also an over-estimate of the value of material progress in itself, and its effect on the sum of human happiness. Like most Protestant ministers, he is unable to keep from betraying his uneasiness in regard to Protestantism by bringing in the confident but groundless and unproved assertion that it is the mainspring of all modern civilization, science, and progress. Dr. Ewer has fully shown the fallacy of all such assumptions, which, at all events, are quite irrelevant to Genesis and geology, and would be more appropriately put forth by the author in his sermons than in a scientific treatise. There are other things which are out of keeping with the solid, scholarly character of the best portion of the book, betraying haste and a lack of care and finish in the composition. With these deductions, we gladly acknowledge our obligations to the learned author for a really valuable contribution to sacred literature.
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A CRITIQUE UPON MR. FFOULKES'S LETTER. By H. I. D. Ryder, of the Oratory. London: Longmans.
Mr. Ffoulkes's unfortunate pamphlet is completely pulverized by this short, pithy, and complete reply. Dr. Ward and F. Bottalla have also performed the same task, each in his own way, and we cannot but commiserate any one who falls into the hands of such a trio. We look upon Mr. Ffoulkes as a man who has some very good points, and who has shown a temper of mind and heart inclining us to judge his mistakes very leniently. His pamphlet is tedious, crude, inconsistent, and utterly without any logical or historical basis. It is, nevertheless, a fair reflex of the state of mind in which many Anglicans are at present detained, so that it is well calculated to do a great amount of mischief. Refutations of it are, therefore, not a superfluous work, but a very useful one. We are glad that F. Ryder has answered Mr. Ffoulkes, for the reason above given; but, apart from this, we are glad to see any thing on theological topics from his pen. In our opinion he has shown more of the true genius of theology than any other of the rising young authors in the Catholic Church of England, except, perhaps, Fr. Bottalla, who is without his equal in his manner of handling the controversy respecting the papal supremacy. F. Ryder is a deep student in certain departments of theology which lie below the surface presented in the common text-books; he is uncommonly discriminating and judicious, and possesses a fine tact which enables him to feel the seat and nature of the errors and misconceptions in the English mind most in need of skilful handling. We hope, therefore, that his pen may be employed as frequently as possible on theological topics.
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THE INTELLIGENCE OF ANIMALS, WITH ILLUSTRATIVE ANECDOTES. From the French of Ernest Menault. With Illustrations. New York: Charles Scribner & Co. 1869. 1 vol. 16mo.
This is a most interesting work, and is one of the volumes of the "Illustrated Library of Wonders," the previous ones of which have been noticed in our pages. The information given in this little book about insects and animals is highly interesting, and if heeded there would be less need of "societies for the protection of animals." In the preface, the author very justly remarks that "The marvels of animal intelligence claim now more than ever the attention of observers. Without admitting, like some people, that we came from a quadruped; without approving the beast-worship of the Egyptians; we believe that most animals which crawl or walk on the earth, or fly in the air, form communities like ourselves. We believe that the lower animals possess, in a certain degree, the faculties of man, and that our inferior brothers, as St. Francis of Assisi calls them, preceded us on earth." The illustrations are good, and apropos to the subjects.
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SEEN AND HEARD. Poems, or the Like. By Morrison Heady. Baltimore: Henry C. Turnbull, Jr. 1869.
Criticism is disarmed on taking up the literary productions of an author who has suffered under almost total loss of sight and hearing since the age of sixteen. That under this double deprivation he should have produced poetry marked by so many vivid passages of description, is truly remarkable. No wonder that he feelingly seizes on the fine invocation passage of Young in his Night Thoughts:
"Silence and Darkness, solemn sisters, twins From ancient Night, who nursed the tender thought To reason, and on reason built resolve-- That column of true majesty in man-- Assist me; I will thank you in the grave."
Mr. Heady is known in the West as the Blind Bard of Kentucky, of which State he is a native.
