III. AU REVOIR.--THE PILGRIM’S PROGRESS

III. AU REVOIR.--THE PILGRIM’S PROGRESS

We showed Kenneth such wonders as Leighstone possessed, and his visit was to us at least a very pleasant one. My father was duly informed of his harboring a Papist in his house, and, though a little stiff and stately and a little more reserved in his conversation for a day or two, he could not be other than himself--a hospitable and genial gentleman. And then Kenneth was so frank and manly, so amiable and winning, that I believe, had he solemnly assured us he was a cannibal, and avowed his voracious appetite for human flesh, not a soul would have felt disturbed in the company of so good-looking and well-bred a monster. Perhaps, after all, had we questioned our hearts, the capital sin of Papistry lay in its clothes. Papistry was to my father, and more or less to all of us, the Religion of Rags. Leighstone had no Catholic church, and its Catholic population was restricted to a body of poor Irish laborers and their families, who were most of them the poorest of the poor, and tramped afoot of a Sunday to a wretched little barn of a church eight miles away, which was served by a priest of a large town in the neighborhood. However much of the devil there might be among them, there was certainly little of what is generally understood by the world and the flesh. Yes, theirs was a Religion of Rags, and it was at once odd and sad to see how rags did congregate around the Catholic church--an excellent church indeed for them and their wearers, but not exactly the place to drive to heaven in in a coach-and-four. It was a positive shock to my father to find so fine a young man as Kenneth Goodal a firm believer in the Religion of Rags. Of course he knew all about the Founder of Christianity being born in a stable, and so on; but that was a great and impressive lesson, not intended exactly to be imitated by every one. Princes in disguise may play any pranks they please. Once the beggar’s cloak is thrown off, everything is forgiven. We quite forget that hideous hump of Master Walter in the play when, just before the curtain drops, he announces himself as “now the Earl of Rochdale.” Indeed, it was a kind of social offence to see a young man of breeding, blood, and bearing, such as Kenneth Goodal, take his place among the rank and file, the army of tatterdemalions, that made up the modern Church of Rome, as it showed itself to the eyes of English respectability. Irish reapers, men and maid-servants, cooks, beggars, the halt, the lame, and the blind--these made up the army of modern Crusaders. S. Lawrence himself was very well, but S. Lawrence’s treasures were very ill. The descendants of Godfrey de Bouillon, the mail-clad knights of the Lion-Hearted Richard, my ancestor Sir Roger, all made a very respectable body-guard for a faith and a church; but the followers of Peter the Hermit, the lower layer of society, the lazzaroni--these were certainly uninviting, and gave the religion to which they belonged something of the aspect of a moral leperhood, to be separated from the multitude, and not even sniffed afar off. Yet here was a handsome young gallant like Kenneth Goodal plunging deep into it, with eye of pride and steadfast heart, and a strange faith that it was the right thing to do. It was positively perplexing, and before Kenneth left us my father had another attack of gout.

Kenneth had the skill and good taste never to obtrude unpleasant discussions. The only thing about him was a certain tone in his conversation that made you feel, as decidedly as though you saw it written in his open face, that he sailed under very pronounced colors. It was no pirate, no decoy flag hung out to lure stray craft into danger, and give place at the last moment to the death’s head and cross-bones. It was the same in all weather and in all seas. “The Crusades only ended with the cross,” he had said to me in our first conversation together; and it seemed that I saw the cross painted on his bosom, and borne about with him wherever he went--a very Knight-Hospitaller in the XIXth century. In our long rambles together he and I had many a hard tussle. I was the only one with whom he conversed on religious subjects at all, and when he went away he left the leaven working. The good seed had been sown, whether on stony ground, or among thorns, or on the good soil, God alone could tell.

We missed him greatly when he went. He was so thorough an antiquarian and such a capital chess-player that my father was irritated at his absence, and had a second attack of the gout. Nellie was looking forward and already making preparations for the visit we had promised to pay his mother at Christmas; and as for me, I had lost my alter ego, and spent more time than ever in the churchyard. Even Mattock noticed the frequency of my visits; for he said to me one morning, as I watched him digging a fresh grave: “Ye’re a-comin’ here too often, Master Roger. Graveyards and graves and what’s in ’em is loike enough company for me, but not for sich as ye. It an’t whoalsome, it an’t. Corpses grows on a man, they doos, and weighs him down in spoite of himself. I doant know what I should a-done these twenty-foive year, only for the drams I takes. I couldn’t a-kep up, I couldn’t. There’s somethin’ about churchyeards and graves, a kind o’ airthiness loike, that creeps into a man’s veins, as the years come on him, that at times I doant seem to know exactly which is the livin’ and which is the dead. We’re all airth, Payrson Knowles says, and Payrson Knowles is a knowledgable man; but he doant come here too often. I know we’re all airth; for an’t I seen it? An’t I seen the body of as putty a young gal as was ever kissed under the mistletoe stretched out and laid in her grave afore the New Year dawned, and turned her out a year or so after, a handful o’ bones ye might take in a shovel and putt in a basket, and a doag wouldn’t look at em? Ay, many a sich! I’ve seen ’em set in rows in the pews within thear, and seen ’em go a-flirtin’ and a-smirkin’ out through yon gate; and when the cholera cum, I’ve laid ’em row by row i’ the airth here. I’ve got used to it, bless ye, and could a’most tell their bones. I knows ’em all, and doant mind it a bit; and I shall feel kind a-comfortable when my son, whom I’ve brought up to the bizness and eddicated a-purpose for it, lays me by the side on ’em, yonder in that corner where the sun shines of an evenin’. But sich thoughts an’t for you, Master Roger. Git ye out into the sun, lad, and play while ye may. There’s no sort o’ use in forestallin’ yer time. Ye an’t brought up to be a grave-digger, and ye’ve no sort a-business here. Its onlooky, I tell ye, its onlooky. Graves is my business, not yourn. So git ye gone, Master Roger.”

