Assunta Howard. III. In Extremis…

Assunta Howard. III. In Extremis

How slowly and drearily the time drags on, through all the weary length of hours and days, in a household where one has suddenly been stricken down from full life and health to the unconscious delirium of fever—when in hushed silence and with folded hands the watchers surround the sufferer with a loving anxiety; whose agony is in their helplessness to stay for one moment the progress of the disease, which seems possessed of a fiend‐ like consciousness of its own fatal power to destroy; when life and death hang in the balance, and at any moment the scale may turn, and in its turning may gladden loving hearts or break them; and, oh! above and beyond all, when through the clouding of the intellect no ray from the clear light of faith penetrates the soul, and the prostrate body, stretched upon its cross, fails to discern the nearness of that other cross upon this Calvary of suffering, from which flows in perennial streams the fountain of salvation! Oh! if in the ears, heedless of earthly sounds and words, there could be whispered those blessed words from Divine lips, “This day thou shalt be with me,” what heart that loves would not rejoice even in its anguish, and unselfishly exclaim, “Depart, O Christian soul! I will even crush down my poor human love, lest its great longing should turn thy happy soul away from the contemplation of its reward, exceeding great—to be in Paradise, to be with Christ”? But, alas! there were two crucified within reach of those precious, saving drops, and one alone said, “Lord, remember me.”

When the family of Mr. Carlisle first realized that the master of the house had indeed been prostrated by the fever which had proved so fatal in its ravages, they were stunned with surprise and grief. It was just the calamity, of all others the least expected, the heaviest to endure.

Mrs. Grey’s affection for her brother was the deepest sentiment of her superficial nature, and for the time she was bowed down with sorrow; which, however, constantly found vent in words and tears. She would rise from it soon, but not until the emergency had passed. She lived only in the sunshine; she lost herself when the clouds gathered. Assunta was the first to recover her calmness and presence of mind. Necessity made her strong; not so much for the sake of the sick man—that might come by and by—but for his sister, who clung to the young girl as to the last plank from the shipwreck of her bright, happy life. The physician was in constant attendance, and at the first he had proposed sending a nurse. But the faithful Giovanni had pleaded with so much earnestness to be allowed the privilege of attending his master that he was installed in the sick‐ room. And truly no better choice could have been made, for he combined the physical strength of the man with the gentleness of woman, and every service was rendered with the tenderness of that love which Mr. Carlisle had the rare power of inspiring and retaining in dependents. But only Assunta was able to quiet his wandering mind, and control the wild vagaries of delirium. It was a painful duty to strive to still the ringing of those bells, once so full of harmony, now “jangled, out of tune, and harsh.” But, once recognizing where her duty lay, she would have performed it at any cost to herself.

Her good and devoted friend, F. du Pont, came to see her the second day of the illness, and brought sympathy and consolation in his very presence. She had so longed for him that his coming seemed an echo of her earnest wish—his words of comfort an answer to her prayers.

“Father,” she said at length, “you know all—the past and the present circumstances. May I not, in the present necessity, and in spite of the past, forget all but the debt of gratitude I owe, and devote myself to my dear friend and guardian? You know,” she added, as if there were pain in the remembrance, “it was Mr. Carlisle’s care for me that exposed him to the fever. I would nurse him as a sister, if I might.”

“My dear child,” replied the priest, “I do not see how you could do less. From my knowledge of Mrs. Grey, I should consider her entirely unfit for the services of a sick‐room. It seems, therefore, your plain duty to perform this act of charity. I think, my child, that the possible nearness of death will calm all merely human emotion. Give that obedient little heart of yours into God’s keeping, and then go to your duty as in his sight, and I am not afraid. The world will probably look upon what it may consider a breach of propriety with much less leniency than the angels. But human respect, always bad enough as a motive, is never so wholly bad as when it destroys the purity of our intention, and consequently the merit of our charity, at a time when, bending beneath the burden of some heavy trial, we are the more closely surrounded by God’s love and protection. Follow the pillar of the cloud, my child. It is leading you away from the world.”

“Father,” said Assunta, and her voice trembled, while tears filled her eyes, “do you think he will die? Indeed, it is not for my own sake that I plead for his life. He is not prepared to go. Will you not pray for him, father? Oh! how gladly would I give my life as the price of his soul, and trust myself to the mercy of God!”

“And it is to that mercy you must trust him, my poor child. Do you, then, think that his soul is dearer to you than to Him who died to save it? You must have more confidence. But I have not yet told you the condition I must impose upon your position as nurse. It is implicit obedience to the physician, and a faithful use of all the precautions he recommends. While charity does sometimes demand the risk or even the sacrifice of life, we have no right to take the matter into our own hands. I do not apprehend any danger for you, if you will follow the good doctor’s directions. I will try to see him on my way home. Do you promise?”

“Yes, father,” said Assunta, with a faint smile; “you leave me no alternative.”

“But I have not yet put a limit to your obedience. You are excited and worn out this afternoon, and I will give you a prescription. It is a lovely day, almost spring‐like; and you are now, this very moment, to go down into the garden for half an hour—and the time must be measured by your watch, and not by your feelings. Take your rosary with you, and as you walk up and down the orange avenue let no more serious thoughts enter your mind than the sweet companionship of the Blessed Mother may suggest. You will come back stronger, I promise you.”

“You are so kind, father,” said Assunta gratefully. “If you knew what a blessing you bring with you, you would take compassion on me, and come soon again.”

“I shall come very soon, my child; and meanwhile I shall pray for you, and for all, most fervently. But, come, we will walk together as far as the garden.” And summoning the priest who had accompanied him, and who had been looking at the books in the library during this conversation, they were about to descend the stairs, when Mrs. Grey came forward to meet them.

“O F. du Pont!” she exclaimed impetuously, “will you not come and look at my poor brother, and tell me what you think of him? They say priests know so much.” And then she burst into tears.

F. Joseph tried to soothe her with hopeful words, and, when they reached the door of the darkened chamber, she was again calm. The good priest’s face expressed the sympathy he felt as they entered softly, and stood where they would not attract the attention of those restless eyes. Mr. Carlisle was wakeful and watchful, but comparatively quiet. It was pitiful to see with what rapid strides the fever was undermining that manly strength, and hurrying on towards the terrible moment of suspense when life and death confront each other in momentary combat. With an earnest prayer to God, the priest again raised the heavy damask curtain, and softly retired, followed by Mrs. Grey.

“Will he recover?” was her eager question.

“Dear madam,” replied he, “I think there is much room for hope, though I cannot deny that he is a very sick man. For your encouragement, I can tell you that I have seen many patients recover in such cases when it seemed little short of miraculous. It will be many days yet before you must think of giving up good hope. And remember that all your strength will be needed.”

“Oh!” said Mrs. Grey impulsively, “I could not live if it were not for Assunta. She is an angel.”

“Yes, she is a good child,” said the priest kindly; “and she is now going to obey some orders that I have given her, that she may return to you more angelic than ever. Dear madam, you have my deepest sympathy. I wish that I could serve you otherwise than by words.”

The two priests bade Assunta good‐by at the garden gate. F. Joseph’s heart was full of pity for the young girl, whose act of sacrifice in surrendering human happiness for conscience’ sake had been followed by so severe a trial. But, remembering the blessed mission of suffering to a soul like hers, he prayed—not that her chalice might be less bitter, but that strength might be given her to accept it as from the hand of a loving Father.

And so Assunta, putting aside every thought of self, took her place in the sick‐room. She had a double motive in hanging her picture of St. Catherine, from which she was never separated, at the foot of the bed. It was a favorite with Mr. Carlisle, and often in his delirium his eyes would rest upon it, in almost conscious recognition; while to Assunta it was a talisman—a constant reminder of her mother, and of those dying words which now seemed stamped in burning letters on her heart and brain.

Mrs. Grey often visited the room; but she controlled her own agitation so little, and was so unreasonable in the number of her suggestions, that she generally left the patient worse than she found him. Assunta recognized her right to come and go as she pleased, but she could not regret her absence when her presence was almost invariably productive of evil consequences.

The first Sunday, Assunta thought she might venture to assist at Mass at the nearest church; it would be strength to her body as well as her soul. She was not absent from the house an hour, yet she was met on her return by Clara, in a state of great excitement.

“Assunta, we have had a dreadful time,” she said. “Severn woke up just after you left, and literally screamed for help, because, he said, a great black cross had fallen on you, and you would be crushed to death unless some one would assist him to raise it. In his efforts, he was almost out of bed. I reasoned with him, and told him it was all nonsense; that there was no cross, and that you had gone to church. But the more I talked and explained, the worse he got; until I was perfectly disheartened, and came to meet you.” And with the ready tears streaming down her pretty face, she did look the very picture of discouragement.

“Poor Clara,” said Assunta, gently embracing her, “it is hard for you to bear all this, you are so little accustomed to sickness. But you ought not to contradict Mr. Carlisle, for it is all real to him, and opposition only excites him. I can never soothe him except by agreeing with him.”

“But where does he get such strange ideas?” asked the sobbing Clara.

“Where do our dreams come from?” said Assunta. “I think, however, that this fancy can be traced to the night when we visited the Colosseum, and sat for a long time on the steps of the cross in the centre. You know it is a black one,” she added, smiling, to reassure her friend. “And now, Clara, I really think you ought to order the close carriage, and take a drive this morning. It would do you good, and you will not be needed at all for the next two or three hours.”

Mrs. Grey’s face brightened perceptibly. It was the very thing for which she was longing, but she would not propose it herself for fear it would seem heartless. To seem, and not to be, was her motto.

“But would not people think it very strange,” she asked, “and Severn so sick?”

“I do not believe that people will know or think anything about it,” answered Assunta patiently. “You can take Amalie with you for company, and drive out on the Campagna.” And having lightened one load, she turned towards her guardian’s room.

“Are you not coming to breakfast?” said Mrs. Grey.

“Presently.” And Assunta hastened to the bedside. Giovanni had been entirely unable to control the panic which seemed to have taken possession of Mr. Carlisle. He continued his cries for assistance, and the suffering he evidently endured showed how real the fancy was to him.

“Dear friend,” said the young girl, pushing back the hair from his burning forehead, “look at me. Do you not see that I am safe?”

Mr. Carlisle turned towards her, and, in sudden revulsion of feeling, burst into a wild laugh.

“I knew,” he said, “that, if they would only come and help me, I should succeed. But it was very heavy; it has made me very tired.”

“Yes, you have had hard work, and it was very kind in you to undertake it for me. But now you must rest. It would make me very unhappy if I thought that my safety had caused any injury to you.”

And while she was talking, Assunta had motioned to Giovanni to bring the soothing medicine the doctor had left, and she succeeded in administering it to her patient, almost without his knowledge, so engrossed was he in his present vagary.

“But there was a cross?” he asked.

“Yes,” she answered, in a meaning tone, “a very heavy one; but it did not crush me.”

“Who lifted it?” he asked eagerly.

“A powerful hand raised its weight from my shoulders, and I have the promise of His help always, if I should ever be in trouble again, and only will cry to Him.”

“Well, whoever he is,” said Mr. Carlisle, “he did not hurry much when I called—and now I am so tired. And Clara said there was no cross; that I was mistaken. I am never mistaken,” he answered, in something of his old, proud voice. “She ought to know that.”

Assunta did not answer, but she sat patiently soothing her guardian into quiet at least, if not sleep. Once he looked at her, and said, “My precious child is safe;” but, as she smiled, he laughed aloud, and then shut his eyes again.

An hour she remained beside the bed, and then she crept softly from the room, to take what little breakfast she could find an appetite for, and to assist Mrs. Grey in preparing for her drive.

With such constant demands upon her sympathy and strength, it is not strange that Assunta’s courage sometimes failed. But, when the physician assured her that her guardian’s life was, humanly speaking, in her hands, she determined that no thought or care for herself should interfere with the performance of her duty.

Mrs. Grey’s drive having proved an excellent tonic, she was tempted to repeat it often—always with a protest and with some misgivings of conscience, which were, however, set aside without difficulty.

It was a singular coincidence that Mr. Sinclair should so often be found riding on horseback in the same direction. A few words only would be exchanged—of enquiry for the sufferer, of sympathy for his sister. But somehow, as the days went by, the tone in which the words of sympathy were expressed grew more tender, and conveyed the impression of something held back out of respect and by an effort. The manner, too—which showed so little, and yet seemed to repress so much—began to have the effect of heightening the color in Mrs. Grey’s pretty face, and softening a little the innocent piquancy of her youthful ways. It was no wonder that, loving the brightness and sunshine of life, and regarding with a sort of dread the hush and solemnity which pervade the house of sickness, and which may at any moment become the house of mourning, she should have allowed her anxiety for her brother to diminish a little under the influence of the new thought and feeling which were gaining possession now, in the absence of all other excitement. And yet she loved her brother as much as such hearts can love—as deeply as any love can penetrate in which there is no spirit of sacrifice—love’s foundation and its crown. If the illness had lasted but a day, or at the most two, she could have devoted herself with apparent unselfishness and tender assiduity to the duties of nursing. But, as day after day went on without much perceptible change in Mr. Carlisle, her first emotion subsided into a sort of graceful perplexity at finding herself out of her element. And by the time the second week was drawing towards its close—with the new influence of Mr. Sinclair’s sympathy seconding the demands of her own nature—she began to act like any other sunflower, when it “turns to the god that it loves.” And yet she continued to be very regular in her visits to the sick‐room, and very affectionate to Assunta; but it may be greatly doubted whether she lost many hours’ sleep. Surely it would be most unjust to judge Clara Grey and Assunta Howard by the same standard. Undine, before and after the possession of a human soul, could hardly have been more dissimilar.

It was the fifteenth day of Mr. Carlisle’s illness when Assunta was summoned from his bedside by Mrs. Grey, who desired to see her for a few moments in her own room. As the young girl entered, she found her sitting before a bright wood‐fire; on her lap was an exquisite bouquet fresh from fairy‐land, or—what is almost the same thing—an Italian garden. In her hand she held a card, at which she was looking with a somewhat perturbed expression.

“Assunta, love,” she exclaimed, “I want you to tell me what to do. See these lovely flowers that Mr. Sinclair has just sent me, with this card. Read it.” And as she handed her the dainty card, whose perfume seemed to rival that of the flowers, the color mounted becomingly into her cheeks. There were only these words written:

“I have brought a close carriage, and hope to persuade you to drive a little while this afternoon. I will anxiously await your reply in the garden. Yours, S——.”

“Well?” questioned Clara, a little impatiently, for Assunta’s face was very grave.

“Dear Clara,” she replied, “I have no right to advise you, and I certainly shall not question the propriety of anything you do. I was only thinking whether I had not better tell you that I see a change in your brother this afternoon, and I fear it is for the worse. I am longing for the doctor’s visit.”

“Do you really think he is worse?” exclaimed Clara. “He looks to me just the same. But perhaps I had better not go out. I had a little headache, and thought a drive might do me good. But, poor Severn! of course I ought not to leave him.”

“You must not be influenced by what I say,” said Assunta. “I may be entirely mistaken, and so I should not alarm you. God knows, I hope it may be so!”

“Then you think I might go for an hour or two, just to get a breath of air,” said Mrs. Grey. “Mr. Sinclair will certainly think I have found it necessary to call a papal consistory, if I keep him much longer on the promenade.”

Poor Assunta, worn out with her two weeks of watching and anxiety, looked for a moment with a sort of incredulous wonder at the incarnation of unconscious selfishness before her. For one moment she looked “upon this picture and on that”—the noble, devoted brother, sick unto death; and that man, the acquaintance of a few days, now walking impatiently up and down the orange avenue. The flush of indignation changed her pale cheeks to scarlet, and an almost pharisaical thanksgiving to God that she was not like some women swept across her heart, while a most unwonted sarcasm trembled on her lips. She instantly checked the unworthy feeling and its expression; but she was so unstrung by care and fatigue that she could not so easily control her emotion, and, before the object of unusual indignation had time to wonder at the delay of her reply, she had thrown herself upon the sofa, and was sobbing violently. Mrs. Grey was really alarmed, so much so that she dropped both card and flowers upon the floor, and forgot entirely her waiting cavalier, as she knelt beside the excited girl, and put her arms about her.

“Assunta dear, what is the matter? Are you ill? Oh! what have I done?” she exclaimed.

“My poor guardian—my dear, kind friend, he is dying! May God have mercy on him and on me!” were the words that escaped Assunta’s lips between the sobs.

A shudder passed through Mrs. Grey at this unexpected putting into words of the one thought she had so carefully kept from her mind; and her own tears began to flow. Just at this moment the physician’s step sounded in the hall, and she went hastily to summon him. He took in the whole scene at a glance, and, seating himself at once upon the sofa beside Assunta, he put his hand gently and soothingly upon her head, as a father might have done.

“Poor child!” said he kindly, “I have been expecting this.”

The action expressing sympathy just when she needed it so much caused her tears to flow afresh, but less tumultuously than before. The remains of Mrs. Grey’s lunch were standing on a side‐table, and the good doctor poured out a glass of wine, which Assunta took obediently. Then, making an effort at self‐control, she said:

“Please do not waste a moment on me. Do go to Mr. Carlisle; he seems very ill. I have been weak and foolish, but I will control myself better next time.”

“I have just left Mr. Carlisle’s room,” replied the doctor. “I will not deceive you. He is, as you say, very ill; but I hope we may save him yet. You must call up all your courage, for you will be much needed to‐night.”

He knew by the effect that he had touched the right chord, so he continued: “And now, Miss Howard, I am going to ask of you the favor to send one of your servants to my house, to notify my wife that I shall not return to‐night. I will not leave you until the crisis is passed—successfully, I hope,” he added with a smile.

Assunta went at once to give the desired order, relieved and grateful that they would have the support of the physician’s presence and skill; and yet the very fact of his remaining discouraged the hope he had tried to inspire. When she had gone, he turned to address a few comforting words to Mrs. Grey, when, suddenly recollecting himself, he said:

“By the way, Mrs. Grey, I forgot to tell you that I met Mr. Sinclair down‐ stairs, and he begged me to inquire if you had received a message from him. Can I be of service in taking him your reply?”

“O poor man! I quite forgot him,” exclaimed the easily diverted Clara, as she stooped to pick up the neglected flowers. “Thank you for your kind offer, but I had better run down myself, and apologize for my apparent rudeness.” And, hastily wiping her eyes, she threw a shawl over her shoulders and a becoming white rigolette about her head, and with a graceful bow of apology she left the room.

“Extraordinary woman!” thought the doctor. “One would suppose that a dying brother would be an excuse, even to that puppy Sinclair. I wish he had had to wait longer—it wouldn’t have hurt him a bit—he has never had half enough of it to do. And what the devil is he coming here for now, anyhow?” he added to his former charitable reflections, as he went to join Assunta in her faithful vigil beside the unconscious and apparently dying man.

Mr. Sinclair met Mrs. Grey at the foot of the stairs with an assumption of interest and anxiety which successfully concealed his inward impatience. But truly it would have been difficult to resist that appealing face, with its traces of recent tears and the flush caused by excited feeling.