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THE WORKS OF HORACE. Edited, with explanatory notes, by Thomas Chase, A.M., Professor in Harvard College. Philadelphia: Eldredge & Brother. New York: J. W. Schermerhorn & Co. 1870.
This edition of Horace is one of the best we have seen. The type is excellent, the text accurate, the notes neither insufficient nor superfluous.
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ELEMENTS OF THE GREEK LANGUAGE. Taken from the Greek Grammar of James Hadley, Professor in Yale College. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1869.
This excellent "abridgment of Professor Hadley's Grammar" will prove, we have no doubt, a very serviceable book. We agree with those who have represented to the professor that his larger grammar is somewhat cumbersome to a beginner.
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THE ELEMENTS OF MOLECULAR MECHANICS. By Joseph Bayma, S.J., Professor of Philosophy, Stonyhurst College. London and Cambridge: Macmillan & Co.
This work contains a philosophical, mathematical, and mechanical theory of the ultimate molecular constitution of matter, probably the most generally interesting question now being discussed in the scientific world. It is not one which can be dismissed hastily; and we shall, therefore, postpone a fuller notice of this certainly very able treatment of the subject to a future number.
THE CATHOLIC WORLD.
VOL. X., No. 57.--DECEMBER, 1869.
FATHER HECKER'S FAREWELL SERMON.[59]
"Render, therefore, to Cæsar the things that are Cæsar's; and to God the things that are God's"--ST. MATT. xxii 21.
The Pharisees endeavored to entrap our blessed Lord by a dilemma which would force him to present his doctrine under a false and untenable issue, whichever side of it he might take. He overcame their cunning by a superior wisdom which reduced them to silence and covered them with shame. In a precisely similar manner the enemies of the church are perpetually endeavoring to force upon her some false issue, with equally signal ill success. The Pharisees presented the rights of God and the rights of Cæsar as two contrary, antagonistic sides of a dilemma, one of which must be chosen to the exclusion of the other, and either one of which would be fatal to the cause of Jesus Christ. The modern enemies of the church place religion in opposition to reason, faith to science, grace to nature, liberty to authority, as if these were contrary and antagonistic to each other. They require us to choose between them. If we choose the first set of principles, they expect to ruin our cause by simply showing its opposition to the second set; if we choose the second set of principles, they expect an equally easy victory, because in that case religion and the church become unnecessary. The church will not, however, permit herself to be placed in any such false position. She will not choose between religion and reason, faith and science, grace and nature, authority and liberty, but she will embrace and reconcile them all, giving to each one of them all that is justly due to it.
At the present moment, when the pope has summoned an oecumenical council, the influence of which upon the world is dreaded by anti-Catholics and some nominally Catholic statesmen, the cry has become unusually loud and alarming that the church is assuming an aggressive attitude against science, civilization, the rights of the state, religious and political liberty. What! the church aggressive, her attitude dangerous? It is not long since you all said she was an effete institution, an affair of past ages, totally dead! Now it seems you have suddenly become afraid of her aggressions, and are alarmed lest she should swallow up all modern society. You no longer affect to pity her feebleness, but you exclaim against her audacity. Undoubtedly, the convocation of an oecumenical council by Pius IX. was a very bold act. When you consider his advanced age of nearly eighty years, the critical state of Europe, the vastness and complication of the questions and interests upon which a council must deliberate, and other circumstances well known to you all, which I need not specially enumerate, the act of the pope may very properly be characterized as one of the boldest steps which has ever been taken by any sovereign ruler.