One effect came from my cogitations with myself and my conversations with Roger: I no longer went to church. Indeed, I had not been too regular an attendant at the Priory for some time past. Still, when, as not unfrequently happened, my father was laid up with the gout, I escorted Nellie to church as in the old days, and thus sufficiently sustained the Herbert reputation for that steady devotion to public duties that was looked for from the leading family in the place; and though Mr. Knowles, who was a frequent visitor at our house, grew a little chilly in his reception of me when we met--I used to be a great favorite of his--he had never undertaken to mention my delinquency to me. There was a certain warmth in his agreement with my father, when that good gentleman broke out on his favorite subject of the young men of the day, that was very different from the old, deprecatory manner in which Mr. Knowles would refer to the hot blood of youth, and the danger of keeping it too much in restraint. I came to the resolution that I would go to no church any more until I went to some church once for all; until I was satisfied that I believed firmly and truly in the worship at which I assisted. Anything else seemed to me now a sham that I could no more endure than if I set up a Chinese image in my own chamber, and burned incense before it. This was all very well for one Sunday or two. But my father’s attack was at this time unusually prolonged; and when, Sunday after Sunday, I conducted Nellie to the church-door, and there left her, to meet and escort her home when service was over, my strange conduct, unknown to myself, began to be remarked in Leighstone, and assumed the awful aspect in a small place of studied bad example. Poor Nellie did not know what to make of me; far less Mr. Knowles. It seemed that some silly young men of the town, taking their cue from me, thought it the fashionable thing to conduct their relatives to the church-door, leave them there, and often spend the interval in somewhat boisterous behavior outside that on more than one occasion disturbed the services; so that at length Mr. Knowles was compelled to mention the matter in general terms from the pulpit, and came out with quite a stirring sermon on the influence of bad example on the young by those who, if respect for God and God’s house had no weight with them, might at least pay some regard to what their position in society, not to say in their own circle, required. Poor Nellie came home in tears that day, and I joked with her on the unusual eloquence of Mr. Knowles. The final upshot of it all was a visit on the part of that reverend gentleman to my father, who was just recovering from his attack; and as ill-luck would have it, I walked into the room just at the moment when my poor father, between the twinges of conscience and the twinges of a relapse resulting from Mr. Knowles’ eloquent and elaborate monologue on my depravity, had reached that point of indignation that only needs the slightest additional pressure to produce an immediate explosion.

“What is this I hear, sir?” he asked me immediately in a tone that sent all the Herbert blood tingling through every vein in my body, the more so that I observed the look of righteous indignation planted on the jolly visage of Mr. Knowles. “What is this I hear? That you refuse to go to church any more, and that, as a natural consequence, the whole parish is following your example?”

“The whole parish!” I ejaculated in amazement.

“Yes, sir; and what else should they do when the heads of the parish neglect their duty as Christians and as English gentlemen?”

“Do their duty, I suppose; go or stay, as it pleases them,” I responded sullenly. Mr. Knowles rose up to depart with the air of one who was about to shake the dust off his feet against me; but my father detained him.

“Mr. Knowles, will you oblige me by remaining? I have put up with this boy’s insolence too long. It must end somewhere. It shall end here.” He was white and trembling with rage; but his tone lowered and his voice grew steady as he went on. I was alarmed for his sake.

“Look here, sir. There is no more argument in a matter of this kind between you and your father. There is no argument in a question of plain and positive duty. Your family has been and still is looked up to in this town; and rightly so, Mr. Knowles will permit me to add.” Mr. Knowles bowed a gracious but solemn assent. “I have attended that church since I was a child, as my father did before me, and as the Herberts have done for generations, as befitted loyal and right-minded gentlemen. You have done the same until recently. What has come over you of late I don’t know, and, indeed, I don’t care. What I do care about is that I have a position to sustain in this town, and a public duty to perform. The Herberts are now, as they have ever been, known to all as a staunch, loyal, church-going, God-fearing race. As the head of the family I insist, and will insist while I live, that that character be maintained. When I am gone, you may do as you please. But until that event occurs you will take your old place by the side of your father and sister, or find yourself another residence. Mr. Knowles, oblige me by staying to dinner.”