As a general thing, with all due deference to poetic opinion, “love is (not) loveliest when embalmed in tears.” But Mrs. Grey was an exception to many rules. Her emotion was usually of the April‐shower sort, gentle, refreshing, even beautifying. Very little she knew of the storm of suffering which desolates the heart, and whose ravages leave a lasting impression upon the features. Such emotions also sometimes, but rarely, leave a beauty behind them; but it is a beauty not of this world, the beauty of holiness; not of Mrs. Grey’s kind, for it never would have touched Mr. Sinclair as hers did now.

“My dear Mrs. Grey,” he said, taking her hand in both his, “how grieved I am to see you showing so plainly the results of care and watching! Privileged as he must be who is the recipient of such angelic ministrations, I must yet protest—as a friend, I trust I have a right to do so—against such over‐exertion on your part. You will be ill yourself; and then who or what will console me?”

Mr. Sinclair knew this was a fiction. He knew well enough that Mrs. Grey had never looked fresher or prettier in her life. But the rôle he had assigned to himself was the dangerously tender one of sympathy; and where a sufficient occasion for displaying his part was not supplied, he must needs invent one.

Clara was not altogether deceived, for, as she put her lace‐bordered handkerchief to her eyes, from which the tears began again to flow, she replied:

“You are mistaken, Mr. Sinclair. I am quite well, and not at all fatigued; while dear Assunta is thin and pale, and thoroughly worn out with all she has done. I can never be grateful enough to her.”

Had the lady raised her eyes, she might have been astonished at the expression of contempt which curled Mr. Sinclair’s somewhat hard mouth, as he rejoined:

“Yes; I quite understand Miss Howard’s motive in her devotion to her guardian, and it is not strange that she should be pale. How do you suppose I should look and feel if the dearest friend I have in the world were at this moment lying in her brother’s place?”

Mrs. Grey might have received a new light about the young girl had she not been rendered obtuse to the first part of this speech by the very pointed allusion to herself afterwards, that was accompanied by a searching look, which she would not see, for she still kept her handkerchief before her eyes. Mr. Sinclair placed her disengaged hand upon his arm, and gently drew her towards the garden. Had she been able to look down into the heart of the man who walked so protectingly beside her, she would doubtless have been surprised to find a disappointment lurking in the place where she had begun to feel her image was enshrined. She would have seen that Assunta’s face had occupied a niche in the inner sanctuary of the heart of this man of the world, before which he would have been content to bow; that pique at her entire indifference to his pretensions, and the reserve behind which she always retreated in his presence, had led him to transfer his attentions to the older lady and the smaller fortune; and that his jealous observation had brought to his notice, what was apparent to no one else, the relations between Assunta and her guardian.

All this would not have been very flattering to Mrs. Grey, so it was perhaps as well that the gift of clairvoyance was not hers; though it is a sad thought for men and angels how few hearts there are that would bear to have thrown on them the clear light of unveiled truth. The day is to come when the secrets of all hearts are to be revealed. But Mr. Sinclair, even if he knew this startling fact, would not have considered it worth while to anticipate that dread hour by revealing to the lovely lady at his side any of those uncomfortable circumstances which would inevitably stand in the way of the consummation of his present wish. So he bravely undertook the noble enterprise of deceiving a trusting heart into believing in a love which did not exist, but which it was not so very difficult to imagine just at that moment, with the little hand resting confidingly on his arm, and the tearful eyes raised to meet his.

In a broken voice, Mrs. Grey said: “Mr. Sinclair, I came down myself to thank you for the beautiful flowers you sent me, and to excuse myself from driving with you this afternoon. Poor Severn is worse, they think. Oh! if he should not recover, what will become of me?” And as she spoke, she burst into renewed weeping, and threw herself upon a seat beneath a group of orange‐trees, whose perfume stole upon the senses with a subtle yet bewildering influence. Mr. Sinclair sat down beside her, saying gently:

“I hope, dear Mrs. Grey, it is not so serious as that. I am confident that you have been needlessly alarmed.”

The world will, no doubt, pardon him—seeing that Mammon was his chosen master—if the thought was not altogether unpleasing that, should Mr. Carlisle die now, before Assunta could have a claim upon him, it would make an almost princely addition to the dowry of his sister. Nor on this account were his words less tender as he added:

“But, even so, do you not know of one heart waiting, longing to devote itself to you, and only with difficulty restrained from placing itself at your feet by the iron fetters of propriety? Tell me, Clara, may I break these odious chains, and say what is in my heart?”

“Mr. Sinclair, you must not speak such words to me now, and my poor brother so ill. Indeed, I cannot stay to hear you. Thank you very much for your kind sympathy, but I must leave you now.”

“Without one word of hope? Do I deserve this?” And truly the pathos he put into his voice was calculated to melt a heart of stone; and Clara’s was much more impressible. She paused beside him, and, allowing him still to retain in his the hand he had taken, continued:

“I think you take an unfair advantage of my lonely position. I cannot give you a favorable answer this afternoon, for I am so bewildered. I begin to think that I ought not to have come down at all; but I wanted to tell you how much I appreciated the bouquet.”

“I hope you read its meaning,” said Mr. Sinclair, rising. “And do you not see a happy omen in your present position, under a bower of orange blossoms? It needs but little imagination to lower them until they encircle the head of the most lovely of brides. Will you accept this as a pledge of that bright future which I have dared to picture to myself?” And as he spoke he put up his hand to break off a cluster of the white blossoms and dark‐green leaves, when Giovanni appeared at the gate.

“Signora,” he said, “will you please to come up‐stairs? The Signorina is very anxious to see you.”

“I am coming,” she replied. “Pardon me, Mr. Sinclair, and forget what has been said.” And she walked towards the house.

“Do you refuse the pledge?” he asked, placing the flowers in her hand, after raising them to his lips.

“Really,” answered Clara, almost petulantly, “I am so perplexed, I do not know what to say. Yes, I will take the flowers, if that will please you.” Saying which, she began to ascend the stairs.

“And I take hope with me,” said Mr. Sinclair, in a tender tone. But as he turned to go he mentally cursed Giovanni for the interruption; “for,” thought he, “in one minute more I would have had her promise, and who knows but now that brother of hers may recover and interfere?”

Assunta met Mrs. Grey just outside the door of Mr. Carlisle’s room, and drew her into the library, where she sat down beside her on the sofa, and, putting her arm affectionately about her, began to speak to her with a calmness which, under the circumstances, could only come from the presence of God.

“I thought, dear Clara, that I had better ask you to come here, while I talk to you a little about your brother, and what the doctor says. We must both of us try to prepare.” Here her voice broke, and Mrs. Grey interrupted her with,

“Tell me, Assunta, quickly, is he worse?”

“I fear so, dear,” replied Assunta; “but we must help each other to keep up what courage and hope we may. It is a common sorrow, Clara, for he has been more than a brother to me.”

“But, Assunta, I do not understand. You are so calm, and yet you say such dreadful things. Does the doctor think he will die?” And once again she shuddered at that word, to her so fearful and so incomprehensible.

“I dare not deceive you, dear—I dare not deceive myself. The crisis has come, and he seems to be sinking fast. O Clara, pray for him!”

“I cannot pray; I do not know how. I have never prayed in my life. But let me go to him—my poor, dear Severn!” And Mrs. Grey was rushing from the room, when Assunta begged her to wait one moment, while she besought her to be calm. Life hung upon a thread, which the least agitation might snap in a moment. She could not give up that one last hope. Mrs. Grey of course promised; but the instant she approached the bed, and saw the change that a few hours had made, she shrieked aloud; and Assunta, in answer to the doctor’s look of despair, summoned her maid, and she was carried to her own room in violent hysterics, the orange blossoms still in her hand. Truly they seemed an omen of death rather than of a bridal. The doctor followed to administer an opiate, and then Assunta and himself again took up their watch by Mr. Carlisle. Hour after hour passed.

Everything that skill could suggest was done. Once only Assunta left the room for a moment to inquire for Mrs. Grey, and, finding that she was sleeping under the influence of the anodyne, she instantly returned. She dared not trust herself to think how different was this death from that other she remembered. She could not have borne to entertain for one moment the thought that this soul was going forth without prayer, without sacrament, to meet its God. She did everything the doctor wished, quietly and calmly. The hours did not seem long, for she had almost lost her sense of time, so near the confines of eternity. She did not even feel now—she only waited.

It was nearly twelve when the doctor said in a low voice:

“We can do nothing more now; we must leave the rest to nature.”

“And to God,” whispered Assunta, as she sank on her knees beside the bed; and, taking in both hers her guardian’s thin, out‐stretched hand, she bowed her head, and from the very depths of her soul went up a prayer for his life—if it might be—followed by a fervent but agonized act of resignation to the sweet will of God.

She was so absorbed that she did not notice a sudden brightening of the doctor’s face as he bent over his patient. But in a moment more she felt a motion, and the slightest possible pressure of her hand. She raised her head, and her eyes met those of her guardian, while a faint smile—one of his own peculiar, winning smiles—told her that he was conscious of her presence. At last, rousing himself a little more, he said:

“Petite, no matter where I am, it is so sweet to have you here.” And, with an expression of entire content, he closed his eyes again, and fell into a refreshing sleep.

“Thank God!” murmured Assunta, and her head dropped upon her folded hands.

The doctor came to her, and whispered the joyful words, “He will live!” but, receiving no answer, he tried to lift the young girl from her knees, and found that she had fainted. Poor child! like Mary, the Blessed Mother of Sorrows, she had stood beneath her cross until it was lightened of its burden, She had nerved herself to bear her sorrow; she had not counted on the strength which would be needed for the reaction of joy.

“Better so,” said the doctor, as he placed her upon the couch, “She would never have taken rest in any other way.”

To Be Continued.

A Discussion With An Infidel.

XI. Primeval Generation.

Reader. I should like to hear, doctor, how “primeval generation” can afford you an argument against the Mosaic history of creation, and against the necessity of a Creator.

Büchner. “There was a time when the earth—a fiery globe—was not merely incapable of producing living beings, but was hostile to the existence of vegetable and animal organisms” (p. 63).

Reader. Granted.

Büchner. “As soon as the temperature permitted it, organic life developed itself” (ibid.)

Reader. Not too much haste, doctor. The assertion that “life developed itself” presupposes that life already existed somewhere, though undeveloped. How do you account for this assumption?

Büchner. “It is certain, says Burmeister, that the appearance of animal bodies upon the surface of the earth is a function which results with mathematical certainty from existing relations of forces” (ibid.)

Reader. It is impossible to believe Burmeister on his word. You know that he is a short‐sighted philosopher. A man who says that “the earth and the world are eternal,” that “eternity belongs to the essence of matter,” and that matter nevertheless “is not unchangeable,” forfeits all claim to be trusted in speculative questions. I, therefore, cannot yield to his simple assertion; and if what he says is true, as you believe, I think that you are ready to assign some reason for it, which will convince me also.

Büchner. Nothing is easier, sir. For “there is exhibited (in the terrestrial strata) a constant relation of the external conditions of the surface of the earth to the existence of organic beings, and a necessary dependence of the latter on the condition of the earth” (p. 64). “It was only with the present existing differences of climate that the endless variety of organic forms appeared which we now behold.... Of man the highest organic being of creation, not a trace was found in the primary strata; only in the uppermost, the so‐called alluvial layer, in which human life could exist, he appears on the stage—the climax of gradual development” (p. 65).

Reader. How does this show that “organic life developed itself” and was a mere result of the development of the earth? It seems to me that your answer has no bearing on the question, and that it is, on your lips, even illogical. For you say somewhere: “It is certain that no permanent transmutation of one species of animals into another has as yet been observed; nor any of the higher organisms was produced by the union of inorganic substances and forces without a previously existing germ produced by homogeneous parents” (p. 68). This being certain, as you own, I ask: If every organism is produced by parents, whence did the parents come? Could they have arisen from the merely accidental concurrence of external circumstances and conditions, or were they created by an external power? In your theory, they must have arisen from external circumstances, and therefore they had no parents; whilst you affirm that without homogeneous parents they could not naturally be produced. Moreover, if the first parents arose from a concurrence of external conditions, why does not the same happen today?

Büchner. “This question has ever occupied philosophers and naturalists, and has given rise to a variety of conflicting opinions. Before entering upon this question, we must limit the axiom Omne vivum ex ovo to that extent that, though applicable to the infinite majority of organisms, it does not appear to be universally valid” (p. 69).

Reader. Then you evidently contradict yourself.

Büchner. “At any rate, the question of spontaneous generations is not yet settled” (ibid.)

Reader. Do you mean that living organisms can be produced without previously existing homogeneous parents, or germs, merely by the concurrence of inorganic elements and natural forces?

Büchner. Yes, sir; and “although modern investigations tend to show that this kind of generation, to which formerly was ascribed an extended sphere of action, does not exactly possess a scientific basis, it is still not improbable that it exists even now in the production of minute and imperfect organisms” (p. 70).

Reader. You are cutting your own throat, doctor. For you own that your theory has no scientific basis; and what you say about the non‐ improbability of some spontaneous generations has no weight whatever with a philosophical mind.

Büchner. Indeed “the question of the first origin of all highly organized plants and animals appears at first sight incapable of solution without the assumption of a higher power, which has created the first organisms, and endowed them with the faculty of propagation” (p. 71).

Reader. “At first sight,” you say. Very well. I accept this confession, which, on your lips, has a peculiarly suggestive meaning.

Büchner. “Believing naturalists point to this fact with satisfaction. They remind us, at the same time, of the wonderful structure of the organic world, and recognize in it the prevalence of an immediate and personal creative power, which, full of design, has produced this world. ‘The origin of organic beings,’ says B. Cotta, ‘is, like that of the earth, an insoluble problem, leaving us only the appeal to an unfathomable power of a Creator’ ” (ibid.)

Reader. Cotta is more affirmative than you. He recognizes that the problem is incapable of solution without a Creator, and does not add “at first sight.” What do you reply?

Büchner. “We might answer these believers, that the germs of all living beings had from eternity existed in universal space, or in the chaotic vapors from which the earth was formed; and these germs, deposited upon the earth, have there and then become developed, according to external necessary conditions. The facts of these successive organic generations would thus be sufficiently explained; and such an explanation is at least less odd and far‐fetched than the assumption of a creative power, which amused itself in producing, in every particular period, genera of plants and animals, as preliminary studies for the creation of man—a thought quite unworthy of the conception of a perfect Creator” (ibid.)

Reader. I am afraid, doctor, that all this nonsense proceeds from cold‐ hearted maliciousness more than from ignorance. For how can you be ignorant that, if there be anything odd and far‐fetched in any theory of cosmogony, it is not the recognition of a creative power, but the assumption of eternal germs wandering about from eternity amid chaotic vapors? Your preference for this last assumption is an insult to reason, which has no parallel but the act of passionate folly by which the Jews preferred Barabbas to Christ. The Creator, as you well know, had no need of “preliminary studies”: yet he might have “amused himself,” if he so wished,(22) in making different genera of plants and animals, just as noblemen and princes amuse themselves, without disgracing their rank, in planting gardens, and petting dogs, horses, and birds. But this is not the question. You pretend that the germs of all living beings had from eternity existed in universal space. This you cannot prove either philosophically or scientifically; and we have already established in a preceding discussion that nothing changeable can have existed from eternity.

Büchner. “But we stand in need of no such arguments” (p. 72).

Reader. Why, then, do you bring them forward?

Büchner. “The facts of science prove with considerable certainty that the organic beings which people the earth owe their origin and propagation solely to the conjoined action of natural forces and materials, and that the gradual change and development of the surface of the earth is the sole, or at least the chief, cause of the gradual increase of the living world” (p. 72).

Reader. This is another of your vain assertions. For you confess that “it is impossible at present to demonstrate with scientific exactness” the gradual development of organic beings from mere material forces; and you had previously affirmed that “there must have existed individuals of the same species, to produce others of the same kind” (p. 68). Where are, then, to be found the facts of science which “prove with considerable certainty” the contrary of what you acknowledge to be the fact? Is your method of reasoning a mere oscillation between contradictories?

Büchner. “We may hope that future investigations will throw more light on the subject” (ibid.)

Reader. Very well. But, if this is the case, surely no “fact of science” proves, as yet, the spontaneous evolution of life from inorganic matter. And you may be certain that the future investigations of science will not give the lie to the investigations of the past.

Büchner. “Our present knowledge is, however, sufficient to render it highly probable, nay, perhaps morally certain, that a spontaneous generation exists, and that higher forms have gradually and slowly become developed from previously existing lower forms, always determined by the state of the earth, but without the immediate influence of a higher power” (ibid.)

Reader. All this I have already answered; and I am rather tired, doctor, of repeating the same remarks over and over again. Why should you make these empty assertions, if you had real arguments to produce? And, if you have no arguments, what is the use of saying and gainsaying at random, as you do, the same things? Why do you assert that “the immediate influence of a higher power” has nothing to do with the origin of life, when you know that your assertion must remain unproved and can easily be refuted? If “our present knowledge renders it highly probable, nay, perhaps, morally certain, that a spontaneous generation exists,” why did you say the contrary just a few lines before? It is inconceivable that a thinking man should be satisfied with such a suicidal process of arguing.

Büchner. “The law of a gradual development of primeval times is impressed upon the present living organic world” (p. 75). “All animal forms are originally so much alike, that it is often impossible to distinguish the embryo of a sheep from that of a man, whose future genius may perhaps revolutionize the world” (p. 76).

Reader. What does it matter if it is impossible for us to distinguish the embryo of a sheep from that of a man? Is it necessary to see with our eyes what distinguishes the one from the other in order to know that they are different? If we are reasonable, we must be satisfied that their different development proves very conclusively their different constitution.

But let this pass. Your line of argument requires you to show that the first eggs and the first seeds are spontaneous products of blind inorganic forces, without any immediate interference or influence of a higher power. While this is not proved, nothing that you may say can help you out of your false position. You may well allege with Vogt “the general law prevalent through the whole animal world, that the resemblance of a common plan of structure which connects various animals is more striking the nearer they are to their origin, and that these resemblances become fainter in proportion to the progress of their development and their subjection to the elements from which they draw their nourishment” (p. 76). We know this; but what of it? The question is not about the development of life from a germ, but about the development of a germ from inorganic forces; and this is what you try constantly to forget. You say: “The younger the earth was, the more definite and powerful must the influence of external conditions have been; and it is by no means impossible to imagine that the same germs might, by very different external circumstances, have conduced to very heterogeneous developments” (p. 77). Were this as true as it is false, it would not advance your cause by one step; for you here assume the germs as already existing.

Büchner. “The comparatively greater force of nature in former periods is manifested in the singular forms of antediluvian animals as well as in their enormous size” (p. 78).

Reader. Were those animals the product of merely inorganic forces?

Büchner. So it is believed.

Reader. On what ground?