Yet, in the light of the Catholic faith, so far from being such a very bold act, it appears like the most natural and the safest thing which he could possibly do. The Catholic faith teaches that the church founded upon the rock of Peter is infallible, by the promise and perpetual presence of Christ, the continual, inamissible indwelling of the Holy Spirit. In an oecumenical council, where the universal episcopate is gathered together under the presidency of its head, the successor of Peter, as vicar of Christ, the Catholic Church is organized for deliberation and action in the most perfect way possible. Who compose a council? The bishops of the world, to whom the right of membership belongs by divine law, and other prelates in eminent positions to whom the privilege is conceded by ecclesiastical law. Among them are men of distinct races, of different nations and languages, and governing dioceses or missions in all the different quarters and regions of the globe. The most learned and able men of the Catholic Church, the men who are most experienced in affairs and most intimately connected with the great political interests of the world, the men who have made the greatest sacrifices and performed the most important labors in the cause of God, are to be found among them. It is a world-congress of men in every intellectual and moral respect the most venerable that could possibly be collected on the earth; without comparison superior to any other deliberative or legislative assembly. An oecumenical council is, as the church teaches and every Catholic is bound to believe, infallibly directed and assisted by the Holy Spirit. Its decisions are to be received as proceeding from the mouth of God, its definitions of faith are final, unerring, and unchangeable. It is impossible, therefore, to imagine a greater absurdity, a more palpable contradiction, than that of appealing from an oecumenical council to Jesus Christ while professing to continue a member of the Catholic Church. It is appealing from the Holy Spirit to the Son; and, to carry out the absurdity to its utmost length, we have only to suppose one appealing from the Son to the Father Almighty. The god who is really appealed to in such a case is the idol of self in the bosom of the individual.
The question which is so frequently and anxiously asked, What, then, will the council do? has already been answered by anticipation in what I have just said, so far as it can be answered, at the present time, or need be answered, to reassure every good Catholic. The council will do whatsoever the Holy Ghost dictates. Further than this we cannot say any thing positively. But we can say very distinctly and certainly, what the council will not do. If it were to be an assembly of Protestant divines, guided each one by his private light, or of Swedenborgians, Spiritists, or Mormons, something piquant might be expected in the line of new doctrines or new revelations. But since it is a Catholic council, there will be no new revelations or new doctrines proclaimed. The church has no mission or authority to add any thing to the deposit of faith, committed by our Lord, orally or by inspiration of the Holy Spirit, to the apostles. Her office is to guard, to teach, to protect, and explain the faith. She decides what Jesus Christ taught to the apostles, and they to their successors, according to evidence contained in Scripture and apostolic tradition, assisted by the infallible light of the Holy Spirit. Whatever she defines as pertaining to Catholic faith has always been believed in the church. The council will, therefore, so far as relates to faith, proclaim no new doctrines, but merely explain, so far as necessary, the ancient faith as it is opposed to the errors of the day, and declare in a more precise and explicit manner that which is really contained in the divine revelation, and, therefore, always implicitly believed by every Catholic.
In respect to discipline, the church has no power to alter any divine laws; but she has power over her own laws, to add to them, to amend, modify, or abrogate them. In matters of variable discipline, the council will, therefore, consider how far any new legislation is necessary and expedient, will make such enactments as it shall deem best, and these will become part of the supreme, universal law of the church, binding on the conscience of all its members.
But it is objected, and even some ill-informed or disaffected Catholics are found to join in the cry, the Roman court will prevail in the council, the bishops will not be free to discuss or decide any thing; for every thing has already been determined by the pope, who will impose his will as law upon the council. Be it so! All I have to say, then, is that, if the Roman court prevail, it is the Holy Ghost who prevails through the Roman court. Those who use such language know but little of the real state of things at the Roman court, or of the character of the prelates who will compose the council. In regard to the Roman court, I can speak from my own personal knowledge and experience. There is no sovereign on earth toward whom so much freedom of speech is used, by those whose position and character qualify them to give him advice, as the sovereign pontiff. There is no place where there is so much freedom of opinion and discussion as Rome. The former councils, and especially that of Trent, show how great is the freedom of debate, and how thorough the discussion of topics which prevails in these august assemblies. I will speak of but one instance, that of the Archbishop of Braga, at Trent, who insisted in the most pointed manner on the obligation which rested on the most illustrious cardinals to set the example to the rest of the faithful, of "a most illustrious reform." So far from giving offence at Rome, the freedom of this holy prelate caused him to be treated by the pope with the most distinguished consideration, and honored by marks of the warmest friendship. The prelates who will compose the council of the Vatican are not men who can be either allured or terrified by any human or worldly motives into any action contrary to their consciences or their convictions.