I was not present at dinner that day. I saw that expostulation was useless, and accordingly held my tongue. I knew of old that there was a certain pass where reasoning of any kind was lost on my father, and a resolution taken at such a moment was irrevocably fixed. Like father, like son. Even while he was addressing me I had quietly resolved at all hazards to disobey his order. So much for all my fine cogitations regarding the rules of right and wrong. Their first outcome was a deliberate resolve at any hazard to disobey a loving and good parent, backed up by all the spiritual power of the church and things established, as represented in the person of Mr. Knowles. What my precise duty under the circumstances was I am not prepared to say, although I know very well that the opinion of that highly respectable authority known as common-sense would decide the question against me. I was not yet quite of age. If I belonged to any religion at all, I belonged to that in which I had been brought up. For a young gentleman who professed to be so anxious to do what was right, the duty of obedience to his father in a matter where of all things that father was surely entitled to obedience, and where the effort to obey cost so little, where the result as regarded others could not but be satisfactory, not to say exemplary, looked remarkably like an opportunity of regulating one’s conduct by the best of rules at once. In fact, everything, according to common-sense, voted dead against me. On the other hand there lay a great doubt--a doubt sharpened and strengthened in the present instance by the very natural resentment of a young gentleman who, perhaps unconsciously, had come to regard many of his father’s opinions with something very like contempt, being lectured publicly--the public being restricted to Mr. Knowles--by that father, as though, instead of having just emerged from his teens, he were still a schoolboy. Rebellion begins with the incipient moustache. Those scrubby little blotches of growing hair on the upper lip of youth mean much more than youth’s laughing friends can see in them. Their roots are the roots of manhood. As the line grows and strengthens and defines itself, each new hair marks a mighty step forward into the great arena to which all boyhood looks with eagerness. It is the open charter to rights that were not dreamed of before. And if the artist’s skill can advance its growth by the use of delicate pigments, why, so much the better. I was a man, and it was a man’s duty to assert himself, to do what was becoming in a man, whatever the consequence might be. All which meant that I was determined to rebel. Consequently, I declined to meet the Reverend Mr. Knowles at dinner. I strolled out, with doubtless a more independent stride than usual, to study the situation in all its bearings, and resolve upon my future course of conduct; for in two days it would be Sunday, and the crisis would have arrived.

The argument, interesting as it was to myself at the time, would scarcely prove equally so to the reader, who will thank me for sparing him the details. Doubtless many a one can look back into his own life and find a similar instance of resolute disobedience, which, it is to be hoped, he has as bitterly repented as I did this. Happy is he if he can recall only one such instance; thrice happy if he is innocent of any! I was moral coward enough to forestall my sentence by flight. I was young, strong, and active, though hitherto I had had no very definite object whereon to exercise my activity. The world was all before me; and the world, as we all know, wears a very fascinating face to the youth of twenty who has never yet looked behind the mask and seen all the ugly things that practical philosophers assure us are to be found there. To him it is a face wondrous fair; and heaven be thanked for the deception, if deception it be, say I. The eyes beam with gentleness and love. Not a wrinkle marks the smooth visage; not a frown disturbs it. On the broad, open brow is written honesty; on the rosy lips are alluring smiles; in the tones of the soft, low voice there is magical music. What if some see on that same brow the mark of Cain; on the lips, cruelty; in the eyes, death; on all the face a calculating coldness? Such are those who have failed, who have missed life’s meaning and cast away their chances--youthful philosophers who have been crossed in love, or voluptuaries of threescore and ten. But to high-hearted youth the world holds up a magic mirror, wherein he sees a fairy landscape full of harmony, and peace, and beauty, and love, all grouped around a central figure surpassing all, beautifying all--himself and his destiny!

Yes, I would go out into the world, like the prince in the fairy-tales--he is always a prince--to seek my fortune. Up to the present I had done absolutely nothing for myself. Everything had run in a monotonous groove mapped out according to the conventional rule, as regularly as a railway, and without even the pleasing excitement of an accident. Why not begin now? Why not carve out my own destiny--carve is an excellent term--in my own way? “The world was mine oyster, which with my sword I’d open.” What though the oyster was rather large, who said he was going to swallow it? It was the pearl within I sought; perish the esculent! Who knows what discoveries I may not make, what impenetrable forests pierce, what lonely princesses deliver from their charmed sleep, what giant monsters slay on the way, bringing back the spoils some day to my father--some day! say in six months or so--and, laying them at his feet, cry out in triumph, “Father, behold the prodigal returned, not like him of old, who had squandered his inheritance and fed on the husks of swine, but as a mighty conqueror, the admired of fair women and the envy of brave men! Father, this mighty potentate is I, Roger, your son, who would not bow the knee to Knowles!”

It was a pleasing picture, and took my fancy amazingly. Had any young friend of mine come to consult me at that moment on a similar project in his own case, I believe my counsel to him would have been of the sagest. I would have told him to go home and sleep over the matter; to be a good boy and not anger a loving parent. I would have advised him that there is nothing like doing the duty that lies plain before us; that there was a world of wisdom and of truth in that sage maxim of S. Augustine, Age quod agis--Do what you do; that his schemes were visionary, his plans those of a schoolboy, who clearly enough knew nothing whatever of the world (whose depths, of course, I had sounded), who might have read books enough, but had not the slightest experience of that which is never to be found in books--real life; that, in pursuit of a passing fancy, he was neglecting the real business of life, and embarking on a voyage to Nowhere in the good ship Nothing, and so on. That is the advice I should have delivered to any of my young friends who were idiots enough to think that they could venture to set out on such a visionary road alone and without map or chart to guide them. That is how we should all have advised our friends. But with ourselves--with ourselves--ah! the case is different. We can always do what it would be the most presumptuous folly in others to attempt. We can safely thrust our hand into the fire, up to the elbow even, where another dare not trust the tip of a little finger. We can touch pitch, and never show a soil. We can go down into hell, and come back laughing at the devil, who dare not touch us. What would be moral death to another is a mere tonic to us. And yet, and yet, He who taught us to pray gave us as a petition: “Father, … lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.”