Büchner. “If the contemplation of surrounding nature strikes us so much by its grandeur that we cannot divest ourselves of the idea of a direct creative cause, the origin of this feeling is owing to the fact that we contemplate as a whole the united effects of natural forces through a period of millions of years; and, thinking only of the present, and not of the past, cannot imagine that nature has produced all this out of itself. The law of analogies; the formation of prototypes; the necessary dependence upon external circumstances which organic bodies exhibit in their origin and form; the gradual development of higher organic forms from lower organisms; the circumstance that the origin of organic beings was not a momentary process, but continued through all geological periods; that each period is characterized by creatures peculiar to it, of which some individuals only are continued in the next period—all these relations rest upon incontrovertible facts, and are perfectly irreconcilable with the idea of a personal almighty creative power, which could not have adopted such a slow and gradual labor, and have rendered itself dependent upon the natural phases of the development of the earth” (pp. 84, 85).

Reader. If this is your ground for asserting the origin of organic beings from the mere forces of matter, all I can say is that you should learn a little philosophy before you venture again to write a book for the public. Were you a philosopher, you would know that, independently of “the united effects of natural forces through a period of millions of years,” every grain of dust that floats in the air affords us a sufficient proof of the existence of “a personal almighty creative power”; your “law of analogies” would suggest to you the thought of a primitive source of life; “the formation of prototypes” would compel you to ask, Who formed them? and how could they be formed without an archetypal idea, which matter could not possess? You would see that nothing can be gained by asserting, as you do, that “the gradual development of the higher organic forms from lower organisms rests upon incontrovertible facts,” while you cannot cite a single one in support of your assertion. You would take care not to attribute to the Creator an imaginary waste of time in “the slow and gradual labor” of peopling the earth with organic beings, nor entertain the absurd notion that he would have rendered himself “dependent upon the natural phases of the development of the earth,” merely because his action harmonized with the order of things he had created. Lastly, you would have kept in view that the fact of which you were bound to give an explanation was not the development of new organisms from existing organisms, but the origin of the first organisms themselves from inorganic matter. Why did you leave aside this last point, than which no other had a greater need of demonstration?

Büchner. I may not be a philosopher; but certain it is that “science has never obtained a greater victory over those who assume an extramundane or supernatural principle to explain the problem of existence, than by means of geology and petrifaction. Never has the human mind more decisively saved the rights of nature. Nature knows neither a supernatural beginning nor a supernatural continuance” (p. 88).

Reader. How stupid indeed! Your Masonic science cannot stand on its legs, and you boast of victories! Do you not see, doctor, the absurdity of your pretension? When did science attack religion, and was not defeated? I speak of your infidel science, mind you; for true science has no need of attacking religion. Your science tries “to explain the problem of existence by means of geology and petrifaction” without a supernatural principle. But is the origin of existence a problem? and can it be solved by geology and petrifaction? Historical facts are no problems. You may blot out history, it is true, as you might also put out the light, and remain in the dark to your full satisfaction. Thus everything might become a problem. But can you call this a scientific process? Why do you not appeal to geology and petrifaction to explain, say, the origin of Rome, and thus obtain “a great victory” over history? Yet it would be less absurd to believe that Rome is a work of nature than to believe that life originated in dead inorganic matter. The origin of life and of all other things is a primitive fact, which lies outside the province of geology altogether. Philosophy alone can account for it; and philosophy proclaims that your infidel theory of primeval generation is a shameless imposture.

Büchner. This is a severe remark, sir.

Reader. I will take it back when you shall have proved that the first organic germs originated in inorganic matter without supernatural intervention.

XII. Design In Nature.

Reader. Everything in nature speaks of God; but you, doctor, seem quite insensible to the eloquence of creation.

Büchner. I deny the eloquence of creation. Indeed, “design in nature has ever been, and is still, one of the chief arguments in favor of the theory which ascribes the origin and preservation of the world to a ruling and organizing creative power. Every flower which unfolds its blossoms, every gust of wind which agitates the air, every star which shines by night, every wound which heals, every sound, everything in nature, affords to the believing teleologist an opportunity for admiring the unfathomable wisdom of that higher power. Modern science has pretty much emancipated itself from such empty notions, and abandons these innocent studies to such as delight in contemplating nature rather with the eyes of the feeling than with those of the intellect” (p. 89).

Reader. This is no reason why you should blind yourself to the evidence of the facts. Every one knows that Masonic science hates teleology. No wonder at that. This science emancipates itself, not from empty notions, as you say, but from the very laws of reasoning. Free thought would cease to be free, if it did not emancipate itself from logic. Yet, since free‐ thinkers “abandon to us the innocent study” of teleology, would it not be prudent in them to avoid talking on what they are unwilling to study? How can they know that we contemplate nature “rather with the eyes of the feeling than with those of the intellect”? Do they suppose that order and design are objects of the feeling rather than of the intellect?

Büchner. I will tell you what our conviction is. “The combination of natural materials and forces must, in giving rise to the variety of existing forms, have at the same time become mutually limited and determined, and must have produced corresponding contrivances, which, superficially considered, appear to have been caused by an external power.” Our reflecting reason is the sole cause of this apparent design, which is nothing but the necessary consequence of the combination of natural materials and forces. Thus, as Kant says, “our intellect admires a wonder which it has created itself” (p. 90).

Reader. Beware of blunders, doctor! You have just said that our notion of design in nature was caused by our feeling, not by our intellect; but you now say that the sole cause of that notion is our reflecting reason, and maintain, on Kant’s authority, that the same notion is a creation of our intellect. Can contradiction be more evident?

Again, if our reflecting reason is the sole cause of our perception of design in nature, surely we are right in admitting that there is design in nature, and you are wrong in denying it. For, if the design were only apparent, as you pretend, imagination might be fascinated by it, but “reflecting reason” would never cause us to perceive it. On the other hand, if you distrust “reflecting reason,” what else will you trust in its stead?

Moreover, how did you not observe that Kant’s proposition, “Our intellect admires a wonder which it has created itself,” contains a false supposition? The intellect cannot create to itself any notion of design; it can only perceive it in the things themselves: and it would never affirm the existence of design in nature, unless it perceived its objective reality. Hence our intellect admires a wonder which it perceives, not a wonder which it creates.

Furthermore, you wish us to believe that what we term design “is nothing but a necessary consequence of some combinations.” But why did you omit that all such combinations presuppose definite conditions, and that these conditions originally depend on the will of the Creator? Your book on Force and Matter is nothing but a necessary consequence of a combination of types, ink, and paper. Does it follow that the book is not the work of a designing doctor? You see how defective your reasoning is. You have nearly succeeded in proving the contrary of what you intended.

Büchner. But “how can we speak of design, knowing the objects only in one form and shape, and having no idea how they would appear to us in any other? What natural contrivance is there which might not be imagined to be rendered more perfect in design? We admire natural objects without considering what an infinite variety of other contrivances and forms has slumbered, and is still dormant, in the lap of nature. It depends on an accident whether or not they will enter into existence” (p. 90).

Reader. I apprehend, doctor, that your notion of design is neither clear nor correct. The “form and shape” of the objects is not what we call design. Design, in nature, is the ordination of all things to an end. It is therefore the natural aptitude of things to a definite end, and not their form or shape, that reveals the existence of design in nature. It is not even the absolute perfection of a thing that reveals design: it is only its relative perfection, that is, its proportion to the end for which it is created. Hence we have the right to admire natural objects for their adaptation to certain ends, without considering the infinite variety of other contrivances slumbering in the lap of nature. For, if the existing contrivances are proportionate to their ends, there is design, whatever we may say of the possibility of other contrivances, and even of other words.

Büchner. “Numbers of arrangements in nature, apparently full of design, are nothing but the result of the influence of external natural conditions” (p. 90).

Reader. Yes; but these natural conditions are themselves the result of design, since they are all controlled by a superior mind.

Büchner. “Animals inhabiting the north have a thicker fur than those of the south; and likewise the hair and feathers of animals become thicker in winter and fall out in summer. Is it not more natural to consider these phenomena as the effect of changes in the temperature, than to imagine a heavenly tailor who takes care of the summer and winter wardrobes of the various animals? The stag was not endowed with long legs to enable him to run fast, but he runs fast because his legs are long” (p. 91).

Reader. These remarks are puerile, doctor, and I might dispense with answering them; yet I observe that, as cold does not foster vegetation, it is not in the north, but in the south, that the fur of animals should grow thicker. At any rate, the “heavenly tailor,” who clothes the lilies of the field, does not forget the wardrobe of animals, whether in the north or in the south, in summer or in winter; for his is the world, and from his hand the needs of every creature are supplied. As to the stag, you are likewise mistaken. “He runs fast because his legs are long”; but how does it follow from this that he was not endowed with long legs to enable him to run fast? Does the one exclude the other? Would you say that your works are known because they have been published, and therefore they have not been published to make them known? Your blunder is evident.

Büchner. “Things are just as they are, and we should not have found them less full of design had they been different” (p. 91).

Reader. This, if true, would prove that our “reflecting reason” cannot exclude design from creation. If things had been different, the design would have been different. Even conflicting arrangements may be full of design; even the destruction of the best works of nature may be full of design: for the Author of nature is at liberty to do with it as he pleases. If, for instance, all the new‐born babies were hereafter to be males, we could not escape the consequence that the Author of nature designed to put an end to human generation. Whatever may be the order of things, we cannot deny design without insulting the wisdom of our Maker and Lord.

This consideration suffices to answer all your queries and objections. “Nature,” you say, “has produced a number of beings and contrivances in which no design can be detected” (p. 94). What of that? Can you deny that men act with some design, only because you cannot detect it? There are beings, you add, “which are frequently more apt to disturb than to promote the natural order of things” (ibid.) This merely shows that the natural order of things is changeable—a truth which you had the courage to deny when speaking of miracles.

“The existence of dangerous animals has ever been a thorn in the side of theologians, and the most comical arguments have been used to justify their existence” (ibid.) This is not true. No theologian has ever denied that dangerous animals fulfil some design in nature. And as to “comical arguments,” I think, doctor, that it is in your pages that we can best find them. “We know, on the other hand, that very innocent, or even useful, animals have become extinct, without nature taking any means to preserve their existence” (p. 95). This proves nothing at all. If God’s design could be fulfilled with their extinction, why should they have been preserved? “For what purpose are the hosts of diseases and of physical evils in general? Why that mass of cruelties and horrors which nature daily and hourly practises on her creatures? Could a being acting from goodness and benevolence endow the cat, the spider, and man with a nature capable of these horrors and cruelties?” (p. 96). This is the dark side of the picture; and yet there is design in all this. If I wished to make a “comical argument,” I might say that “the hosts of diseases” are, after all, very profitable to the M.D., who cannot live without them. But the true answer is, that the present order of things, as even the pagan philosophers recognized, is designed as a period of probation preparatory to a better life. We now live on a field of battle, amid trials calculated to stir up our energies and to mend or improve our character. We sow in tears, that we may reap in joy. Such is the design of a Being “acting from goodness and benevolence.” You do not understand this; but such is the truth. As to cats and spiders, you must bear in mind that they are not worse than the wolf, the tiger, or other animals providing for their own subsistence by the destruction of other living beings. If this be “cruelty,” how can you countenance it yourself by allowing the appearance at your table of killed animals?

Your other remarks are scarcely worthy of being quoted, as they prove nothing but your impertinence and presumption. You seem to put to God the dilemma: “Either let Büchner know all the secrets of your providence, or he will rebel against you, and even deny your existence.” You ask, Why this and why that? And because your weak brain fails to suggest the answer, you immediately conclude that things happen to be what they are, without a superior mind controlling their course. This is nice logic indeed! “Why should the vertebral column of man terminate in an appendage perfectly useless to him?” “Why should certain animals possess the organs of both sexes?” “Why are certain other animals so prolific that in a few years they might fill the seas and cover the earth, and find no more space or materials for their offspring?” “Why does nature produce monsters?” These questions may or may not be answered; but our ignorance is not the measure of things, and the existence of design in nature remains an unquestionable fact. Is not the very structure of our own bodies a masterpiece of design? A physician, like you, cannot plead ignorance on the subject.

Büchner. Yet nature cannot have a design in producing monstrosities. “I saw in a veterinary cabinet a goat fully developed in every part, but born without a head. Can we imagine anything more absurd than the development of an animal the existence of which is impossible from the beginning? Prof. Lotze of Göttingen surpasses himself in the following remarks on monstrosities: ‘If the fœtus is without a brain, it would be but judicious, in a force having a free choice, to suspend its action, as this deficiency cannot be compensated. But, inasmuch as the formative forces continue their action, that such a miserable and purposeless creature may exist for a time, appears to us strikingly to prove that the final result always depends upon the disposition of purely mechanical definite forces, which, once set in motion, proceed straight on, according to the law of inertia, until they meet with an obstruction.’ This is plain language” (p. 99). Again, monstrosities “may be produced artificially by injuries done to the fœtus or to the ovum. Nature has no means of remedying such an injury. The impulse once given is, on the contrary, followed in a false direction, and in due time a monstrosity is produced. The purely mechanical process, in such cases, can be easily recognized. Can the idea of a conscious power acting with design be reconciled with such a result? And is it possible that the hand of the Creator should thus be bound by the arbitrary act of man?” (pp. 101, 102).

Reader. That nature “cannot have a design in producing monstrosities” is a groundless assertion, as nature tends always to produce perfect beings, though sometimes its work is marred by obstacles which it has no power to remove. You saw “a goat fully developed in every part, but born without a head.” Here the design is evident. Nature wished to produce a perfect goat as usual, but failed. “If the fœtus is without a brain, it would be judicious, in a force having a free choice, to suspend its action.” This is another groundless assertion; for, if by force you mean the forces of matter, they have no free choice, and cannot suspend their action; and if by force you mean God, you presume too much, as you do not know his design. A fœtus without a brain, like a goat without a head, proclaims the imperfection of natural causes; and this very imperfection proclaims their contingency and the existence of a Creator. Thus, a fœtus without a brain may be the work of design; for God’s design is not to raise nature above all deficiencies, but to show his infinite perfection in the works of an imperfect nature. That “the hand of the Creator should be bound by the arbitrary act of men” is a third groundless assertion. Man may injure the fœtus, and God can restore it to a healthy condition; but nothing obliges him to do so. If he did it, it would be a miracle; and miracles are not in the order of nature. It follows that, when monstrosities are produced, they are not merely the result of mechanical forces, but also of God’s action, without which no causation is possible.

But you ask, “Can the idea of a conscious power acting with design be reconciled with such a result?” I answer that it can be reconciled very well. In fact, those effects which proceed directly from God alone, must indeed be perfect according to their own kind, inasmuch as God’s working is never exposed to failure; but those effects which do not proceed directly from God alone, but are produced by creatures with God’s assistance, may be imperfect, ugly, and monstrous. You may have a beautiful hand; but, if you write with a bad pen, your writing will not be beautiful. You may be a great pianist; but, if your instrument is out of tune, your music will be detestable. Whenever two causes, of which the one is instrumental to the other, concur to the production of the same effect, the imperfection of the instrumental cause naturally entails the imperfection of the effect. God’s action is perfect; but the action of his instruments may be imperfect; and it is owing to such an imperfection that the result may be a monstrosity.

But, to complete this explanation, it is necessary to add that, in the production of their natural effects, creatures are more than instrumental. The primary cause, God, and the secondary causes, creatures, are both principal causes of natural effects; though the latter are subordinate to the influence of the former. Both God and the creature are total causes; that is, the effect entirely depends on the secondary, as it entirely depends on the primary cause, though in a different manner; for the influx of the primary cause is general, while that of the secondary cause is particular. Hence these two causes bear to the effect produced by them the same relation as two premises bear to their conclusion. God’s influence is to the effect produced what a general principle or a major proposition is to the conclusion; whilst the creature’s influence is to the same effect what a minor proposition or the application of the general principle is to the conclusion. Take, for instance, the general truth, “Virtue is a rational good,” as a major proposition. This general truth may be applied in different manners, and lead to different conclusions, good or bad, according as the application is right or wrong. If you subsume, “Temperance is a virtue,” you will immediately obtain the good conclusion that “Temperance is a rational good.” But, if you subsume, “Pride is a virtue,” you will reach the monstrous conclusion that “Pride is a rational good.” Now, this conclusion, however monstrous, could not be drawn without the general principle; and yet its monstrosity does not arise from the general principle, but only from its wrong application. Thus the general principle remains good and true in spite of the bad and false conclusion. And in the same manner the influence of the first cause on natural effects remains good and perfect, though the effects themselves, owing to the influence of the secondary causes, are imperfect and monstrous.

You now understand, I hope, how the exceptional production of monstrosities can be reconciled with the idea of a conscious power acting with design.

XIII. Brain And Soul.

Reader. And now, doctor, please tell me what is your doctrine on the human soul.

Büchner. The human soul is “a product of matter” (p. 132)—“a product of the development of the brain” (p. 197).

Reader. Indeed?

Büchner. “The brain is the seat and organ of thought; its size, shape, and structure are in exact proportion to the magnitude and power of its intellectual functions” (p. 107).

Reader. What do you mean by thought?

Büchner. Need I explain a term so universally known?

Reader. The term is known, but it is used more or less properly by different persons. Our minds may deal with either sensible or intellectual objects. When we have seen a mountain, we may think of it, because we have received from it an impression in our senses which leaves a vestige of itself in our organism, and enables us to represent to ourselves the object we have perceived. In this case our thought is an exercise of our imagination. When, on the contrary, we think of some abstract notion or relation which does not strike our senses, and of which no image has been pictured in our organic potencies, then our thought is an exercise of intellectual power. In both cases our brain has something to do with the thought. For in the first case our thought is an act of the sensitive faculty, which reaches its object as it is pictured, or otherwise impressed, in our organic potencies, of which the headquarters are in the brain. In the second case our thought is an act of the intellectual faculty, which detects the intelligible relations existing between the objects already perceived, or between notions deduced from previous perceptions; and this act, inasmuch as it implies the consideration of objects furnished to the mind by sensible apprehension, cannot but be accompanied by some act of the imaginative power making use of the images pictured in the organic potencies. Now, doctor, when you say that “the brain is the seat and organ of thought,” do you mean that both the intellectual and the imaginative thought reside in the brain and are worked out by the brain?

Büchner. Of course. For “comparative anatomy shows that through all classes of animals, up to man, the intellectual energy is in proportion to the size and material quality of the brain” (p. 107).

Reader. You are quite mistaken. The brain is an organ of the imagination, not of the intellect. And even as an organ of imagination it is incompetent to think or imagine, as it is only the instrument of a higher power—that is, of a soul. To say that the brain is the organ of intellectual thought is to assume that intellectual relations are pictured on the brain; which is evidently absurd, since intellectual relations cannot be pictured on material organs. Every impression made on our brain is a definite impression, corresponding to the definite objects from which it proceeds. If our intellectual thought were a function of the brain, we could not think, except of those same definite objects from which we have received our definite impressions. How do you, then, reconcile this evident inference with the fact that we conceive intellectually innumerable things from which we have never received a physical impression? We think of justice, of humanity, of truth, of causality, etc., though none of these abstractions has the power to picture itself on our brain. It is therefore impossible to admit that the intellectual thought is a function of the brain. With regard to the working of the imagination, I concede that the brain plays the part of an instrument; but how can you explain such a working without a higher principle? If our soul is nothing but “a product of matter,” since matter is inert, our soul must be inert, and since matter has only mechanical powers, our soul must be limited to mechanical action, that is, to the production of local movement. Now, can you conceive imagination as a merely mechanical power, or thought as the production of local movement?