But the pope has already in his recent encyclical and syllabus, with the acquiescence of the great body of Catholic bishops, condemned science, progress, civilization, and liberty.
What is the authority on which this assertion is made? The newspapers. The newspapers! Who would not be ashamed to cite such an authority on such a subject. Newspaper articles written, as some of them openly confess, chiefly with a view of making a sensation, by persons destitute of the proper information for speaking intelligently on ecclesiastical matters, and too frequently not of a disposition to tell the truth if they knew it. To place faith in opposition to science is a patent absurdity, for it is the same as opposing truth to truth. And there is no person upon whom the charge of maintaining such an absurdity can be fastened with less justice than Pius IX. There is no pontiff who has appeared to take such an especial pride and delight in maintaining by his decisions and by the magnificent language of his pontifical letters the dignity and the rights of human reason as he has, a fact which I could easily prove by citations, if the time permitted. But let us know what those persons who charge the syllabus with opposing science, signify by that term. If they mean by it the theories of sophists like Humboldt, Huxley, Comte, Mill, Spencer, and certain philosophers of Boston, who dethrone God, deify matter, degrade the rational and spiritual nature of man, and reduce all knowledge to a chaos of scepticism, the pope and the church are opposed to all such science as that. Whoever upholds it is certainly fully authorized to apply to himself the definition which his favorite philosophy gives of man; to wit, that he is nothing more than a finely organized ape.
What do they mean by progress and civilization? Is it the supremacy of material interests, the dictatorial control of the state over education, the doctrine that the chief end of man is to establish railways and telegraphic lines? Then the church is opposed to them. But to call her the enemy of civilization in the true, genuine sense of the word, is not only false, but the basest ingratitude on the part of those to whom she has given that inheritance of civilization on which all the nations of Christendom are at this moment living.
What do they mean by liberty? Freedom from all religion, from all moral restraints, from the bonds and obligations of marriage, the subjection of the church to the power of civil rulers, and the atheistic constitution of the political and social state? To all these the church is opposed, and these she will resist to the last drop of her blood. And so are you opposed to them, if you have the sentiments of a man or make any pretension to the name of a Christian. So are the wisest and most virtuous of those who are out of the communion of the church, by whatever name they may choose to be designated. Such false liberalism as this we all alike detest, and must oppose with all our strength; for it is destructive of that only true liberty which we prize above all things--the "liberty of the children of God."
I have thought it necessary, my dear brethren--I may say my beloved children in Christ, for I am your pastor--to present before you these considerations on the eve of my departure to attend the Oecumenical Council.
It is not that you have need to be taught these things--for you are believing and instructed Catholics--that I have presented them before you; but that you may better understand what great benefits and blessings we may expect to flow from the deliberations and acts of that great council which is about to assemble, the most numerous and the most important which has been seen in the church for centuries. I desire you to look forward, as I do, to a new and glorious era in the church's history, an era of the triumph of faith and holiness, in which I trust our own country is destined to become the theatre of a brilliant development of the Catholic religion. I earnestly recommend to your prayers the success of the great work which is before the council, and my own prosperous return to you after its close. As I kneel at the sepulchre of the holy apostles SS. Peter and Paul, and before the holy shrines of the saints, I will remember you; and in now taking my leave of you for a short time, I pray God to give you his blessing, and to keep us all in peace and safety until we shall meet again.
FOOTNOTE:
[59] Preached at St. Paul's church, New York, Sunday, October 17th, 1869, previous to his departure for Europe to attend the Oecumenical Council.
TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF CONRAD VON BOLANDEN.
ANGELA.