My mind was made up; and let me add that the fear of putting my father to the trying test of acting upon his resolution in my regard had no small share in shaping my resolve. I did not see him that night, and on the next day he was confined to his room by an attack that necessitated calling in the doctor, and kept Nellie, whom I did not wish to see, by his side most of the day. I felt that I could not meet her eye without divulging all. I had never done anything that would cause more than a passing care to those who loved me, and I now moved about the house as though I were about to commit or had already committed a great crime. Not accustomed to deception, it seemed to me that any passing stranger--let alone Fairy Nell, who knew me through and through, and had counted every hair of that incipient moustache already hinted at as it came, from whom I had never kept a secret, not even the pigments laid apart for the cultivation of that same moustache--would have read in my guilty face, as plainly as though it were written down on parchment, “Roger Herbert, you are going to run away from home--not a pleasant excursion, my fine fellow, but a genuine bolt!” I packed up a few necessaries, and collected such stray cash of my own as I could lay hands on. The sum seemed a small fortune for a man resolved on entering on such a resolute life of hard labor of some kind or another as I had marked out for myself. Long before that was exhausted I should of course be in a position to provide for myself. How that self-support was to come about I had not yet exactly decided on; but that was to be an after-consideration. While I was waiting for the night to come down and shield my guilty purpose, Nellie stole in from my father’s room to tell me he was sleeping, and that Dr. Fenwick said a good night’s rest would relieve him from all danger, and in two or three days he would be himself again. This comforted me and enabled me to be better on my guard against the witcheries of Fairy, who came and sat down near me; for she had heard or guessed at the dispute that had arisen, and, like an angel of a woman, now that she had tended my father, came to administer a little crumb of comfort to me before going to bed. What an effort it cost me to appear drowsy and to yawn! I thought every yawn would have strangled me; but I was resolved to be on my guard.

“How dreadfully sleepy you are to-night, Roger!” said the Fairy at last.

“Am I?” asked the Ogre, with a tremendous yawn.

“Why, you’ve done nothing but gape ever since I came in. I believe you are getting quite lazy and good-for-nothing.”

“I believe so too.”

“Well, why don’t you do something?”

“I think I will.” Another yawn. “I’ll go to bed. Ten o’clock, by Jove! What a shocking hour for well-behaved young ladies to be up! Come, Fairy, I will do something some day. Is father better?”

“Yes, he is sleeping quite soundly.” Shaking her head and speaking in a solemn little whisper: “O you naughty boy!”

Clear eyes, clear heart, clear conscience! How your mild innocence pierces through and through us, rebuking the secret that we think so safely hidden in the far-away depths of our souls! That gentle little reproof of my sister smote me to the heart.

“Why, Roger, what is the matter with you?”

“It’s a fly; a--something in my eye--nothing. Let go my hands, Nell.”

“Look me in the face, sir. You are crying, Roger. You have been pretending. You were not sleepy a bit. Dear, dear! Don’t go on like that; you make me cry too.”

“Nellie, my own darling--Fairy--there, let me blow the candle out. I was always a coward by candle-light. There, now I can talk. Nellie,” I went on, clutching her close, her face wet with my tears as well as her own, and white as marble in the moonlight--“Nellie, I have been an awfully wicked fellow, haven’t I?”

“N-no”--sob, sob.

“Yes, I have; and father is very angry with me, isn’t he?”

“N-no.”

“Do you think that if I were to do something very bad you could forgive me, Nellie?”

“You c-couldn’t do--anything b-bad--at all.”

“Well, now listen. I haven’t done much harm, I believe, so far; neither have I done much good. And now I make you a solemn promise that from this night out I will honestly try all I can, not only to do no harm, but to do good--something for others as well as myself. Is that a fair promise, Nell?”

“Dear, darling old Roger!” she murmured, kissing me. “I knew he was good all the time. I know--you needn’t say any more. You are coming to church with me to-morrow. How pleased papa will be, and how pleased I am! Here, you shall have my own book to keep as a token of the promise. I’ll run and fetch it at once.”

She tripped up-stairs and came back breathless, putting the book in my hand.

“There, Roger; that seals our promise. I’ve just written inside, ‘Roger’s promise to Nellie,’ and the date to remind you. That’s all. And now papa will be well again. O Roger!”--she came and kissed me again, as I turned my back to the window--“you have made me so happy. Good-night.”

I could not trust myself to speak again and undeceive her. I kissed her and did not look at her any more. I heard her room-door close, and, after standing a long time where she left me, I followed her up-stairs. I stole to my father’s door and listened. I could hear his regular breathing; he was sound asleep. I do not know how long I listened, but at length I crept away to my own room. My resolution was terribly shaken by Nellie’s innocent confidence in me. It is so much easier to endure harshness or suspicion from persons to whom you know you are about to give pain. Why didn’t she scold me, or turn up her pretty nose at me, or stick a pin in me, or do something dreadful to me--anything rather than believe me the best fellow in the world? But, after all, could I not return when I pleased? I had often been away before for a month or more on a visit to some friends--for months together at college. Why should I hesitate to go now?

Poor Nellie’s book was placed in the very bottom of my bag, and then I sat down and wrote the following letter:

“NELLIE: I am going away for a little while--for a month or more, probably. You must not expect to hear anything of me within that time. If you do hear of me, it will probably be through Kenneth Goodal. Indeed, I leave England on Monday, and my return will depend altogether upon circumstances. Nobody knows of my going or of my destination--not even Kenneth; so that it will be useless to make any inquiries. Give my love to my dear father, and tell him that, wherever I may be, the thought of him will always accompany me and prevent me from doing anything unworthy his son and your loving brother,

ROGER.