Büchner. Yes. “Thought,” says Moleschott, “is a motion of matter” (p. 135).

Reader. It is perfectly useless, doctor, to make assertions which cannot be proved. Moleschott is no authority; he is a juggler like yourself, and works for the furtherance of the same Masonic aims. Let him say what he likes. We cannot but laugh at a thinker who can mistake his thought for local motion.

Büchner. You, however, cannot deny that, while we are thinking, our brain is doing work. But how can it do work without motion?

Reader. I do not deny that, while we are thinking, our brain is doing work. I merely deny that the movements of the brain are thoughts. As long as we live, soul and body work together, and we cannot think without some organic movements accompanying the operation. This every one admits. But you suppress the thinking principle, and retain only the organic movements. How is this possible? If thought consists merely of organic movements of the brain, how does the motion begin? The brain cannot give to itself a new mode of being. To account for its movements you must point out a distinct moving power, either intrinsic or extrinsic, either a sensible object or the thinking principle itself. When the motion is received from a sensible object, the movements of the brain determine the immediate perception of the object; and when the motion results from the operation of the thinking principle, the movements of the brain determine the phantasm corresponding to the object of the actual thought. Thus immediate perception, and thought, or recollection, are both rationally explained; whilst, if the thinking subject were the brain itself, how could we recollect our past ideas? When the movement caused by an object has been superseded by the movement caused by a different object, how can it spontaneously revive? Matter is inert; and nothing but a power distinct from it can account for the spontaneous awakening of long‐forgotten thoughts.

Büchner. Matter is inert, but is endowed with forces, and wherever there are many particles of matter they can communicate movement to one another. Hence, “in the same manner as the steam‐engine produces motion, so does the organic complication of force‐endowed materials produce in the animal body a sum of effects so interwoven as to become a unit; and is then by us called spirit, soul, thought” (p. 136).

Reader. Pshaw! Are spirit, soul, and thought synonymous? Do thoughts think? When you perceive that two and two make four, is this thought the thinking principle? And if the soul is “a sum of mechanical effects so interwoven as to become a unit,” how can you avoid the consequence that the soul consists of nothing but local movement? But if the soul is local movement, it has no causality, and cannot be the principle of life; for local movement is only a change of place, and has nothing to do with perception, judgment, reasoning, or any other operation of the thinking principle. Can local movement say, I am? I will? I doubt? Can local movement recollect the past, take in the present, foresee the possible and the future? Can local movement deliberate, love, hate, say yes or no? To these and such like questions science, reason, and experience give an unequivocal answer, which the president of a medical association should have carefully meditated before venturing to write on the subject.

Büchner. Yet “the mental capacity of man is enlarged in proportion to the material growth of his brain, and is diminished according to the diminution of its substance in old age” (p. 110). “It is a fact known to everybody, that the intelligence diminishes with increasing age, and that old people become childish.... The soul of the child becomes developed in the same degree as the material organization of its brain becomes more perfect” (p. 111). “Pathology furnishes us with an abundance of striking facts, and teaches us that no part of the brain exercising the function of thought can be materially injured without producing a corresponding mental disturbance” (p. 119). “The law that brain and soul are necessarily connected, and that the material expansion, shape, and quality of the former stands in exact proportion to the intensity of the mental functions, is strict and irrefutable, and the mind, again, exercises an essential influence on the growth and development of its organ, so that it increases in size and power just in the same manner as any muscle is strengthened by exercise” (p. 122). “The whole science of man is a continuous proof in favor of the connection of brain and mind; and all the verbiage of philosophical psychologists in regard to the separate existence of the soul, and its independence of its material organ, is without the least value in opposition to the power of facts. We can find no exaggeration in what Friedreich, a well‐known writer on psychology, says on this point: ‘The exhibition of power cannot be imagined without a material substratum. The vital power of man can only manifest its activity by means of its material organs. In proportion as the organs are manifold, so will be the phenomena of vital power, and they will vary according to the varied construction of the material substratum. Hence, mental function is a peculiar manifestation of vital power, determined by the peculiar construction of cerebral matter. The same power which digests by means of the stomach, thinks by means of the brain’ ” (pp. 124, 125).

Reader. Your manner of reasoning, doctor, is not calculated to bring conviction, as every one of your arguments contains a fallacy. Your first argument is: The brain is the measure of the thinking power; and therefore the thinking power, or the soul, is a result of organic development. The second is: Brain and mind are necessarily connected; and therefore the soul cannot have a separate existence. The third is: The vital power of man can only manifest its activity by means of its material organs; and therefore the soul needs to be supported by a material substratum. Such substantially is the drift of your argumentation. Now, I maintain that the three arguments are merely three sophisms.

First, the brain is not the measure of the thinking power. The mental capacity of man, and the thinking power of the soul, are not exactly the same thing. The first implies both soul and body, the second regards the soul alone; the first presents to us the musician with his instrument, the second exhibits only the musician himself. The brain is the organ, the soul is the organist. You cannot reasonably pretend that the musical talent, genius, and skill of an organist increase and decrease with the number and quality of the pipes which happen to be in the organ. All you can say is that the musical talent of the organist will have a better chance of a favorable show with a rich rather than with a poor instrument. The organ, therefore, is not the measure of the ability of the organist, and the brain is not the measure of the thinking power. Hence from the fact that the mental capacity of man is enlarged, as you say, in proportion to the material growth of his brain, we have no right to conclude that the thinking principle, the soul, grows with the brain; the right conclusion is that the soul, being in possession of a better instrument, finds itself in better conditions for the exercise of its intrinsic power. The organ is improved and the music is better; but the organist is the same.

Secondly, brain and mind are at present necessarily connected. Does it follow that therefore the soul cannot have a separate existence? By no means. If this conclusion were logical, you might on the same ground affirm also that the body cannot have a separate existence; for the body is as necessarily connected with the soul as the soul is with the body. The reason why your conclusion cannot hold is that the connection of body and soul is necessary only inasmuch as both are indispensable for the constitution of the human nature. But the human nature is not immortal; the soul must quit the body when the organism becomes unfit for the operations of animal life; and therefore the connection of the soul with the body is not absolutely, but only hypothetically, necessary. The soul has its own existence distinct from the existence of the body, for the soul is a substance no less than the body; and therefore it is no less competent to have a separate existence. You deny, I know, that the soul is a substance distinct from the body; but what is the weight of such a denial? What you speculatively deny in your book, you practically admit in the secret of your conscience whenever you say I am. It is not the body that says I; it is the soul: and it is not an accident that perceives self; it is a substance.

Thirdly, the vital power of man, as you say, can manifest its activity only by means of its material organs. This is true; for, so long as the soul is in the body, it must work together with it, according to the axiom, “Every agent acts according as it is in act.” But does the work of the vital power in the material organs warrant your conclusion that the soul needs to be supported by a material substratum? Quite the contrary. For, what needs a material substratum is an accident, and no accident is active; and therefore the vital power, whose activity is manifested in the material organs, is no accident, and therefore needs no material substratum, and, while existing in the material organs, exists no less in itself. Had you considered that the soul, which manifests its activity by means of its material organs, exercises the same activity within itself also, you would have easily discovered that the soul has a being independent of its material organs, and that these organs are the organs of sensibility, not of intelligence.

But I am not going to make a dissertation on the soul, as my object is only to show the inconclusiveness of your reasoning. Your chapter on “Brain and Soul,” with its twenty‐eight pages of medical and physiological erudition, offers no proof of your assumption beyond the three sophisms I have refuted. All the rest consists of facts which have not the least bearing on the question. “The whole science of man,” as you say, “is a continuous proof in favor of the connection of brain and mind.” This is what your facts demonstrate; but your object was to show that “the soul is a product of the development of the brain”; and this your facts do not demonstrate, as is evident from your need of resorting to fallacies to make them lie to truth. It is on the strength of such fallacies that you make bold to despise your opponents, forgetting all your shortcomings, and committing a new blunder in the very act of assailing the spiritualistic philosophers. According to you, “the whole science of man is a continuous proof in favor of the connection of brain and mind; and all the verbiage of philosophical psychologists in regard to the separate existence of the soul and its independence of its material organ is without the least value in opposition to the power of facts.” You should be ashamed, doctor, of this style of reasoning.

Büchner. Why, if you please?

Reader. Because, first, the connection of brain and mind, as proved by “the whole science of man,” does not authorize you to deny the separate existence of the soul and its substantial independence of the material organs. Secondly, because to call “verbiage” those reasonings which all the great men of all times have, after careful scrutiny, considered as unanswerable, to which they gave their fullest assent, and against which you are incapable of advancing a single argument which has not already been answered by philosophers, is on your part an implicit confession of philosophical ignorance. Thirdly, because it is extremely mean to proclaim your own victory, while you have carefully avoided the combat. You have, in fact, prudently dissembled all the reasons by which the substantiality and spirituality of the human soul are usually proved in psychology; and, to give yourself the appearance of a champion, you have set up a few ridiculous sophisms—as, “the material simplicity of the organs of thought” (p. 125)—to figure as philosophical objections, which they have never been, and never will be; thus reminding us of the great Don Quixote fighting against the wind‐mill. Fourthly, because, while boasting of the support which some physiological facts seem to lend to your materialistic theory, you have entirely ignored all those other facts of the intellectual life which were calculated to expose your sophistry and overthrow your conclusions. This is dishonest, doctor; for you cannot plead ignorance in excuse.

Büchner. We proceed from opposite principles, sir; hence we must disagree in our conclusions. It is a law “that mind and brain necessarily determine each other, and that they stand to each other in inseparable causal relations” (p. 139).

Reader. This goes against you; for, if the mind determines the brain, the mind must be a special substance.

Büchner. “As there is no bile without liver, no urine without kidneys, so is there no thought with out a brain. Mental activity is a function of the cerebral substance. This truth is simple, clear, easily supported by facts, and indisputable” (ibid.)

Reader. Oh! oh! have you forgotten my previous answer? So long as matter remains inert, it is vain to pretend that matter is the thinking principle.

Büchner. “Matter is not dead, unquickened, and lifeless, but, on the contrary, full of the most stirring life” (p. xcix.)

Reader. A great discovery!—if true.

Büchner. “Not an atom of it is without motion, but in constant uninterrupted movement and activity. Nor is matter gross, as simple philosophers often call it, but, on the contrary, so infinitely fine and complicated in its composition as to surpass all our conceptions. Nor is it worthless or vile, but rather the most precious thing we know of; it is not without feeling, but is full of the most acute sensibility in the creatures it brings forth; nor, lastly, is it devoid of spirit or thought, but, on the contrary, develops in the organs destined thereto by the peculiar kind and delicacy of their composition the highest mental potencies known to us. What we call life, sensibility, organization, and thought, are only the peculiar and higher tendencies and activities of matter, acquired in the course of many millions of years by well‐known natural processes, and which in certain organisms or combinations result in the self‐consciousness of matter. Wherefore matter is not unconscious, as is often proclaimed” (pp. xcix., c.)

Reader. Enough! enough of such nonsense. Do not ruin what little reputation you still enjoy as a scientific man. What will the world say when it discovers that you know nothing about the inertia of matter, which is the basis of physics and mechanics? or when it hears that you confound movement with activity, and activity with life? Every one knows that life implies movement, because the more perfect implies the less perfect; but who ever heard that mechanical movement implies life? Is a stone living because it falls to the ground? Again, how would any one who is not an idiot consider the matter on which we tread “the most precious thing we know of”? Would you sell your honor for a cup of coffee and a pound of sugar? That matter is not without feeling, not without spirit, and not without thought, is a demonstrated blunder, of which I need not repeat the refutation. But who can hear without merriment that sensibility, organization, and thought are “tendencies” of matter? and that they have been acquired by matter “in the course of many millions of years”? and that this acquisition was brought about “by well‐known natural processes”? I repeat, doctor, that such trash will ruin your reputation. Buffoons and charlatans may be allowed to indulge in any amount of absurdities; but a doctor has not the same privilege. Hence it is not safe for you to speak of well‐known processes, by which matter becomes “conscious” of itself, when the whole scientific world knows nothing of such processes, and may challenge you to substantiate your foolish assertion.

I will tell you what is really well known. It is what a celebrated writer teaches about the immateriality of the soul. “There is nothing,” he says, “in this lower world that can account for the origin of our souls; for there is nothing in our souls which admits of mixture or composition, nothing which arises from the earth or is made of it, nothing which partakes of the nature of air, or water, or fire. For nothing is to be found in these natural things which has the power of remembering, of understanding, or of thinking—nothing which can hold the past, forecast the future, or embrace the present. The power of doing this is divine, and its possession by man can never be accounted for, unless we admit that it is derived from God himself. Accordingly, the soul is a distinct nature, and has nothing common with the material things with which we are acquainted.”(23) What do you think of this passage?

Büchner. It smacks of ultramontanism.

Reader. Just so! Bravo! Marcus Tullius Cicero an ultramontane!!

To Be Continued.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

A Legend Of Alsace

From The French Of M. Le Vicomte De Bussierre.

“I do love these ancient ruins. We never tread upon them but we set Our foot upon some reverend history.”

—Webster’s Duchess of Malfy.

I.

Six leagues from Strasbourg a high mountain, pyramidal in form, rises abruptly over the chain of the Vosges. On its summit are some antique churches and chapels and an old convent. The fertile country at its foot is peopled by a great number of smiling villages and several small towns. Its sides are covered with fine forests, in the midst of which may be seen the ruined walls of old monasteries, the crenellated and picturesque towers of several mediæval castles, and the débris of an ancient wall of pagan times. This mountain, called in ancient times Altitona or Hohenbourg, was once the principal bulwark of Alsace. In the VIIth century it received the name of Mount St. Odile, and became a celebrated resort for pilgrims.

A shady pathway, and not of difficult ascent, leads to the top of Mount St. Odile, which commands a view as remarkable for extent as for interest and variety. The whole of Alsace, and a large part of the Grand Duchy of Baden, are spread out at the feet of the spectator; bounded on one side by the jagged chain of the Black Forest, whose blue outlines are seen on the horizon, and on the other by the Vosges, which are rounder and more pleasing to the eye. A dense forest of pines covers the Vosges, and on all sides, even on the highest crests, may be seen the ruins of old feudal castles which hundreds of years ago played their rôle in the history of the province. The Rhine passes through the middle of this magnificent valley. On each shore are forests, vineyards, meadows, and admirably cultivated fields. A line of dazzling brightness marks the sinuous course of the river, which, sometimes dividing, forms a great number of verdant isles.

The dense population of the country around gives an idea of its richness and fertility. Orchards surround the villages; rustic churches, covered with deep‐hued tiles, rise up from the smiling groves; more imposing belfries mark the towns, and the magnificent spire of Strasbourg points out, through the transparent vapor, the old capital of the province. The whole plain is furrowed by fine roads in every direction, which, bordered by walnut‐trees, form an immense net‐work of verdure. Towards the north the valley of the Rhine is lost in the vapory distance; on the south the Vosges blend with the Jura mountains; and in perfectly clear weather the glaciers of Switzerland may be seen at sunset, like gilded clouds on the horizon.

This landscape is superb at all times, but is particularly beautiful on a Sunday morning in spring‐time. A fresh verdure then covers the earth, and the fruit‐trees, all in bloom, give the whole of Alsace a parure de fête. The far‐off sound of the bells ringing in every direction to call the people to prayer, and the varied sounds of the plain brought up by the wind, mingle with the mysterious voices of nature, penetrating the soul with a subduing and profound sentiment, and filling it with ineffable peace.

Such is the aspect of the region where took place most of the facts I am about to relate. But, before speaking of the development of the monastic orders in Alsace, and of the convent of Hohenbourg and its illustrious foundress in particular, I will briefly relate the details that have been preserved respecting the introduction of Christianity into the province of which we are speaking.

Tradition attributes the origin of the Alsacian churches to the immediate successors of the apostles; but others date the Mission of S. Materne (and his companions Euchaire and Valère) among the Triboci and the Nemetes, and that of S. Clement among the Mediomatrici, only from the end of the IIId century or the beginning of the IVth. They were the real apostles of the valley of the Rhine. Some think they were called the disciples of S. Peter merely to show that they were sent by his successors, and that their teachings were in conformity with those of the head of the church.(24)

However this may be, there is no doubt that S. Materne founded the first Christian churches of Alsace upon the ruins of old pagan temples in the forests of Novient and in the towns of Helvetia and Argentorat.

Shortly after the conversion of Constantine, the Holy See sent Amandus and Jesse, the first as bishop of Argentoratum (Strasbourg) and the other of Augusta Nemetum (Speyer), of which city Constantius Chlorus is considered the restorer or founder.

Among the eighty‐four bishops assembled at the Council of Cologne in the year 346, the names of Jesse of the Nemetes and Amandus of Argentoratum are found. S. Amandus, the first known pastor of Strasbourg, is at the head of a long line of bishops who have given an example of true holiness, and who have a claim on the admiration and gratitude of posterity. But almost immediately after the death of Constantine the Great the spread of the Christian religion in Alsace was arrested, partly owing to the rulers, and partly to the bloody wars of which the Rhine valley was the theatre, especially the invasion of Atilla, who either massacred the bishops or carried them off with their flocks. This caused a vacancy in the See of Strasbourg for many years. It passed under the spiritual jurisdiction of Metz till 510, when the see was re‐established.

The great victory of Clovis over the Germans, and his baptism, gave rise to a new epoch in the history of Alsace and in the spread of Christianity. Argentoratum, which had been devastated by the barbarians, was restored by Clovis and resumed its importance. The kings of the Franks built a palace there which they often occupied.

Clovis re‐established the episcopal see at the beginning of the VIth century, and laid the foundations of the cathedral in 510. From his time the Christian religion spread more rapidly in the province, and was soon professed by the whole country.

II.

Alsace shared in the development of monastic orders throughout Western Europe. In the VIIth and VIIIth centuries a great number of convents and pious retreats were erected in that province. The epoch of the early martyrs was past, but other martyrs succeeded them, separating themselves joyfully from the world and imposing on themselves the greatest privations. That was the time of wonderful legends and acts of personal renunciation. The life of S. Odile is a complete picture of that epoch. In relating it I shall endeavor to preserve the naïve and pious simplicity of the chronicles from which it is derived, and which are the faithful expression of the spirit of the times, and of the character and manners of the people.

Erchinald, son of Ega, and major‐domo of the king, was, say the old historians, one of the noblest as well as most powerful lords of the time of Dagobert I. Leudet, or Leutrich, son of Erchinald, married Hultrude, a princess of the royal race of Burgundy. Their son, Adalric, was the father of S. Odile and the progenitor of some of the most illustrious houses of Europe. Adalric married Berswinde, the niece, through her mother, of S. Léger, Bishop of Autun, who suffered martyrdom in 685. Bilibilde, Berswinde’s sister, or, as some say, her aunt, ascended the throne of Ostrasia by her marriage with Childeric II. The king, united to Adalric by the tie of friendship as well as of relationship, invested him with the duchy of Alsace at the death of Duke Boniface. Adalric established his residence at Oberehnheim, a town at the foot of Mount Altitona.