“P.S.--I will keep my promise.”

This note, sealed and addressed to Nellie, I left upon my table. I waited until not a sound was to be heard through all the house, and again left my room to listen at my father’s door. I listened at Nellie’s also. Nothing could be heard in either. They were sound asleep--dreaming, perhaps, of me. My window overlooked the garden, and a soft grass-plot beneath received myself and my bag noiselessly, as I made the drop I had so often done in play, to the mingled alarm and admiration of Fairy. After a walk of about five minutes I lit a cigar, and felt somewhat more companionable than before. The moon had gone down long since, and a faint flush in the east low down on the horizon betokened the dawn. There was a keenness in the air and a freshness all around that quickened the blood and inspirited the faint heart. The sense of freedom awoke in me with every stride that carried me away from my father’s house out into the world, whose largeness I was beginning to feel for the first time. There was something about the whole enterprise of novelty and boldness and change that grew on me every mile of the way. I thought less and less of the consternation and grief I might occasion to those I left behind me, and whose existence was bound up in mine. And striding along in this frame of mind, I reached Gnaresbridge, where I was not known. My walk of eight miles had given me a tremendous appetite. I entered the railway hotel, and, by way of beginning at once my life of privation and economy, ordered a right royal breakfast, the best the railway hotel could offer. I then took a first-class ticket for London, engaged a room for one night at the Charing Cross Hotel, and, finding my own company not of the liveliest, strolled out into the streets.

The London streets are beyond measure dull on a Sunday. There is a constrained air of good-behavior and drilled respectability about the crowds going to and coming from church at the stated hours that strikes one with a chill after the bustle and noise of the other six days of the week. Religion looks so oppressively dull and hopelessly solemn. The citizens seem to run up the shutters in front of their own persons as well as of their goods; to bolt and bar and case themselves in a wooden stolidity of dull propriety that is mistaken for religion. I do not say that it is not well done; I only say that to me, at least, on this occasion it was disagreeable. The light spirits I had picked up on the road dwindled down immediately at sight of the solemn city, with its solemn crowds. The sombre gray of my surroundings seemed to settle on my mind and heart like ashes from which every spark had gone out. I fell a-musing, and involuntarily followed one of the streams of people that were moving along slowly to some place of worship. I felt sick at heart, and wished for the morrow to come that was to bear me away somewhere out of this tame and conventional life, where religion as well as business followed a fixed routine. Before I knew or had time to think how I had got there, I found myself in a Catholic church. I knew it to be a Catholic church by the altar, and the crucifixes, and the Stations of the Cross around the walls, and the general appearance of the congregation. There is something about a Catholic congregation that distinguishes it at once from all others. Heaven seems a happier place somehow from a Catholic point of view. I had visited Catholic churches before, but was never present at the Mass, and was about to retire as soon as I discovered my whereabouts, when curiosity, mingled with the conviction that I might be as comfortably miserable there as outside, detained me, and I remained. Somebody directed me to a seat close to the altar, where I could see everything perfectly.

The service was varied and full of dignified movements, but I could not understand its meaning. The singing was good, it seemed to my poor ear; but I could not say the same for the sermon. A quiet, pious-looking gentleman preached from the altar a long and, to me, tedious discourse. He seemed in earnest, however, and now and then his pale, worn face would light up--once or twice especially when he spoke of the “Mother of God.” Indeed, I found myself just becoming interested when the sermon concluded. There was something far more impressive to me than the priest’s discourse, than the solemn music, than the gleaming lights, than the slow and reverent movements at the altar, in the congregation itself. The people preached a silent but most telling sermon. I looked furtively around, and watched them. Whether they were mistaken or not, whether they were idolaters or not, there was certainly no sham about them; after all, there was something thorough about this Religion of Rags. Beyond doubt they prayed in real, downright earnest. One man differed from another; one woman from her sister; this one was in rags, that in silks; this man might be a lord, and his neighbor a beggar; but there was something common to them all. They seemed, as they knelt there, possessed of one heart and one soul. They appeared even one body. Their prayer seemed universal and to pass from one to another out and up to God. All seemed to feel an Invisible Presence, which, from association, doubtless, I could have persuaded myself that I also felt. A bell tinkles, once, twice, thrice; once, twice, thrice again. There is an instantaneous hush; the low breathing of the organ has ceased; and every head and heart is bowed down in silent and awful adoration. Involuntarily I also knelt and bowed.

Deeply impressed, I left the church at the conclusion of the service, and seemed to be walking in a dream, when a light touch on my shoulder startled and recalled me to my senses, while a voice whispered in my ear:

“Heretic, heretic! what dost thou here?”

It was Kenneth Goodal who stood smiling before me. The tears sprang to my eyes, but he was too much himself to notice them. He drew my arm in his, and led me to a carriage that was waiting near the door of the church. Within the carriage sat a beautiful lady, whose likeness to Kenneth was too apparent not to recognize her at once as his mother. “I have brought you a treasure,” said Kenneth, addressing her; “this is the very Roger Herbert of whom I have spoken to you so much. Who would have dreamed of catching my heretic at Mass?” We were rolling along through the dull streets by this time, but it was wonderful to think how their dulness had suddenly departed. “Yes, actually at Mass. And I verily believe he blessed himself and said his prayers like a true Christian. And where of all places should they plant you but right in front of me?”

Kenneth’s mother was a sweet lady--just the kind of woman, indeed, I should have expected Kenneth’s mother to be. To great intelligence and that keen power of observation so noticeable in her son were added the charms of a face and person that defied time, while the veil of true Christian womanhood fell over, softened, and chastened all. She was a fervent Catholic, who went about doing good. Kenneth laughingly told me that her conversion had cost him a great deal more trouble and difficulty than his own; but hers once attained, his father’s followed almost as a matter of course. Mrs. Goodal had always been so pure and blameless in her own life that her very excellence constituted a most difficult but intangible barrier to her son’s theological batteries. Even if she became a Catholic, what could she be other than she was? she had asked him once. Of what crimes was she guilty, that she should change her religion at the whim of a youthful enthusiast? Did she not pray to God every day of her life? Did she not give alms, visit the sick, comfort the sorrowful, clothe the naked? What did the Catholic ladies do that she did not? She was not, and did not mean to become, a Sister of Charity, devoting herself absolutely to prayer and good works. Her place was in the world. God had placed her there, and there she would remain, doing her duty to the best of her ability as a Christian wife and mother.

It was certainly a hard case, and she was greatly strengthened in her position by her grand ally, Lady Carpton. Both these excellent women grieved sorely over Kenneth’s defection; for Kenneth was an especial favorite of Lady Carpton’s, and had been smiled upon by her fair daughter, Maud. The two ladies had taken it into their heads that Kenneth and Maud were admirably matched, and their marriage had long ago been fixed upon by the respective mammas, who never kept a secret from each other since they had been bosom friends together at school. The announcement of Kenneth’s joining the Religion of Rags fell like a bombshell into the camp of the allies, scattering confusion and dealing destruction on all sides. Lady Carpton washed her hands of him, and came to the immediate conclusion that “the boy’s mental obliquity was inexplicable. The rash and ridiculous step he had taken was fatal to all his prospects in this life, not to speak of those in the next. He had inexcusably abandoned the social position for which his connections and his rational gifts had eminently fitted him. She had been deceived, fatally deceived, in him. He had destroyed his own future, disgraced his family, and consigned himself henceforward to a life of uselessness and oblivion.”

Lady Carpton, when fairly roused, had an eloquence as well as a temper of her own. Majestically washing her hands of Kenneth, she immediately encouraged the attentions of Lord Cheshunt to her daughter. From jackets upwards Lord Cheshunt had worshipped the very ground upon which Maud trod, as far as it was given to the soul of Lord Cheshunt to worship anything or anybody at all. Maud resembled her mother. Great as her liking--it was never more--for Kenneth had been, her virtuous indignation was greater. With some sighs, doubtless, perhaps with some tears, she renounced for ever Kenneth the renegade, and took in his stead, as a dutiful daughter should do, her share in the lands, appurtenances, rent-roll, and all other belongings of Lord Cheshunt, with his lordship into the bargain. It was on her return from the bridal trip that her mamma, with tears of vexation in her eyes, informed her of the cruel blow that the friend of her girlhood had dealt her--out of small personal spite, she was certain. The friend of her girlhood was Mrs. Goodal, who had actually followed that scapegrace son of hers to Rome--had positively become a Catholic! And as though to confirm the wretched saying that misfortunes never come alone, between them they had dragged into their fatal web that dear, good-natured, unsuspecting Mr. Goodal, just at the moment when he was about to be returned in High Church interest for his native borough of Royston. Thus “the cause” had lost another vote, at a time, too, when “the cause” sadly needed recruiting in the parliamentary ranks. “My dear,” she said impressively to Maud, “you have had a very fortunate escape. Who knows what might have become of you? Lord Cheshunt may not possess that young man’s intellect”--and Maud was already obliged to confess that superabundance of intellect was scarcely Lord Cheshunt’s besetting weakness--“but you see to what mental depravity the fatal gift of intellect may conduct a self-willed young man. Poor dear Lord Byron is just such another instance. Mark my word for it, Kenneth Goodal will become a Jesuit yet!”--a fatality that to Lady Carpton’s imagination presented little short of the satanic.

I spent a very pleasant day and evening with the Goodals--so pleasant that it was not until I found myself saying “good-night” to Kenneth in the street that the occurrences of the last few days flashed upon me. “You will not forget your promise of coming to-morrow,” he said, as he was shaking hands.

“To-morrow! Did I promise to spend to-morrow with you?” I asked.

“So Mrs. Goodal will assure you on your arrival.”

“Good heavens! did I make so foolish a promise? I cannot have thought of what I was saying,” I muttered, half to myself.

“Well, I will call for you in the morning. By the bye, where are you staying?” asked Kenneth.

“No, no. The fact is, I purposed leaving town again immediately. My visit was merely a flying one. You must make my excuses to your mother, Kenneth.”

“She will never hear of them. Traitor! thou hast promised, and thy promise is sacred.”

“It was really a mistake. Well, if I decide on remaining in town over to-morrow, I will come. If--if I should not come, tell your mother how charmed I was with her, and with your father also. Kenneth, I should be so glad if she would pay Nellie a visit--my sister, you know. Indeed, I am very anxious that she should see Nellie as soon as possible.”

“But you forget again that you owe us a visit. Why not come at once? You had better stay and send for your father and sister.”

“Well, I will sleep on the matter. Good-night, old fellow. In the meanwhile do not forget my request.”