Few men have been depicted in such various colors as Adalric. Many ancient writers represent him as a ferocious, cruel, and overbearing lord. Other chroniclers, on the contrary, proclaim him as generous as he was just and humane. The opinion of F. Hugo Peltre appears to be the most correct, and it is confirmed by the different traits of the prince which have come to our knowledge. He says Adalric was a man upright and sincere, but tenacious in his designs. He showed himself to be a sincere Christian, and in spite of his rank sought no pretext for dispensation from the duties which his religion imposed upon him, but he had not entirely laid aside the barbarous manners of his time.

Berswinde, whose rank equalled that of her husband, is represented by all the authors of the life of S. Odile as one of the most accomplished women of her day. They say her heart was filled with charity and the fear of God. The deference accorded to her rank did not affect her piety or fill her with pride. She was a perfect model of Christian humility. She made use of her wealth to do good. Prosperity inspired her with tender gratitude towards Him who is the source of every blessing. Every day she was in the habit of retiring for several hours to the most secluded part of the palace, for the purpose of prayer and meditation.

Adalric and Berswinde both longed for a more retired residence, where they could pass a part of the year away from the bustle of the town and the fatigue of business. The duke ordered his followers to explore the neighboring forests to find a suitable spot for a castle and a church. They soon informed him that the summit of Mt. Altitona, which rose above Oberehnheim, was covered with the débris of ancient buildings which could be made use of in the construction of a vast and magnificent residence. Adalric wished to ascertain by personal observation the correctness of this report, and, after an hour and a half’s march, he reached the place mentioned. It was a great esplanade, in a wild but imposing situation, surrounded by very high walls of enormous stones rudely put together, evidently by the most ancient inhabitants of the province. Gigantic pines and old oaks had grown up with wonderful luxuriance among these old ruins. But the buildings that covered the esplanade had by no means fallen entirely to ruin, as his followers had reported. They were partly ruined, to be sure, but a château and an elegant rotunda, both of the Roman style, still remained entire.(25)

The duke, charmed with the beauty of the place, immediately knelt down and thanked God aloud for having directed him to this spot. Then returning at once to Oberehnheim he despatched that very same day a large number of workmen to the mountain of Hohenbourg to commence the work.

Adalric, changing his original intention of building a large church, had the antique rotunda magnificently repaired. It was then consecrated by S. Léger, Bishop of Autun, and dedicated to the holy Patrons of Alsace. A new chapel erected in honor of the Apostles Peter and Paul, the holy protectors of Oberehnheim, was likewise consecrated by the holy bishop and endowed by Adalric. The walls of enclosure were likewise repaired, as well as the old château, in which the duke and duchess habitually passed the summer months.

III.

Though the wealth and power of Adalric had increased from year to year till he was invested with the hereditary fief of the vast duchy of Alsace, yet one blessing was denied him. He had no heir to whom he could transmit his wealth and title, and this profoundly afflicted him. Berswinde, too, sympathized in his disappointment, for it is especially natural for the great and powerful to wish to perpetuate their name and race. They both did all that devotion and confidence in God inspire holy souls to do. They had recourse to fasts, pilgrimages, and generous alms. Often prostrate together at the foot of the altar they shed floods of tears, and besought the Lord to hear their ardent prayer. At length, after some years of married life (in the year 657, or, as some say, 661), Berswinde gave birth—not to the prince so ardently longed for and whose advent was anticipated with the joy and prayers of the whole province—but to a little blind girl....

Adalric’s happiness gave place to a profound despair, and the paternal love he had felt in advance for his child was changed into violent hatred. He broke forth into bitter plaints. “God is angry with us,” said he, “and wishes to punish us for some grave transgression; for he has overwhelmed us with an opprobrium without precedent among those of my race, and which would forever tarnish the glory of my house, should the birth of this child be known.”

Berswinde replied: “Beware, my lord, of abandoning yourself to anger and despair. Remember that when the disciples of our Saviour questioned him respecting the man who was blind from his birth, he said to them: ‘Neither hath this man sinned, nor his parents; but that the works of God should be made manifest in him.’ Let us not murmur, then, against the decrees of the Almighty. Until now he hath loaded us with benefits. Let us bless his holy name in affliction as well as in joy.”

This mild and wise reply gave Adalric no consolation. The unfortunate duchess only succeeded in calming his excitement by consenting to keep the birth of her daughter a secret, to have her reared away from home, and never to mention her before her husband.

The duke thought he was satisfying the law of nature by permitting the child to live, and, acting according to the requirements of his rank and his honor, in condemning her to vegetate in obscurity and poverty. He had it proclaimed, at the sound of the trumpet, in the town of Oberehnheim that the duchess had given birth to a still‐born child.

But Berswinde, remembering that one of her former attendants, upon whose attachment she could rely, was married and now living in the borough of Scherwiller, sent for her secretly. She came at once, and, finding her mistress profoundly afflicted and shedding bitter tears, pledged herself to bring up the child. Berswinde’s courage revived at this, and, kissing the babe, she placed it herself in the arms of her faithful follower, commending it to her “dear Saviour the Lord Jesus, and to the Blessed Virgin Mary.”

The nurse carried the child away, but in spite of Adalric’s care to conceal from his subjects the birth of the princess—in spite of the oblivion in which its second mother sought to bury its existence, it was almost impossible to prevent such a secret from transpiring in time. Five or six months had hardly elapsed when it was reported throughout the country that there was a blind child of unknown origin at Scherwiller, which evidently belonged to people of high rank, judging from the care it received. Some one recalled that the woman who took care of this mysterious child was formerly in Berswinde’s service, and noticed that its age coincided with the time of the duchess’ illness. The nurse lent an attentive ear to this gossip, and did not fail to report it to Berswinde. The latter, fearing the report might reach Adalric’s ears, ordered her old attendant to leave her home at once, and repair to the Convent of Baume in Franche Comté, a few leagues from Besançon, where the child would be readily received and brought up. Berswinde had two motives for preferring this monastery to all other places of safety: she hoped its distance would ensure the child’s safety, and the abbess was the sister of the duchess’ mother.

The Abbey of Baume was not then under any particular rule;(26) but prayer, reading, the chanting of the Psalms, the observance of the evangelical counsels, the mortification of the senses, and manual labor, continually occupied the humble recluses who lived there.

The young exile arrived safely at this peaceful asylum. She lived there tranquilly, far from the tumult of the world, and received an education fitted for developing the treasures of grace with which her soul was enriched. Her destiny was evident almost from her cradle. The names consecrated by religion were the first to strike her ears and for her tongue to utter, and her first language was that of prayer. Her pious aunt, and all who surrounded her, only spoke to her of holy things, to which she lent a surprising attention, as if interiorly enlightened respecting divine truths. Her mind was precocious and clear, and her memory extraordinary. She understood the duties of a Christian better at the age of four or five than many grown‐up persons.

It was thus, away from the world, that the daughter of Adalric became from childhood the model of piety, drawing pure instructions, as from an inexhaustible source, from the noble superior of Baume.

IV.

While these things were taking place in Franche Comté, Deodatus, Bishop of Nevers, and son of S. Hunna, arrived in Alsace to preach the Gospel and join the hermits who officiated at Novient (Ebersheim‐Münster), the most ancient church of the province, and founded by S. Materne. The preaching of Deodatus drew an immense audience, among whom Adalric and Berswinde were the most assiduous. The duke, desirous of giving a public testimony of the benefit he had derived from the holy bishop’s sermons, resolved to build at Novient a convent and church in honor of SS. Peter and Paul, and endow them with ample revenues.

He begged Deodatus to superintend the construction of the new buildings. The work was commenced at once. Adalric refused nothing necessary for its completion, and Deodatus, wishing the church to be very solid, used in its construction the débris of an old pagan temple in a neighboring forest, which he razed to the ground. S. Materne had long before overthrown the idols.(27)

When the church was finished, Deodatus and Adalric convoked, not only the Alsacian clergy, but a great number beyond the Vosges, that the pomp of the ceremony of consecration might equal the grandeur of the solemnity. The duke and duchess came from Hohenbourg with a great retinue. The duchess brought rich ornaments for the altar, and sacerdotal vestments which she had partly wrought with her own hands. After the consecration the duke gave S. Deodatus a sealed document conferring a great number of farms on the new cloister, for the support of the Benedictine monks who were to inhabit it and vow themselves to the worship of the Almighty.(28)

These events happened about the year 666. The franchises of Ebersheim‐ Münster were afterwards confirmed by Charlemagne.(29)

But let us return to the blind girl of the Convent of Baume, who was destined by heaven to be the greatest glory of her race. Cut off from the world by her infirmity and by her position, her life was one long prayer—one long act of adoration. Nevertheless she was twelve or thirteen years old before she was baptized, as all the most reliable chroniclers declare.

It was then, as now, the custom to baptize children shortly after their birth, and it is not to be supposed that Berswinde would neglect the precepts of the church, or be more solicitous for the temporal welfare of her child than for her eternal salvation. It is probable that the ceremony, being private in consequence of Adalric’s anger, consisted only in the application of water, or that there was some grave omission rendering the baptism null. However this may be, it was in the designs of Providence, as one of the old chroniclers says, that things should happen thus in order that a miracle might mark the solemn admission of the young princess into the Christian fold.

In those days, adds our historian, there lived in Bavaria a holy bishop named Erhard, on whom rested the divine blessing. This prelate had a vision in which he was commanded to go at once to the Convent of Baume. A voice said to him: “Thou wilt find a young servant of the Lord, whom thou shalt baptize and give the name of Odile. At the moment of baptism her eyes, which hitherto have been closed, shall open to the light.”

S. Erhard did not delay obeying this order, but, instead of taking the most direct route to Franche Comté, he passed over the steep mountains of Alsace and Lorraine, that he might see his brother Hidulphe, of high repute in the Christian world, who had voluntarily resigned the dignity of Archbishop of Treves to retire into the wilderness and found the Abbey of Moyenmoutier, where he might end his days in solitude and prayer. Erhard wished his brother to accompany him in his mission. An ancient tradition relates that, when the two brothers met, they flew into each other’s arms, and during their long embrace their souls held an intimate and mysterious communion which made words unnecessary. Hidulphe immediately prepared to follow Erhard, that he might witness the miracle about to be wrought by his means.

When the two holy pilgrims arrived at Baume, they asked to see the blind girl, and, on beholding her, they both exclaimed, as if animated by one spirit: “O Lord Jesus! who art the true light that enlightenest every man who cometh into the world, let thy mercy be diffused, like a beneficent dew, upon this thy young handmaiden, and grant sight to the eyes of her body, as well as light to her soul!”

Proceeding then to examine the catechumen, they found her thoroughly instructed in all the dogmas of the Christian religion, and were edified by the intelligence and piety manifested in her replies.

The ceremony of baptism took place a few days after. All the inmates of the abbey assembled in the church, and S. Hidulphe presented the young girl at the font. Erhard, having said the prescribed prayers, proceeded to anoint her eyes with the holy chrism, saying: “Henceforth let the eyes of thy body, as well as those of thy soul, be enlightened, in the name of Jesus Christ our Lord.” The nuns, kneeling around the church, awaited in profound silence and prayer the operation of the miracle, and their expectation was not vain; for, the moment Erhard ceased speaking, the child’s eyelids unclosed, her large blue eyes opened to the light, and her first look, which displayed the purity of her soul, was directed heavenward, as if to thank the Almighty for the favor he had accorded her.

All the witnesses praised God aloud. Erhard gave the princess the name of Odile, as he had been commanded. Then, turning towards the assembly, he recalled to their minds that there is no instance recorded until the time of Christ of the opening of the eyes of one born blind. “The miracle you have just witnessed,” added he, “is likewise the work of our beneficent Saviour. Beware of imitating the Jews, whose hearts closed more and more, though they saw the wonderful deeds Christ wrought before them, that they might be converted. God has permitted you to behold the wonderful event that has just happened, in order that your spiritual eyes may also be opened, and you may be the better disposed to serve the Divine Master, who protects his servants in so extraordinary a manner, and permits hardened sinners to be cast forth into eternal darkness!” Then, having blessed a veil, the prelate placed it on Odile’s head, giving her at the same time a golden cassette containing precious relics, and predicting that Heaven reserved still greater favors for her if she carefully preserved the treasures of grace she had already received.

Hidulphe and Erhard left Baume as soon as their mission was accomplished; but before their departure they recommended the abbess and her companions to watch the unfolding of the rare flower which grew in their peaceful cloister. Then, giving a last benediction to Odile, Erhard said to her: “O my dear daughter! may we hereafter, through the mercy of Almighty God, be reunited in the kingdom of heaven, and taste the joys to which we are all called!”

V.

The two brothers, having learned the secret of Odile’s birth, decided to inform Adalric of her miraculous cure, hoping to awaken in his heart the feeling of paternal love. The retreat in which Hidulphe lived being only a few hours’ distance from Hohenbourg, he was entrusted with the commission to the Duke of Alsace, and Erhard returned directly to his diocese, where the miraculous cure of Odile soon became known, and contributed greatly to the propagation of the faith.

Meanwhile, Hidulphe repaired to Oberehnheim, and, as he possessed in the highest degree the power of influencing men’s hearts, and his words generally made a profound impression on high and low, he flattered himself that, in informing the duke of what had just happened at Baume, his feelings towards the young exile would be immediately changed.

But the affection of Adalric was fastened on other objects. Notwithstanding the gravity of his fault, the blessing of Heaven continued to rest on his house. After sending away the poor blind child in anger and disdain, the duchess had borne him in succession four sons and a daughter named Roswinde, who by their sanctity became the ornaments of the church and of their country. From them sprang most of the royal families of Europe.

The duke refused to send for Odile. Perhaps, without owning it to himself, he experienced a certain fear of one so miraculously healed, and whom he had so unjustly banished. Nevertheless, he was not entirely insensible to the news, and, wishing to testify his gratitude to Hidulphe, he gave him the lands of Feldkirch for his abbey of Moyenmoutier.

Odile, then, continued after her baptism to live in the Convent of Baume. Her devotion, her indifference to the things of this world, and her profound recollection inspired a sentiment of respect among the virgins with whom she lived. With a grave and elevated mind, fervent piety, and an active charity, she possessed uncommon beauty,(30) and a child‐like simplicity marked with all the grace of her age. Not one of the recluses of the monastery subjected herself to greater austerities than Odile. Her fervor was particularly manifest during the solemn days in which the church celebrates the great mystery of the Redemption.

Her countenance and her tears testified to the love with which her heart was filled. It was evident that, at her first essay, her pure young soul had soared heavenward with the swiftness of a dove on the wing.

But she was to experience the trials of life. The nurse, for whom she had an affection truly filial, and who had sundered her family ties to be near Odile, fell dangerously ill at Baume. Her sufferings lasted several months. Doubtless God ordained it to be so, say the ancient chronicles, that she might satisfy in this world the eternal justice, and that Odile’s gratitude, generosity, and charity might be displayed. With the sanction of the superior, she only left the bedside of the guardian of her infancy to attend service at the chapel. She was at once servant, nurse, and, above all, comforter. She inspired her patient with courage, so that she humbly offered up her sufferings to our Lord, and awaited with joy and hope the hour of her departure. When the hour of deliverance appointed by Providence came, having received the last sacraments, she died peacefully in the arms of Odile, who closed her eyes and buried her.

VI.

In spite of her cruel exile, Odile had for a long time felt an ardent desire to behold her parents, at least once, and this feeling became stronger after the death of her nurse, the only tie that recalled her native land. She did not dream of being restored to her rank, or of exchanging her peaceful life for the bustle of her father’s court. She only wished to testify her love for her parents, and to be loved by them.

She had been told that Count Hugo was the most noble of Adalric’s four sons. He was universally considered the handsomest and most accomplished prince of his time. His illustrious birth was his least recommendation: he was prudent and generous, and animated by that lofty courage and goodness of heart so becoming to youth. Odile wrote to him, entrusting the letter, carefully wrapped in a piece of scarlet stuff, to a pilgrim. Hugo, charmed with the letter and, unlike most of the nobility of that time, knowing how to write, henceforth kept up a frequent correspondence with her. Odile often gave him serious advice, which he received with tender gratitude. Finding him well disposed, she decided to open her heart to him. Hugo joyfully hastened to intercede for his sister, begging his father to banish no longer a daughter whose virtues would reflect so much honor on his house. But the duke, with his inflexible pride, assumed a severe expression, and, in spite of his partiality for Hugo, told him he had particular motives, for which he was accountable to no one, for requiring Odile to remain at Baume. He also forbade his son ever making a like request. The young man was profoundly afflicted. Impelled by his ardent love for his sister, and believing her sweet presence would justify him in his father’s eyes, he immediately despatched horses and everything necessary for such a journey, telling his sister to set off immediately. Full of confidence in Hugo, and sure that her father had consented to her return, she left Baume. It was a sad and painful leave‐taking, but she consoled her aunt and the nuns by promising to return and end her days among them. But Heaven otherwise decreed.

Odile had hardly left the monastery when she began to reproach herself for too strong a desire to return to her family, and for the eagerness with which she looked forward to a taste of earthly happiness. She remembered that he to whom she wished to consecrate her life is a jealous God, who wishes his servants, instead of clinging to human creatures, to consider them as instruments of perfection. She shed many and bitter tears, but, according to her custom, she had recourse to prayer, which assuaged the trouble of her conscience and restored a sweet serenity and trust to her soul.

Protected by holy angels, she arrived safely at the foot of the mountain on which rose the new castle of Hohenbourg. Adalric was conversing with his sons when he perceived a company of armed men accompanying a vehicle that was slowly ascending the acclivity. He inquired who the strangers were. “It is my sister Odile,” replied Hugo joyfully. “And who dared bring her here without my orders?” cried the duke in an angry tone. The youth saw the truth must be acknowledged, and, bending his knee before his father, he said: “It was I, my lord. Impelled by my ardent love for her, I wrote her she could come. I am guilty through excessive affection. Punish me alone, if you will not forgive, for she is innocent.”

Hugo, relying too much on his father’s partiality, thought he should escape with only a few sharp words; but Adalric, inflamed with rage, raised the staff he held in his hand, and inflicted such a blow on his son that he fell senseless at his feet. Ashamed and sorry for his rashness, the duke raised him, and ordered that his bruises should be cared for.

Adalric’s anger had passed away when Odile arrived at the top of the mountain. Kneeling, she lifted towards him the eyes once closed to the light. The duke, recalling the miracle wrought in her behalf, felt, for the first time, an impulse of affection, and, raising her in a kind manner, he bade his sons to welcome her affectionately. At that instant Berswinde and her daughter Roswinde came running out. The duchess kissed, with many tears, Odile’s eyes, acknowledging that God had suffered her child to be born blind that he might at a later day manifest his power by repeating the miracle of the gospel. Our saint was then conducted to the chapel. There, humbly prostrate, she thanked God for protecting her in her journey and reuniting her to her family.

VII.