Again my resolution was terribly shaken. I went over the entire story, and weighed all the pros and cons of the question, as I walked back to my hotel. I had not yet even determined where to go, still less what to do. On arriving at the hotel I went to the smoking-room, feeling no inclination for slumber. It had only a single occupant--a naval officer, to judge by his costume. He reached me a light, and made some conventional remark on the weather, or some such subject. He was a jovial-looking, red-faced man of about forty or forty-five, with a merry eye and a pleasant voice, and a laugh that had in it something of the depth and the strength and the healthy flavor of the sea. My cigar soon coming to an end, he offered me one of his own with the remark:

“I like a pipe myself, with good strong Cavendish steeped in rum. The rum gives it a wholesome flavor. But ashore I always smoke cigars. You want a stiffish bit o’ sea-breeze up, and then you can enjoy the true flavor of a pipe of Cavendish. All your Havanas in the world aren’t half as sweet. But ashore here, why, Lord, Lord! a pipe o’ Cavendish would smell from one end o’ the city to t’other, and all London would turn up its nose. So I’m obliged to put up with Havanas,” said the captain (I was sure he was a captain) ruefully.

“What is a mortification to you would be a pleasure to many,” I remarked sagely.

“Ever been to sea?” he asked abruptly.

“Never,” I responded laconically.

He looked at me with a kind of pity in his glance.

“What! never been outside o’ this cranky little island, where men have hardly got room to blow their noses?” he asked in amazement.

“Never,” I responded again. “And what’s more, up to the day before yesterday I never wished to go.”

My seafaring friend sighed and smoked in silence. The silence grew solemn, and I thought he would not condescend to address me again. At length, however, he said:

“You’re a Londoner, I guess.”

I guessed negatively; but not at all abashed at his mistake, he went on:

“Well, it’s all the same. All Londoners an’t born in London, any more than all Englishmen are born in England. But they’re all the same. A Londoner never cares to study any geography beyond his sixpenny map o’ London. The Marble Arch and Temple Bar, Hyde Park and London Bridge, are his points o’ the compass. Guild Hall and the Houses o’ Parliament mean more to him than the East or West Indies, the Himalaya Mountains, North or South America, or the Pyramids. The Strand is bigger than the equator, and the National Gallery a finer building than S. Peter’s. Your thorough, home-bred Englishman is about the most vigorously ignorant man I’ve ever sailed across; and I’m an Englishman myself who say it. I do believe it’s their very ignorance that has made them masters of the best part of the world, and the worst masters the world has ever seen. They never see or know or believe anything outside of London, and the consequence is, they’re always making mighty blunders. There, there’s a yarn, and a yarn always makes me thirsty. What will you drink?”

I found my new companion a shrewd and observant man under a somewhat rough coating. He was captain of a steamer belonging to one of the great lines that ply between England and the United States, and his vessel sailed for New York the next day. Here was an opportunity of ending at once all my doubts and hesitations. But on broaching the subject to the captain I found him grow at once cautious, not to say suspicious. That fatal admission about my never having been to sea at all told terribly against me. Then he wanted to know if I had a companion of any kind with me, which I took to be sailor’s English for asking if it were a runaway match. Satisfied on this point, he grew more suspicious still. Running away with a young lass he could understand, and perhaps be brought to pardon; but if it was not that, then what earthly object could I have in going to New York all alone?

“The fact is, youngster,” he blurted out at length, “you see it an’t all fair and above-board with you. Youngsters like you don’t make up their minds in half an hour to go to New York; and if they do, they’ve no business to. If you was a little younger, I should call in a policeman, and tell him you had run away from home. I don’t want to help youngsters--nor anybody else, for that matter--to run into scrapes. There will be some one crying for you, you know, and that an’t pleasant now. Now, then, out with it, and let’s have the whole story. There’s something wrong, and a clean breast, like a good sea-sickness, will relieve you. It’s a little unpleasant at first, but you’ll feel all the better for it afterwards. Trust an old sailor’s word for that.”

I do not attempt to give the pleasant nautical terms with which my excellent friend, the captain, garnished his discourse. However, I told him my story, sufficiently at least to diminish, if not quite to allay, the worthy man’s scruples about my projected trip, which, of course, was only to last until the storm at home blew over. Finally, at a very early hour in the morning it was resolved that I should make my first voyage with the captain, and that same day I penned, and in the afternoon despatched, the following note to Kenneth:

“MY DEAR KENNETH: By the time you receive this I shall be on my way to the United States. I said nothing to you of my plans last night, because, had I done so, I fear they might not have been put in execution without some unnecessary pain and difficulties. My chief reason for leaving England is the great doubt and perplexity that have fallen upon me. Any hope of clearing up such doubt in Leighstone would be absurd. There all persons and all things run in established grooves, and are more or less under the influence of traditions, many of which have for me utterly lost all force and meaning. A little rubbing with the world, a little hard work, of which I know nothing, the sweetness as well as the anxiety of genuine struggle in places and among persons where I shall be simply another fellow-struggler, can do no great harm, even if it does no great good. At all events, it will be a change; and a change of some kind I had long contemplated. A little difficulty with my father about not attending church as usual scarcely hastened my resolution to leave Leighstone. I should feel very grateful to you if you could assure him of this, as I took the liberty on leaving of telling my sister that they would next hear of me in all probability through you. My father’s kind heart and love for me may lead him to lay too great stress upon what in reality nowise affected my conduct and feelings towards him. Time is up, I find, and I can only add that wherever I may go I shall carry with me, warm in my heart, the friendship so strangely begun between us.