Although Adalric’s aversion to Odile was lessened, and he showed her some kindness at her arrival, he was far from feeling the same love for her as for the rest of his children. He assigned her a retired part of the castle, and gave her as a companion a holy maiden from Great Britain who was vowed to the service of God. He never admitted her to his presence, and only allowed her the portion of a servant for her subsistence. Our saint, overlooking this unjust treatment, led at Hohenbourg a life as simple and retired as at the Convent of Baume, often finding means, by really depriving herself of the necessaries of life, of aiding the needy. It was not long before her father awoke to better feelings. Crossing a court of the castle, one day, he met Odile carrying a covered dish. Laying aside his usual coldness, he said mildly: “Where are you going, my child?” “My lord,” replied she, “I am going to cook a little oat‐meal for some poor sick people.” These words, timidly uttered, touched the duke. He looked tenderly at his daughter, whose love and sweetness were unchanged by his treatment, and exclaimed, with tears in his eyes: “Be not afflicted, my dearest child, at having hitherto led a life of privation. It shall not be so hereafter.”

In fact, from that moment the relations of Odile and her father were changed. He began to treat her with marked favor, as if to pay the long arrear of paternal love; but she, who was not cast down by misfortune, showed herself unelated by prosperity. Disdaining the pleasures now at her command, she continued to devote her whole life to God. Her days and nights were passed in prayer and good works. Her example produced such an effect that it was imitated by the rest of the family. Her sister Roswinde renounced the pleasures of the world to bear the cross of our Lord. The manners of her father and brothers were softened, and they endeavored to practise the Christian virtues. Even the servants of the castle began to live devoutly. She gained all hearts. She was such a friend to the poor and unfortunate that Hohenbourg soon became their refuge. “Our dear saint,” for such is the name the old historians of Alsace give her, was not satisfied with bestowing on them kind words. She gave them all the money and clothing she possessed. She often endured hunger and refused food that she might aid the sick still more. Every day she descended the steep mountain‐path to seek those who were unable to reach the castle, and encourage them with her pious counsels. Her zeal in their behalf was unbounded. She performed the most revolting offices with her own hands. The unhappy regarded her not only as a benefactress, but as a friend to whom they could open their hearts and consciences. The duke and duchess soon became so fond of her that if any one wished a special favor they begged it through her. Adalric’s repentance for his past injustice exceeded the anger he felt at her birth. He once thought his conduct justifiable, now he acknowledged it was inexcusable, thus showing himself superior to most men of his station, who are unwilling to allow they are ever wrong. He actually commended Hugo for his disobedience, and tried to atone by particular favors for his cruel treatment at the time of Odile’s arrival.

But this serenity could not last forever. Our saint, who had endured her father’s coldness so heroically, now began to grow weary of a life of grandeur. She was depressed by the flattery of which she was the object. Duties that were purely worldly absorbed part of the time she wished to consecrate to God. In a word, she often sighed after the retirement of Baume and the life she led there. She finally asked her father’s permission to return to her aunt and end her days in penitential works. “I am misunderstood here,” said she; “I am treated with a respect of which I am not worthy. You do not know what I really am, and, if I remain here any longer, I may even forget it myself.”

But the duke opposed her departure, telling her that by practising the Christian virtues at court she could do more good than by leaving the world for the austerities of Baume. Prayers and tears were of no avail; Adalric’s resolution was not to be shaken. Odile, despairing of her return, wrote a touching farewell letter to her old companions. Their sorrow was tempered by remembering that she was under the special protection of God, who doubtless wished to make use of her in extending elsewhere the glory of his holy name. Full of veneration for her memory, they put carefully away among the precious objects in their church a violet‐colored veil, embroidered with gold and silk of different colors by the daughter of the Duke of Alsace when she lived among them, an exile from the house of her father.

To Be Concluded Next Month.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

Fac‐Similes Of Irish National Manuscripts

Few of our readers are probably aware that the English government, for the last ten years, has been making fac‐similes of the most important national MSS., for publication and sale, by the process of photo‐zincography. The Domesday Book was the first work taken in hand. This wonderful record, without a peer in the world, is a general survey of the land of England, ordered by William the Conqueror in the year of our Lord 1085. It is the undisputed testimony of the relations existing at that period between the landlords and their tenants; and it describes the state of society which existed in England under the Anglo‐Saxon kings up to the conquest of the kingdom by the Duke of Normandy. So successfully was the printing of the fac‐similes of the Domesday Book accomplished, and so acceptable to historical students of every degree was its publication, that, in the spring of 1864, the Lords of H. M. Treasury unanimously endorsed the proposal by the late Master of the Rolls (Lord Romilly) that the same process of photo‐zincography should be applied to the reproduction and perpetuation of some of the “National Records.” Three volumes of English manuscripts and three volumes of Scottish manuscripts have been followed by the preparation for three volumes of Irish national MSS., which will rank (says Mr. William Basevi Sanders, the Assistant Keeper of Her Majesty’s Records, in his Annual Report, printed in the year 1873, on the fac‐similes photo‐zincographed at the Ordnance Survey Office, Southampton) among the first of the many valuable publications which Sir Henry James (the military engineer officer in charge) has been the means of laying before the public.

Let us look over Mr. Sanders’s description of the Irish MSS. He has gathered his information from the best sources, having consulted and freely used O’Donovan’s edition of the Annals of the Four Masters, the accessible works of Dr. Petrie, Dr. Todd, Dr. Reeves, and Prof. Westwood, and more particularly from the elaborate investigations of Prof. O’Curry, published in his Lectures on the MS. Materials of Ancient Irish History.

The first of these MSS., both in point of age and on account of the remarkable history that attaches to it, is the volume known as Domhnach Airgid, or Silver Shrine. This is a volume of the Gospels—perhaps the oldest in the world—of the Vth century, and traditionally believed to have been the private book of devotion of S. Patrick himself, and to have been given by him to S. Mac Carthainn when he placed him over the See of Clogher. The legend in which this curious story is narrated appears in the Tripartite Life of S. Patrick, and O’Curry in his lectures gives the following literal translation of it:

“S. Patrick, having gone into the territory of Ui Cremthainn, founded many churches there. As he was on his way from the North, and coming to the place now called Clochar, he was carried over a stream by his strong man, Bishop Mac Carthainn, who, while bearing the saint, groaned aloud, exclaiming ‘Uch! uch!’

“ ‘Upon my good word,’ said the saint, ‘it was not usual with you to speak that word.’

“ ‘I am now old and infirm,’ said Bishop Mac Carthainn, ‘and all my early companions on the mission you have set down in their respective churches, while I am still on my travels.’

“ ‘Found you a church, then,’ said the saint, ‘that shall not be too near for us for familiarity, nor too far from us for intercourse.’

“And the saint then left Bishop Mac Carthainn at Clochar, and bestowed on him the Domhnach Airgid, which had been given to him from heaven when he was on the sea coming from Erinn.”

The shrine which held this relic is composed of three distinct covers, of different dates—of wood, of copper plated with silver, and the most modern of silver plated with gold, richly ornamented with figures of the Saviour, the Blessed Virgin, and saints, and with representations of animals, and traceries, among which is a mounted figure, sword in hand, and displaying with minute accuracy all the dress and accoutrements of an Irish noble of the XIVth century.

The MS. itself is in such a state from age and damp as to make inspection of its contents impossible, the leaves being all stuck together, and the whole of about the consistency and appearance of a piece of brick. The portions of which facsimiles will be given present a good example of the better parts of it. It was originally the property of the monastery of Clones, and was procured in the county Monaghan by Mr. George Smith, from whom it was purchased for £300 (say $1,500) by Lord Rossmore, who presented it to the Royal Irish Academy, where it remains at present.

The next MS. is as curious—the Cathach, or Book of Battles—a copy of the Psalms, supposed to have been written by S. Columba. It consists of fifty‐eight leaves of vellum, and appears to be perfect from the xxxist to the cvith Psalm, all prior to which are gone, and is enclosed in a handsome shrine. Why it was called the Book of Battles is told by O’Curry, from the Life of S. Columba, by Magnus O’Dohmnaill. S. Columba, when on a visit to S. Finnen of Drom Finn, being very anxious to have a copy of S. Finnen’s Book of the Psalms, made one surreptitiously by borrowing the book, and copying it in the church after every one else had left. S. Finnen had notice of this underhand proceeding of his brother saint from one of his pupils, and accordingly, as soon as the copy was finished, demanded possession of it. S. Columba refusing to comply with this demand, the matter was referred to Diarmaid Mac Ferghusa Cerrbheaill, King of Erinn, who pronounced against him in a judgment which to this day remains a proverb in Ireland—Le gach bóin a boinin (“To every cow its calf”), and so, by analogy, “to every book its copy.” This adverse judgment, closely followed by the accidental death of the son of Diarmaid’s chief steward while engaged in a game of hurling with the son of the King of Connaught—at that time a hostage at Tara—who was torn from S. Columba’s arms, into which he had thrown himself for sanctuary, and put to death, so enraged the saint that he stirred up his relatives in Tirconnel and Tyrone to revenge the insult, and a bloody battle was fought in Connaught, which ended in the rout of the king’s army: and this was how the book obtained its name.

For thirteen hundred years the book was preserved as an heirloom by the O’Donnells, having been handed down by S. Columba himself, who belonged to that clan. It is now preserved in the Royal Irish Academy. Four pages have been selected for copying, containing severally the first twelve verses of Psalm lxxx., the last three of lxxxix., and the first seven of xc., the whole of xciv., and the first eleven of xcv. The condition in which these pages remain is wonderful, and reflects great honor upon the family who have for so many ages and through so many national troubles and disturbances preserved this relic with sacred care.

The next is the Book of Durrow, or Gospels of S. Columba, a volume containing 248 leaves of vellum, written in columns by the hand of S. Columba himself, as asserted in the following inscription on the fly‐leaf: “Liber autem hic scriptus est a manu ipsius B. Columbkille per spatium 12 dierum anno 500”; and again, “Rogo beatitudinem tuam, sancte presbiter Patrici, ut quicunque, hunc libellum manu tenuerit, meminerit Columbæ scriptoris, qui hoc scripsi ipsemet evangelium per xii. dierum spatium gratiâ Domini nostri.” This last inscription is quoted by Dr. Petrie as conclusive evidence of the date of the volume, which is considered by Dr. Reeves to be either as old as S. Columba’s day, or nearly so (a somewhat curious hypothesis if the volume were written by S. Columba).

Until its presentation to Trinity College by Dr. Jones, Bishop of Meath, this book was kept at Durrow, in King’s County, the monastery and church of which were founded by S. Columba about the year 550, where the tradition of its having belonged to their patron saint was preserved and believed in by the monks. It was originally enclosed in a silver‐mounted cuhmdach, or shrine, made for it by order of Flann, King of Ireland, who reigned from 879 to 916, which was lost, as Mr. Westwood conjectures, in 1007, when the volume was stolen.

The portions selected for copying are pages 12b, 14a 118a, and 173a. The first contains the prayer of the writer above quoted, under which is also written, “Ora pro me, frater mi; Dominus tecum sit”; the second is the first page of S. Matthew’s Gospel, the third the first page of S. Luke’s Gospel, and the fourth the concluding page of the same Gospel, at the bottom of which is written, “+ Miserere Domine Naemani + filii Neth +” names which O’Curry states had not been identified at the time of his lectures, though the surname seems to be very like that of the scribe after whom another of the MSS. contained in this volume is called—Mac Nathi.

The next MS. in order is the famous Book of Kells, a copy of the Gospels, also traditionally ascribed to S. Columba—a tradition doubted by some, but which Dr. Todd saw no reason to mistrust, as the book is undoubtedly a MS. of that age. About the same time as that when the Book of Durrow was sacrilegiously deprived of its shrine, the Book of Kells was also stolen out of the church from which it takes its name. The circumstance is thus narrated in the Four Masters: “The age of Christ 1006.... The great Gospel of Colum Cille was stolen at night from the Western Erdomh [sacristy] of the great church of Ceandrrus. This was the principal relic of the Western World on account of its singular cover, and it was found after twenty nights and two months, its gold having been stolen off it, and a sod over it.”

It continued in the possession of the Church of Kells till the time of Archbishop Usher, after whose death it was granted with the rest of that prelate’s library, in which it was then found, by King Charles II., to the university of Dublin, and has been preserved in the library of Trinity College ever since.

Of the pages chosen for copying, 6b, 7a, and 27a are entries concerning lands, believed to be the only existing specimens, of pre‐Anglo and Norman date, of deeds written in the Irish language. They are written in a rude, rough hand, that looks unsightly in contrast with the character of the contents of the volume proper. 34a is the beginning of S. Matthew’s Gospel, and is entirely filled with the initial of “Liber generationis.” 123a, 124a, and 126b contain S. Matthew’s story of the crucifixion, 124a being all taken up by the words, “Tunc crucifixerant Christum et duos latrones,” written in a very singular fashion, and enclosed in a framework profusely decorated. 200b contains a portion of the genealogy in the third chapter of S. John, and 19b displays a collection of fantastic symbols, with a very handsome capital Z, and the first two syllables of Zacharias embellished with spirited figures of a dog pursuing a wolf.

It is impossible to exaggerate the elaborate ornamentation of this remarkable volume, or the quaintness of the grotesque subjects introduced into it. The gigantic initial letter, which is given as an example in this volume, is filled in with an almost incredible interlacing of extravagant impossibilities: Serpentine figures with human heads; intertwined sketches of men spotted like leopards in attitude of earnest conversation; rats sitting on the backs of cats, who are holding other rats by the tails, the rats being engaged in eating a cake; human figures with impossible combinations of their own and other creature’s limbs; strange shapes of birds and fishes, geometrical designs and intricate arabesque traceries, all woven together in the wildest dreamlike way, and having an effect that charms the eye, and fills the mind with amazement at the fancy that designed and the hand that executed them.

The next is another copy of the Gospels, known as the Book of Dimma Mac Nathi, made, it is said, at the express desire of S. Cronan of Roscrea, who died in the beginning of the VIIth century. The drawings in this book are very rude, and the writing of some parts of it difficult to read, though the scribe Dimma is supposed to have belonged to a family of saints, one of whom, at any rate, was greatly distinguished as a penman. It was purchased from Sir William Betham, its original place of deposit having been the Abbey of Roscrea, and is now in the library of Trinity College, Dublin.

Four pages have been chosen for copying. The first contains portions of chapters 27 and 28 of S. Matthew’s Gospel, and has this note at the foot: “Finit. Oroit do Dimma rodscrib pro Deo et benedictione” (“A prayer for Dimma, who has written for God, and a benediction”). Between the 49th and 50th verses of the 27th chapter there is this other verse, the substance of which only appears in the Gospel of S. John: “Alius vero, acceptâ lanceâ pupugit latus ejus et exivit aqua et sanguis.” Here, however, the piercing is made to take place before the death. The second is the illuminated page preceding S. John. In it is depicted a bird, probably intended for that saint’s symbol, an eagle, carrying a book in its talons, surrounded by a border of arabesque design. The last two pages contain the first thirty‐eight verses of the 1st chapter of S. John, the first written along the full breadth of the page and with a handsome initial “In,” the second written in columns.

The next MS. is another copy of the Gospels, known as the Book of Moling, and supposed to have been written about the year 690 by S. Moling, Bishop of Ferns. It was presented to Trinity College, Dublin, by a member of the family of Kavanagh, by whom it had been preserved for many generations in its metal cumhdach, or covering.

Four pages have been selected. The first is a figure of one of the Evangelists, with a book in his left hand, and a pen, which he is dipping into an ink‐horn, in his right. The second contains the 18th chapter of S. Matthew, from the 8th verse to the 27th; the third, from the 27th verse to the 16th verse of the 19th chapter of S. Matthew; and the fourth, the concluding verses of the last chapter of S. John.

The Book of Armagh has also been selected. This volume, a transcript of one still older, supposed to have been the holograph of S. Patrick, was ascribed by Sir W. Betham to Bishop Aedh of Stetty, whose death is recorded in the Four Masters in 698; and O’Curry conceived it to be as old as 724, but Mr. Graves seems to have proved that it was written by the scribe Ferdomnach in 807. It is a small quarto volume, consisting of 221 leaves of vellum, and containing an extract from the Tripartite Life of S. Patrick, annotations on that saint’s life by Tirechan and others, his confession or epistle to the Irish, the Epistle of S. Jerome to Pope Damasus, the ten Eusebian canons, an explanation of Hebrew names used in the Gospels, with various prefaces and arguments, the four Gospels and remaining books of the New Testament, the life of S. Martin of Tours by Sulpicius, with two epistles by Sulpicius and Severus, and concludes with a prayer. It belonged to the Church of Armagh, being, as Prof. Westwood relates, held in such veneration that the family of Mac Mayre held lands from the See of Armagh by the tenure of its safe keeping; and in 1846 it was presented to Trinity College, Dublin, by the Rev. Francis Brownlow, into whose family it had passed in the XVIIth century.

Six pages have been selected, the first three of which contain the extract from the Tripartite Life of S. Patrick. On the first column of page 18b is the following account of a miracle performed by S. Patrick: “Sechnall went afterwards to rebuke Patrick on account of a chariot he had. Then Patrick sent the chariot to Sechnall without a charioteer in it, but it was an angel that directed it. Sechnall sent it, when it had stopped three nights there with him, to Manchan, and it remained three nights with him. He sent it to Fiacc. Fiacc rejected it. After that where they went to was round the church three times, when the angel said, ‘It is to you they have been given from Patrick when he came to know your disease.’ ” The miracle as here related is, as O’Curry very truly observes, not quite intelligible, but the key to it is to be found in the Tripartite Life, from which it had probably been taken. The story there is that once, when Sechnall was at Armagh, he remarked that two chariot horses which he saw there would be a fitting gift to Bishop Fiacc. Patrick was not at home at the time, but as soon as he returned and heard this he had the horses harnessed to a chariot, and sent them off, without a coach‐man, to Fiacc at Stetty, where they arrived safely. The reason of S. Patrick making him this present was to enable him to go to his cave on the hill of Drom Coblai, where he used to repair on Shrove Saturday with five loaves, and remain till Easter Saturday; and because “chafers had gnawed his legs so that death was near him.”

Then come The Gospels of Maelbride Mac Durnan, Archbishop of Armagh from 885 to 927, a small and beautifully‐written copy of the Gospels, made apparently by the same scribe, Ferdomnach, who wrote the Book of Armagh, and at about the same period. The initial page of each Gospel is very gracefully illuminated, and to each is prefixed a page bearing the figure of its writer, surrounded by a border of delicate tracery. The pages selected are the first four, comprising the “Liber generationis” and the inscription in capitals, the face of folio 5 being the beginning of S. Matthew’s narrative; the dorse of folio 65, which contains his account of the scourging and mocking, and at the foot this note by the scribe: Mór assársa for Coimdid nime agus talman (“Great this violence upon the God of heaven and earth”); the dorse of folio 69, containing the following letter, written in Saxon, is probably the earliest known contemporary copy of a petition for restitution of temporalities to an English bishop:

“Wulfstan, Archbishop, greets Cnut his Lord and Aelfgyfe the Queen humbly, and I make known to you two, liege, that we have done as the certificate came to us from you with regard to the Bishop Aethelnoth, that we have now consecrated him. Now pray I for God’s love, and in the name of all God’s saints, that ye will have respect to God and to the holy order. That he may be admitted to the possessions that others before him were: namely, Dunstan the good and many another: that he may be likewise admitted to rights and honors. In which case it shall be for both of you meritorious before God, and eke honorable before the world.”

At the end of S. Matthew’s Gospel there is, in addition to Archbishop Wulfstan’s (of York) letter, this memorandum in Latin: “Cnud, King of the Angles, has given to Christ’s Church an arm of S. Bartholomew the Apostle, with the great pall and the golden crown of his head; and the port of Sandwich and all issues of the water of the same from either side of the river; so that a ship floating in the stream when the water shall be high, at the distance of the cast of a very small hatchet from the shore, the droits of the ship are to be received by the servants of Christ’s Church. And no man whatsoever has custom in the same port except the monks of Christ’s Church. Theirs also is the ferry over the port, and the boats and toll of boats and of all ships which come to Sandwich from Peperness as far as Northmouth. If, however, anything be found on the high sea, being brought to Sandwich, Christ’s Church shall take half, and the remaining part shall rest with the finders.”

The volume is preserved in the library of Lambeth Palace, but it is a singular fact that it finds no place either in the catalogue of that library published in 1812, or in the catalogue of the library of Corpus Christi College, Cambridge, where Archbishop Parker’s collection of MSS. is preserved.

To Be Concluded Next Month.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

Congress Of The Catholic Germans At Mayence

On the 16th and 17th days of June the Second Congress of the Catholic Germans assembled at Mayence. This congress must be distinguished from the regular annual congress of all the Catholic societies of Germany. The constitution of the latter was formed during the stormy times of 1848. It treats only upon religious questions, and excludes on principle the discussion of politics during its deliberations; whereas the Congress of Catholic Germans, which held its first session two years ago, has for its object, according to its statutes, the defence of the liberty and the rights of the Catholic Church, and the maintenance of Christian principles in all the spheres of public life by all moral and lawful means, especially by the use of constitutionally‐recognized and guaranteed civil rights; and it therefore desires to be considered a political organization. It is already in operation throughout Germany, in Prussia particularly. Its sessions are held in Mayence—in that city which, owing to its advantageous position in Middle Germany, opposite the confluence of the river Mayence with the Rhine, was chosen by the Romans as a boundary, and by S. Boniface as the central point for the Christianization of the Teutons. It is true that “Golden Mayence,” the special and true daughter of the Roman Church (Aurea Moguntia sanctæ Romanæ Ecclesiæ specialis vera filia), as the inscription reads upon the old city seal, has, since the beginning of this century, fallen greatly from its former splendor. In it once resided an archbishop, who was the legate of the apostolic chair for Germany, and metropolitan over twenty‐four bishoprics, which extended from Brandenburg to Chur in Switzerland, and from Metz to Prague and Olmütz, and which comprised the largest part of the old German empire; so that next to the Pope he was called the greatest prince of the church (Post Papam secundus, says Marianus Scotus (+ 1086) in his Chron. Aet. VI., ad a. 750), and in his temporal position as elector and hereditary chancellor of the empire ranked next to the emperor, and was called the Prince of princes (Moguntius post imperatorem princeps est principum—Vita Arnoldi). Mayence is now only a provincial city belonging to little Hessia, and the boundaries of its bishopric are inconsiderable. Nevertheless, in the present combat for the liberty of the church, it occupies, and has for years occupied, an important place by reason of a succession of great men, Bishop Von Ketteler at the head, and it cannot be doubted that the city will in future be of great importance to the Catholic interests of Germany.

The centrum of the Catholic party in Mayence is the Casino zum Frankfurter‐hof (Casino of the court of Frankfort), whose spacious and imposing hall has not its equal in the city. In former times this hall was used when a blow was to be struck at the interest of the Catholic Church; but things are changed, and the Frankfurter‐hof is now the stronghold in which the defenders of the Catholic Church meet together. Not until the use of this hall was acquired, owing to the determined efforts of Falk III., the people’s champion, so well known throughout all Germany, did the Catholic party in Mayence begin to feel its own importance. For the past twenty years its members have appeared regularly at every election upon the battle‐field, to be as regularly defeated; but they were finally successful in securing Canon Dr. Moufang as their deputy at the last election for the Reichstag.

In the above‐named hall the Congress of Catholic Germans held its late sessions. It was appropriately decorated for the occasion. In a prominent place, surrounded by beautiful flowers, was seen the bust of our Holy Father, Pius IX. Above, in golden letters, were written the words, “For God and Fatherland,” and over this the sign of redemption with the inscription, “In this sign thou shalt conquer.” Upon the pillars of the hall were placed the coats‐of‐arms of the different bishoprics of Germany. The crape hanging over those of the Archbishops of Cologne and Posen and Gnesen, and that of the Bishop of Treves, was emblematic of the grief which fills the heart of every Catholic when he remembers the three venerable prelates who, forcibly removed from their episcopal sees, now testify in prison to the divinity of Christianity and the inalienable right of the church to that liberty in matters of faith and religion left her by her Founder. The evening before the opening of the Congress many members of the society met from all parts of Germany to greet one another. Even the United States was represented in the person of the learned F. Hecker. A superficial glance was enough to convince any one that the nobility in particular desired by their presence to show their love and affection for our persecuted mother, the church. For years the majority of the Catholic nobles of Westphalia and the Rhine have been animated with a deep religious feeling. The best names among the aristocracy are generally found at the head of the numerous appeals in behalf of religion; and in their own homes (a fact which is of great importance) these nobles do not strive to emulate by outward splendor those “capitalists” whose lives are spent in acquiring riches, but they rather seek to uphold the honor of their names by the simplicity of their mode of life, in their daily actions, by educating their children as Catholics should, and instilling into them principles of honesty, morality, and every Christian virtue. It makes a lasting impression upon whomsoever is admitted to familiar intercourse with any of these noble families to see all the members of the household devoutly assembled in the private chapel of the mansion, for the adornment of whose altars no expense has been spared, there to attend the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass; and in the evening to behold the father of the family, by ringing a bell, again summons them into the chapel for evening prayer and examen of conscience, at which the chaplain, but oftener the head of the house, be he old or young, performs the duty of reading the prayers. Fathers and mothers should imitate the example of these noblemen, and when priests, on account of their faith, are imprisoned or exiled, they themselves should take the place of the priests in their own homes. Then will the zeal of priests grow stronger and Catholic faith take deeper root. Would to God that we could see the same state of things in many castles in Middle Germany, in Silesia, Bavaria, and in Brisgau (Baden), as is now seen in Westphalia and on the Rhine!

But let us return, after this digression, to our Congress in the Frankfurter‐hof. Its president, Baron von Loë, representative in the Reichstag, who last year with manly courage defended the organization against intrigues of all kinds, was received with universal applause when he ascended the rostrum and opened Congress with the salutation, “Praise be to Jesus Christ!” In a few but convincing words he explained why, despite the serious aspect of the times, they had met in “Golden Mayence,” where liberty of speech is yet permitted. (A short time ago a meeting at Treves was dissolved because Herr Majunke, a representative in the Reichstag, had said in the course of his remarks that Bismarck was only mortal, and while lying upon his sick‐bed suffered as much as any beggar who lies ill in his hut. Another meeting was broken up by the Prussian police because the speaker had announced his intention of discoursing upon one particular theme. Who knows what terrible things the police understood by the word “theme”?) Then followed a long succession of congratulations which the guests, coming from all parts of Germany, had personally to offer. As space does not permit us to give a lengthened sketch of all these speeches, we must content ourselves with simply giving the title of the address and the name of the speaker.

Dr. Evels of Bonn spoke concerning the latest cultivated plant, which grows only in Germany, and there sporadically, notwithstanding the most careful attention from high quarters—that is, Old Catholicism. With this exception, no dangers threaten the Catholic Church in Germany. Count Bassenheim was the bearer of greetings from the Bishop of Basel, who asked the prayers of the members for the persecuted friends of religion in Switzerland. Baron Stillfried of Vienna assured the Congress that the Catholics of Austria were united, and expected the salvation of Austria only from intimate union with the church. Dr. Lingens of Aix‐la‐Chapelle invited all present to attend the exposition of relics in the venerable electoral city of the old German emperors, which exposition takes place this year, and not again until 1881. Baron von Frankenstein of Bavaria spoke on the state of affairs in his country, declaring his belief that they would soon change for the better. Count Kageneck of Freiburg in Baden looked confidently forward to a happy future, relying upon the just rights of the Catholics and upon the powerful protection of God. Count Bissingen of Würtemberg (Swabia) asserted that the fable of the Catholics hating the empire finds no believers among the honest people of Swabia. Herr Baudri of Cologne, the brother of the coadjutor‐bishop, an old, faithful warrior, proclaimed in words of burning eloquence the earnestness with which the enemies of the Catholic Church publicly declare that the destruction of the church is the order of the day, and he denounced the corruption of public opinion by the state, and the manner in which it subsidized the press by means of the funds stolen from the church. He thanked divine Providence for giving Germany such a united episcopate, and the present affliction of the church only demonstrated the fact that not only in Germany, but through the whole world, Catholics form only one family. While our enemies, he continued, raise on high the torch of discord, which has so frequently brought our fatherland to the verge of ruin, our Congress should use every effort to build a new great and united Germany upon the foundations of a Christianity similar to that upon which old Germany became great and powerful. Herr Stroebel of Charlottenburg made the next speech, and he was followed by the Rev. F. Altheimer, Curate of Amorbach in Odenwald, Hellwich of Deidesheim in Palatine, Herr Wiese, merchant of Werden, Baron von Schorlemer of Overhagen, Herr Busch, contractor of Neuss, and finally by the junior editor of the Germania, Herr Cremer of Berlin.

While the hall reverberated to the hearty cheers of the members, letters and telegrams were constantly arriving from the interior and from foreign countries, thus making perfect the picture of Catholic unity presented by this assembly. Despatches from Austria were especially numerous, showing thereby that in that country also the Catholics are keeping watch in the struggle that has begun. The old imperial city of Vienna gladdened our hearts with two telegrams. In the one the Prince von Fürstenberg salutes us in the name of the Catholic societies of Vienna; in the other the president of the Catholic people’s associations of Lower Austria sends his best wishes that “the heroic battle which Germany’s bishops, priests, and laymen wage with such sublime courage may find its end in a speedy victory for the holy cause of the church,” and adds the assurance: “We Catholics of Austria are firmly determined, confiding in God’s protection, to offer the same resistance if the same attacks are made upon the church.” Six telegrams from “green Styria” reached us, four of which were sent by the Catholics of Grätz, and two by the Catholic societies of Marburg and Wildon. “They desire to oppress you and us,” telegraphed Senator Karlon of Grätz, “but we will yet be the victors; for Christ lives, Christ reigns, Christ commands, and Christ will triumph.” To these were added a telegram from the Catholic Society of Klagenfurth in Carinthia, and two others from ever‐faithful Tyrol, from the society in Botzen, which numbers more than 3,000 members, and from the society of Innsbrück. The president of the last society, Julius von Riccabona, sent us the following characteristic Tyrolese wish: “As the snow melts on the high mountain beneath the rays of the sun, so also may the intrigues against our holy church disappear before the power of truth.” Charles Count of Schoenbrunn and George Prince of Lobkowitz expressed in telegrams their respect, sympathy, and good wishes, while from far‐distant Hungary the Catholic Political Society of Presburg sent assurances of their love and affection. From Munich, Bavaria, came telegrams, from the diocesan clergy of Eichstaedt, from the Centrum member Lang of Kelheim, and from the society of Catholic men in Wasserburg on the Inn. From Noerdlingen the society of Catholic men in Riesa, numbering over 1,400 members, writes among other things: “We feel in our hearts the afflictions which the Catholics of Prussia endure; we pray for the bishops, priests, and laity who are imprisoned on account of their religious convictions; we approve of the conduct and praise the fidelity of our Catholic brethren; yes, we are edified by their unity in faith and by their firmness, and we congratulate them on their perseverance and courage, which, because it comes from God, will conquer the world.... We shall never consent to give to Cæsar the things that belong to God; if it should be demanded of us, we shall obey God rather than man, and imitate the example of the Prussian Catholics.” From the south came greetings from the society of men in Constance and from the president of the Helvetian Pius Society, Count M. Scherer‐Bouard of Lucerne, and finally from Hunfeld, Viersen, München‐Gladbach, Bochum, Luedinghausen, Kluesedoerpen, Prussia, two from the city of Hanover, one from the northern missionaries of New Münster in Holstein, and the last from remote Dantzic. Among other despatches, there is worthy of special mention the telegram of Prince Salvati, in the name of the Congress of the Catholic Societies of Italy, which met at Venice, and the following from London: “The Catholic Union of Great Britain extends to you a brother’s hand to encourage you in the struggle with the evil spirit, and at the same time it deplores the death of your champion, Malinckrodt. (Signed) Duke of Norfolk, President of the Catholic Union of Great Britain.”

The greatest interest was shown when the mammoth address from the United States was exhibited. It contained upon a roll of paper one thousand feet long 30,000 signatures of Catholic men whose own or whose fathers’ cradle had rested upon German soil. (A few days after this address was again exposed in the great hall, and the endless roll of paper was drawn from the table of the president up to the glass cupola, and from there letting it fall down again upon the president’s table, it was taken up for the second time to the chandelier, and from thence to the roof.) The fearless expressions contained in this document, which, thanks to “our freedom of speech,” could not be dwelt upon at length, and the grandeur of this manifestation, showed the imprint of the youthful and vigorous mind of men who glory in being citizens of the greatest republic in the world—the United States. Not long ago we finished a great war in a great manner. It was then the pride of Germans to be German. Since then, however, the little banners of religious narrow‐mindedness have been everywhere unfurled, and the so‐called liberal party has sacrificed not only its principles, but the most important articles of the Prussian constitution—the idea of a great Germany and peace and liberty. With the exception of a huge military power, everything has dwindled away. The men who won renown in 1870 and 1871 are no longer heard of. The men of the Centrum are our real consolation, for by their prudent and fearless defence of truth, liberty, and justice they have obtained great merit and are entitled to enduring praise.

To place their labors under the protection of God, the Catholic Congress of Germany assembled early on the morning of June 16 in the venerable Cathedral of Mayence, where they assisted at the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass, and received holy communion from the hands of the Rt. Rev. Bishop Herr von Ketteler.

The devotion of these men, gathered from all parts of Germany, was greatly increased by the music, which was executed in a most masterly manner by the cathedral choir, who gave selections from the following composers: Vechi, Aichinger, Orlando Lasso, Palestrina, Croce, Vittoria, and Piadana.

In the session which was held with closed doors the president first spoke of the sadness which filled the hearts of all the Catholics of Germany on account of the untimely death of Herman von Malinckrodt, deputy to the Reichstag. The memory of this wonderful man, like a mourning accord, seemed to permeate all the transactions, whether in writing or in words, and made itself felt even in the banquet‐hall. We shall not, however, dwell any longer upon this theme, as we intend to give a short sketch of the life of this faithful champion of the church.

Of the business transacted in the private session we shall make brief mention. That which, as a general rule, is last thought of in all great Catholic undertakings, was in this instance the first to receive attention—we mean the finances. In this regard, however, the Congress is deserving of no reproach, as it attached too little instead of too much importance to money—a prince seemingly so insignificant, but yet one who rules the world. The Catholic Congress, organized as it is throughout Germany, stands in need of certain pecuniary means, which want will be felt in future even more than now. For this reason every member is obliged to give six Silbergroschen (about fifteen cents). It must, however, be understood that the collection of this money is not made without some difficulty, since the organization is only in its infancy, and the number of members constantly increasing.

We learn from the report of Herr Racke, High Treasurer of Darmstadt, owing to whose self‐sacrificing labors the finances of our Union are in a very prosperous condition, that the collections of last year amounted to 17,883 thalers, 14,000 of which were put out on interest, including 7,000 loaned to different Catholic newspapers. Another question came up regarding the existence of the Union. According to the law of Prussia in reference to societies, a political society cannot act as a union or central society, nor form branches depending upon the union; on the other hand, however, it is lawful for one society to exist over all Germany, and it can have its affairs conducted by authorized agents. Our union was from the very beginning most anxious to correspond with this law. Notwithstanding this, however, the Prussian authorities have pretended to discover the existence of local branches, in consequence of which many of them have been suppressed. The reason for this proceeding, which called into question the existence of the Union itself, was Section 10 of the statutes, which has reference to meetings held in different parts of the empire. To avoid further vexations, this paragraph was stricken out, and at the same time it was expressly said that Mayence was to be the headquarters of the Union, and that there the annual general meetings were to take place.

Herr Racke, merchant of Mayence, and secretary of the Union, who had taken upon his youthful and strong shoulders the principal burden of the pecuniary affairs of the Union, then introduced a series of propositions, for the examination of which three committees were appointed, viz., one upon the social question of the day, another upon science, and a third on the influence of the press; and finally he submitted certain rules of proceeding.

The short address to the bishops assembled in Fulda, which was received with enthusiasm, and which was now read, deserves a place in this periodical. It is as follows:

“RIGHT REV. BISHOPS.

“In a momentous time like the present the Catholics of Germany assembled at Mayence respectfully desire to show their gratitude and admiration for the right reverend bishops of the fatherland, who have defended the rights and liberties of our Holy Catholic Church with such calm and fearless dignity; but, alas! our words of sympathy cannot reach several of the prelates, except through prison doors. In proportion as the distress of the church increases, the more do we feel ourselves bound in conscience to declare before Germany and the whole world that no power upon earth shall separate us from our dear bishops, appointed by Almighty God, and that no power of man can force us to recognize other pastors than those who are in communion with the Holy See, and who are recognized as true pastors by the successor of Peter, the chief pastor of the church.

“Our dearly‐beloved bishops have become shining examples of apostolic courage as our leaders in these days of combat; and as true children of the church we will follow them, and leave the consequences to Almighty God.

“The hand of God rests heavily upon us, and the end of our sufferings is concealed from the eyes of man. But we also know that this trial will be of benefit to us; we thank God that he deigns to allow us to combat and to suffer for his holy cause and for the liberty of his church.

“ ‘Through the cross to the light’ were the words spoken in the last Reichstag by that heroic warrior for whom all Catholic Germans pray, and who died in the defence of truth and right. It shall be our device also: ‘Through the cross to the light!’

“With these sentiments we ask your episcopal blessing, and with the most profound veneration we subscribe our selves

“The most obedient servants and sons of our revered German bishops.”

At one o’clock a banquet was held in the same great hall, at which 300 members of the Union were present, among whom was the Rt. Rev. Bishop Ketteler of Mayence. It was he who proposed the first toast to the Holy Father, which was received with enthusiasm, as it was the twenty‐eighth anniversary of his appointment to the chair of Peter. The speaker reviewed the long series of years of combat between light and darkness, and in the increasing enthusiasm and affection of the Catholic people for Pius IX., the representative of unity, appointed by Almighty God, he saw an increase of the unity which the church, like an impregnable fortress in the midst of combats, exhibits, while the world threatens to split asunder. Baron von Frankenstein proposed, as the second toast, the Grand Duke of Hessia and all the German princes belonging to the Union, and made a few remarks appropriate to the occasion.

The president, Baron von Loë, proposed the health of the leaders given us by Almighty God, the Rt. Rev. Bishops of Germany, under whose guidance we some years ago saved the thrones from the whirl of revolution, and under whose direction we now hope to conquer the revolution which is preached by the government. Among the other toasts given, we will only mention that of the Rt. Rev. Bishop of Mayence, who paid a high tribute of praise to the men of the Centrum who had in Berlin defended with such courage and skill the cause of truth, justice, and liberty. After the banquet the different committees of the Union entered upon the discussion of the proposed resolutions, while the presiding officers of the Congress consulted upon the drawing up of these resolutions.

The same resolutions formed also the theme for the speakers in the public evening sessions, to which such a great number of persons were attracted that the hall of the Frankfurter‐hof, large as it is, was not sufficient to contain all.

The first speaker, Baron von Wendt of Westphalia, passed in review the public events that had transpired in Europe for the last year, and he demonstrated in a convincing manner that hostility to the church had everywhere appeared simultaneously, and was therefore the result of preconcerted action. The explanation of this fact the speaker found in the activity of modern liberalism, which had determined upon the complete denial of Christianity, and which boldly avows that by adhering to the principles of what its advocates are pleased to call humanity all those inestimable blessings would be obtained which the Saviour has left us in his sublime teachings upon the obligations and morality of a Christian life. Like the work of redemption, so also would the church become superfluous, and the state, to which liberalism gives the preference over everything else, would then enter upon its inheritance, and, as in the days of the pagan Cæsars, assert its ascendency even over the spirit.

Herr Cremer, the editor of a Berlin journal, next proceeded to point out the imperfections to be found in the constitution of the German Empire, which gave security only to material interests and military power, while there was not an article which had reference to the moral problem of state life and the fundamental rights of civil liberty. In the course of his speech he with much humor and sarcasm drew attention to the fatal avowal of Bismarck in regard to his own policy. When the question was proposed in the Reichstag as to whether Catholics had forfeited their rights to citizenship and were dangerous to the state, the prince answered in the affirmative. This “yes,” remarked the speaker, “was the most absolute condemnation of his own policy which could have ever been pronounced by any one; for no state was ever so powerful that it could dispense even for a time with the co‐operation of one‐third of its inhabitants. This policy must be changed, for nine millions of Catholics could not be forced to emigrate or be declared outlaws like helots. This policy was in every respect to be rejected as rotten and false, even if it did rest upon the shoulders of this modern Atlas.” The vigor and readiness of expression displayed by the youthful speaker caused him to be warmly applauded.

The V. Rev. Dr. Monfang, deputy to the Reichstag, delivered an admirable speech upon the present state of society. The great change, he argued, took place in the beginning of our century, and he attributed it to the following causes: First, the French Revolution, which overturned the laws of commerce and labor without regulating them anew; second, the wonderful use to which machinery can be put, particularly by the application of steam‐power, which, in union with the development of capital, directed industry into entirely new channels; third, the exemption from taxation brought about by the increase and facility of the means of commerce, which keeps a certain class of labor in constant demand, and in a measure takes it from the business men and the farmers; and, fourth, most especially to that pseudo‐liberalism whose national economy regulates the relations between employers and employed, between rich and poor, not in accordance with true Christian principles, but according to the dictates of egotism. The social question, the orator declared, resolves itself into this: that a man, to be really happy, needs but three things—that is, a competency, a respectable position in society, and inward peace of soul. After applying this true remark to the condition of the working‐men, the speaker finally passed to the solution of the social question, and said that as this problem affects all the relations of human life, a general co‐operation was necessary for its explication. The laborer himself must co‐operate as well as the family, the parish, the state, the church. Without religion, without prudent legislation for the protection of labor, without Christian marriages among the laborers, without public spirit and united effort, it is not possible to avert the evils which every day threaten the laboring class more and more.

Herr Racke, the indefatigable secretary of the Union, spoke upon the difficult subject of passive resistance to laws which are in direct opposition to conscience. He adduced particularly from the best authors upon state rights the evidence that the state has no right to demand from its citizens absolute obedience to all its laws and regulations. Laws which are in opposition to conscience, morality, and religion, be they ever so formally enacted, are not laws in the sight of God, but are in defiance of those of all law‐givers, of the only absolute Lord who is above all states, all rulers, and all men, and from whose authority alone even the state laws derive their power and obligation. The animated speech of Herr Racke was also loudly applauded.

At the request of the president the Rt. Rev. Bishop of Mayence gave the episcopal blessing, whereupon the public session was adjourned. The second day also began with prayer, a High Mass of Requiem being sung for all the members of the Union who had died during the last year. Then in a private session followed the discussion and approval of resolutions. The resolutions proposed by the officers of the Congress, and received by all with acclamation, surpassed in importance all others which had yet passed. We give them, therefore, a prominent place; they are a sign that the Catholics of Germany have not lost their courage as yet, and they deserve to be published verbatim. They are as follows:

The Second Congress of the Catholic Germans declares:

I. Regarding the State of Christian Society.

1. The violent persecution which the Catholic Church in some parts of Europe and South America now suffers, verifies the expression of the Holy Father that anti‐Christianity—that is, modern civilization—is incompatible with Catholicity.

2. The certain result of a systematically‐arranged combat against the church of Christ, as well as against Christianity itself and the essential foundations of society, will be the dissolution of social and political order, endless war, and the destruction of the nation’s rights.

3. The re‐establishment of permanent and national order is only to be looked for when political independence is again restored to the Holy See, and when all those rights are recognized which belong to the head of the Catholic Church by virtue of divine dispensation and historical development.

II. Regarding the State of Germany.

1. The constitution of the German Empire, for the reason that it guarantees neither protection to personal liberty, nor to the independence of states, nor to the different ranks of society and incorporations, cannot establish the true welfare of the German people.

2. The influence of the so‐called national party, which abjures the essential rights of the German people and of the representation of the people, will be the ruin of the German Empire.

3. The exception laws, by which the German Empire, founded as it is by a common sacrifice, has deprived one‐third of the citizens of their essential rights, thereby destroying the peace and the power of Germany.

4. The unlimited development of military power is incompatible with natural rights, civil liberty, and the spiritual as well as the material welfare of the German people.

5. The unchristianizing of public instruction now in progress, the control by the state of the entire school system, founded as it is upon compulsion, and at the same time the suppression of the educational rights of the church and of the family, is a source of spiritual and moral ruin.

6. The venal press, working in the interests of political servility and of property‐holders, continually misrepresents public opinion, and is the principal cause of the social evils that threaten Germany.

7. The foreign policy of the German Empire, especially in its relations to the Holy See, is not in harmony with the principles and interests of the Catholic population of Germany, and is not capable of securing the preservation of the peace of Europe.

III. Regarding the State of the Working‐Classes.

1. Like all other states of Europe, Germany is threatened by the discontent existing among the working‐classes.

2. The principal reasons for this discontentment are: Decrease of the retail business; overtaxing the agricultural classes; miserable condition of the operatives in manufactories; and the endless development of money speculation.

3. The real origin of these misfortunes is the enervation of Christian faith and morality in the higher as well as in the lower ranks of society, caused by modern rationalism and liberalism, whereby it has happened also that a great portion of the working‐ classes have allowed themselves to be deceived by the illusions of irreligious and revolutionary leaders.

4. The means of healing these social evils and reconciling all classes of society consist in the passing of laws prohibiting the exhausting of the bodily and financial strength of the people; in claiming that protection from the state to which all classes are entitled; in the continued effort to remove the particular defects of the present commercial laws by means of legislation; in establishing the rights of the working‐classes in accordance with Christian principles and the demands of general equity; in founding different industrial auxiliary houses, either through the union of the working‐classes and others, or through the friends of the working‐classes; in restricting the amount of labor to be performed by females and children; in the careful cultivation of the moral and religious life in the families of the working‐ classes, especially by having Sunday kept holy, and by applying Christian principles to the sphere of business life; in the free development of Christian charity to alleviate inevitable want.

IV. Regarding the Rights of the Church.

1. The Catholic Church is, according to divine ordination, an independent society, which has the right to exist publicly in all lands as the one and universal church of Jesus Christ, and to protect which every Christian government should feel itself bound.

2. The ecclesiastico‐political system which the parties opposed to the church are endeavoring to carry out stands in irreconcilable and open contradiction to the constitution of the Catholic Church, founded by Almighty God, sanctified through all centuries, recognized by the state, and guaranteed by the law of nations.

3. The power of the office of teacher, priest, and pastor, given by the Pope to the bishops, cannot be suspended or limited by any law of the state.

4. Church and state are ordained by Almighty God to harmonious co‐ operation. Their separation is to be lamented. If the hostility with which the modern state treats the church should make such a separation necessary, it will be more to the disadvantage of the state than to the church.

V. Regarding Liberty of Conscience.

1. No state power has the right to impose obligations upon its subjects which are in opposition to the commandments of God, the decrees of Jesus Christ, and the precepts of the church.

2. The apostolic courage with which the Catholic bishops, not fearing temporal loss, not even imprisonment and exile, defend the rights of God and of his holy church, as also the inalienable rights of Catholic conscience, and the priestly fidelity and firmness with which the Catholic clergy, not led astray by illusions and threats, remain true to the episcopate and the church, deserve the admiration and respect of all Catholics and of every right thinking man.

3. The measures used against the bishops and priests of the Catholic Church do not succeed in their object; they grieve most deeply the Catholic people, but they cannot be persuaded to exchange a church founded by Almighty God for one founded by the state. In vain are all the experiments used to separate Catholics from their rightful superior.

4. The Catholics of Germany recognize always the legitimately‐ elected Bishop of Rome, the Pope, as the head of their religion and church. In him they revere the infallible teacher of faith, the high‐priest and the supreme watchman of Christianity. No power can separate the Catholics of Germany from the chair of S. Peter.

5. The only prelates of the German bishoprics are those bishops who are legitimately appointed by the Pope according to canon law. Catholics obey and reverence these bishops, be they in prison or in exile.

6. The Catholics of Germany recognize as pastors only those who are appointed by the Pope and legitimate bishops. With unshaken determination they repel every attempt to induce them to revolt against Catholic authority.

VI. Regarding the Mission of the Catholic Union in Germany.

1. The Catholic Union of Germany complains of the severity with which the state officers of the German Empire, particularly in Prussia, oppose their rightful endeavors to labor for the true welfare of the fatherland.

2. The Catholic Union of Germany shall with undaunted courage defend their natural rights, the rights of the church and of the German nation, against revolutionary and bureaucratic force.

3. The Union invites all Catholics to join the authorized organization, and in the confidence of assistance from God, which the Union implores for itself through the most Sacred Hearts of Jesus and Mary, they surely expect the speedy triumph of a just cause.

The other resolutions had reference to the adoption of a short prayer to the Sacred Hearts of Jesus and Mary, under whose protection the Union is placed; then the appointing of a committee charged with the erection of a monument to the memory of Herman von Malinckrodt; with the foundation of a fund for exiled clergymen; to send an address to the oppressed Catholics of Switzerland; with the making out of a list of the priests who have been punished in defending the rights of the church; with the establishment of an intelligence office for young Catholic merchants; with the recommendation of the Christian Blaetter, published in Aix‐la‐Chapelle; and finally with the recommending of various institutions for the removal of social evils. All of these motions were not adopted, others were laid upon the table, in order to concentrate the strength of the young Union upon the momentous question to the Catholic Germans as to the best means of ending the conflict now in progress against the church. No one will deny the wisdom and prudence of this proceeding.

In the afternoon a pilgrimage to Mount Roch was determined upon; it is four German, or about twenty‐four American, miles from Mayence, and is one of the most charming places on the Rhine. The congress could not have closed its labors in a more appropriate manner. Soon after twelve o’clock the steamer Loreley, which was hardly large enough to accommodate the vast crowd of pilgrims, commenced to move its engines. Inspired by the pious sentiments which filled their hearts, the pilgrims made the air resound with songs which charmed the ear, while the beautiful views, as seen from the deck of the steamer, of the country lying between the Taunus Mountains and the Rhine, captivated the eye. This little spot has justly been called the garden of Germany. The whole shore is lined with villages, rich in monumental reminiscences of past ages, handsome residences and ancient abbeys, modern and mediæval castles. But the greatest pride of the Rhineland are the luscious grapes which ripen upon these sunny hills. Who has not heard of the Marcobrunner, the Steinberger, the Johannisberger, the Ruedesheimer, and many other species of Rhine wine? The vine‐dresser of the Rhineland is firmly convinced that in the whole world there is no wine which in delicacy is equal to his. But let us proceed. The good Catholic inhabitants of these vine‐clad shores saluted our steamer by discharging cannons. The Prussian authorities had prohibited in some places such signs of joy and sympathy to be shown “the enemies of the state” who were passengers on the Loreley. The banner of the Chapel of S. Roch, which is built upon a high mountain, had from a long distance been seen waving, and we could also descry the great crowd which had already taken possession of the top of the mountain. When we approached the city of Bingen, situated at the foot of the mountain, nearly the whole population awaited us on the banks of the river. A special deputation saluted the Rt. Rev. Bishop of Mayence, who had come to address the pilgrims. The immense crowd, praying and singing, then marched through the city, which was ornamented with flags, and soon all the streets and paths leading to the mountain were filled with men, so that it was very difficult for the marshals to form a regular line of procession in order to reach the top of the mountain. From this eminence only was it possible to obtain a good view of the multitude, which was greater, perhaps, than Mount Roch had ever before carried on its back. It was a splendid spectacle, and the effect was greatly enhanced by the beauty of the surroundings—the majestic river, whose course the eye could follow for miles, the green islands that now and then appeared in the channel of the river, the blooming vineyards, and the ever‐fertile valleys.

As the chapel could contain only a small portion of the assemblage, the Rt. Rev. Bishop made his address while standing under the blue canopy of heaven. We will only give a few extracts from his admirable discourse. In his introduction he said: “We are here to‐day assembled upon this mountain from all parts of Germany. Without knowing each other, we yet feel that we are all united by the common bond of faith, a miniature picture of the Catholic Church. We stand upon a venerable spot. Here lived S. Hildegardis, that great prophetess of the middle ages, whom S. Bernard visited to examine her prophecies. Long before her advent S. Rupert and his saintly mother Bertha, whose relics are exposed for veneration in this chapel, dwelt here. At our feet flows the river Rhine, in whose waters the most beautiful cathedrals of Germany are reflected, and upon whose shores, from the earliest ages, faithful and honest Catholics have lived. There (pointing to Niederlingen, with its palace of Carlovingian date) stood the cradle of Charles the Great, the founder of the old German power and glory; there that great emperor spent his youth, who never unsheathed his sword except for the protection of truth, and never lent it to an unrighteous cause.”

In the course of his speech he made mention of a fact which he had observed when provost of Berlin and delegate for the few Catholic congregations in Brandenburg and Pomerania. “In the last century King Frederick II. had determined to drain the marshes along the river Oder, and had for this end summoned laborers from the Rhine and from the Palatinate. Those from the last‐named place began their long journey after they had received assurances that ample provision had been made for their religious wants, and that lands would be given them for cultivation. These promises, however, were not fulfilled. When the work was finished, the poor people were distributed among the different Protestant cities in Pomerania, in order to force the inhabitants, as it were, to cede to them some territory. Some of them received as their portion the sandy plains near Pasewalk. Here wooden sheds were erected, the best of which was reserved for a chapel. Without a priest, these good people met together every Sunday for divine service, sang their hymns as if for High Mass, and an altar‐boy rang the bell at certain parts, just as it was done in their former homes. Fifty years passed in this way without their ever having seen a priest, and in the course of these fifty years not one Catholic became an apostate. This congregation was afterwards visited once a year by a priest, and this state of things continued for another fifty years; but during this whole time not a Catholic left his faith—a proof that our Lord and Saviour, when the priests are expelled, has other means to keep his own in the true fold. When in our own times institutions are destroyed, priests are exiled, and bishops are cast into prison, we have more reason than ever before to impress deeply upon our hearts the words of Christ: Confidite in me; ego vinci mundum—‘Have confidence; I have overcome the world’ (S. John xvi. 33). If all else perishes, at least one divine institution remains which the state cannot destroy—we mean the Christian family. In proportion as the other representatives of God are prevented from fulfilling their duty, Christian fathers and mothers must, following the example of S. Bertha, fill their vacancies. What obstacles did not this saintly woman overcome! Her husband, who ruled over all this part of Germany, was a heathen, and was killed in a battle with the Christians; but notwithstanding this, she has given in her son a saint to the church.”

Turning then to the subject of the schools, the Rt. Rev. Bishop reminded them of a resolution passed about ten years ago by the Grand Lodge of Belgium, which commanded the sister lodges to give their written opinions as to the question in what manner they could best exercise a decided influence over the public schools. They all agreed on this point: that the schools should be separated from the church, and that it was not sufficient to keep the children in school until they were fourteen years of age, but that compulsory education should be continued up to their eighteenth year, in order to thoroughly uproot from the minds of the children the prejudices which they had received from their families and from the church. To this the objection was raised that such a law would be in direct opposition to the rights of parents; but in the reply, which was afterwards published, it was expressly maintained that, if the state had the right to cut off the heads of men, it could also set them right again. In view of the present aspect of affairs in respect to the school question, it is very easy to draw parallels.

At the conclusion of his address the Rt. Rev. speaker again returned to the text of his discourse: “ ‘Have confidence in Jesus.’ Place not your hope in princes, who cannot help you. The Holy Ghost has said it; they also must die. Make no calculations, therefore, as from what earthly source or from what earthly prince the salvation of the church may be expected. Confide in me, says Christ. Fear not the power of falsehood, for I have overcome the world. Be watchful and firm. While the world is worshipping Mammon it is our duty to imitate the example of those Catholics who have never bowed their knees before Baal, and who were found worthy to make any sacrifice for their convictions. Be courageous and of good cheer! At this time the church needs men of determination. Let every one, then, do his duty, and God will strengthen us and lead us to victory.”

These significant words, the truly apostolic appearance of the Bishop of Mayence, the place, and the feeling exhibited by the vast audience, all contributed to leave a deep impression upon their hearts. After some short devotions in the chapel of grace, the pilgrims returned in a seemingly endless procession, with song and prayer, through the beautiful vineyards to Bingen. We were told that those in the rear of the procession were yet upon the top of the mountain when the first had entered already the parochial church of Bingen, where the Benediction of the Blessed Sacrament was given by the Rt. Rev. Bishop, which ended the festive celebration of the Second Congress of the Catholic German Union.

The Congress has given testimony that the Catholic people of Germany in these our days will not be misled or permit violence to be offered to them; it gave testimony also to the truth which Malinckrodt had expressed one month before in the Reichstag, and eight days before his death, when he said: “If they imagine that we will bow ourselves before their Protestant ideas, which they clothe in the garment of the state, they are greatly mistaken. They can trample us under foot, but we reserve to ourselves the liberty not to become unfaithful to our convictions.”

The Union has many and powerful enemies; but an old German proverb says: “Many enemies, many honors.” May Almighty God continue to protect it as before! Then it will show by its success that, true to its motto, it has worked for truth, justice, and liberty, and that it has excelled all other organizations in patriotism.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us