“R. HERBERT.”

I do not purpose giving here the history of my first struggles with the world, as they contain nothing particularly exciting or romantic. The circumstances that led to my connection with Mrs. Jinks and Mr. Culpepper are easily explained. My small fortune disappeared with astonishing rapidity, and, unless I did something to replenish my dwindling purse very speedily, there was nothing left save to beg or starve. I would neither write home nor to Kenneth, being vain enough to believe that the smallest scrap of paper with my address on it would be the signal for the emigration by next steamer of half Leighstone, with no other purpose than to see me, its lost hero. Poverty led me to Mr. Culpepper among others, and the same stern guardian introduced me to Mrs. Jinks. I must confess--and the confession may be a warning to young gentlemen inclined at all to grow weary of a snug home--that any particular romance attached to my venture very soon faded out of sight. The world was not quite so pleasant a friend as I had expected. The practical philosophers were right after all. Dear, dear! how the wrinkles began to multiply in his face, and what suspicious glances shot out of those eyes, that grew colder and colder as my boots began to run down at heel, and my elbows gave indications of a violent struggle for air. It required a vast amount of resolution to keep me from volunteering to work my passage back to England. I was often lonely, often weary, often sad, often hungry even. But lonely, weary, sad, and hungry as I might be, I soon contrived to become acquainted with others who were many times more sad, lonely, and weary than I--poor wretches to whom my position at its worst seemed that of a prince. The most wretched man in all this world is yet to be found. Of that truth I became more deeply convinced every day. It was a fact held up constantly before my eyes, and I believe that it did me good. It was an excellent antidote to anything in the shape of pride. Pride! Great heavens! what wretched little, creeping, struggling mortals most of us were; crawling on from day to day, inch by inch, little by little, now over a little mound that seemed so high, and took such infinite labor to reach; now down in a little hollow that seemed the very depths, and yet was only a few inches lower than yesterday’s elevation. There we were, gasping and struggling for light and food and air day after day. Poverty reads terrible lessons. It levels us all. Some it softens, while others it hardens; some it sanctifies, multitudes it leads to crime.

Not that a gleam of sunshine never came to us. Some stray ray will penetrate the darkest alley and crookedest winding, and warm and gladden and give at least a moment’s life and hope and cheerfulness to something, provided only a pinhole be left open to the heaven that is smiling above us all the while. I began to make acquaintances, pleasant enough some of them, others not so pleasant. There was much food for meditation and mental colloquy in the daily life I was living, but I had no time for such indulgence. I was compelled to work very hard; for this was certainly not a vineyard where the laborers were few; and the harvest, when gathered in, was but a sorry crop at the best. Is not the history of the human race the record of one long and unsuccessful expedition after the Golden Fleece? Such stray remnants of it as fell into my hand went for the most part, for a long time at least, into the treasury of Mrs. Jinks, who, like a female Atreus, served up my own children, the children of my brain, or their equivalents, to me at table. Horrid provender! One week it was an art criticism--dressed up with wonderful condiments and melted down into mysterious soup, whose depths I shuddered to penetrate--that sustained the life in me. Another time it was a fugitive poem that took the form of roast beef and potatoes. A cruel critique on some poor girl’s novel would give me ill dreams as pork-chops. A light, brisk, airy social essay would solidify into mutton. And so it went on, week in week out, the round of the table. An inspiriting life truly, where your epigrams mean cutlets, and all the brilliant fancies of your imagination go for honest bread and butter.

I believe that Mrs. Jinks secretly entertained the profoundest contempt for me and my calling, mingled with a touch of pity for a young, strong fellow who had missed his vocation, and who, instead of moping and groping over ink-pots and scraps of paper, might be earning an honest living like the butcher’s young man over the way--an intimate acquaintance and close personal friend of mine who “kept company” with Mrs. Jinks’ Jane. I ventured once to ask Mrs. Jinks whether she did not consider literary labor an honest mode of earning a living; but I was not encouraged to ask a similar question a second time. “She’d knowed littery gents afore now; knowed ’em to her cost, she had. They was for ever a-grumblin’ at their board, and nothing was good enough for them, though they ate more than any two of her boarders put together, and always went away owin’ her three months, besides a-borrerin’ no end o’ money and things.” Such was Mrs. Jinks’ experienced opinion of “littery gents.” She was gracious enough to add: “You know I don’t say this of you, Mr. Herbert. You don’t seem to eat as well as most on ’em. You don’t grumble at whatever you git. You don’t borrer, and you never fetches friends home with you at half-past three in the mornin’, as doesn’t know which is their heads and which is their heels, and a-tryin’ to open the street-door with their watchkeys; tellin’ Mr. Jinks, who is a temperance man, the next mornin’, that you’d been to a temperance meetin’ the night afore, and took too much water. No, Mr. Herbert, I wouldn’t believe you capable of such goins-on. But that’s because you an’t a reg’lar littery gent; you’re only what they calls an amatoor.”

Mrs. Jinks was right; I was only an amateur, though I had a faint ambition some day of being regularly enrolled in “the profession.” I flattered myself that I was advancing, however slowly, to that end. More than a year had now flown by since I had left home. I came to be more and more absorbed in my work, and the days and months glided silently past me without my noticing them. This close and intense absorption succeeded in shutting out to a great extent the thoughts of home. Indeed, I would not allow my mind to rest on that subject; for when I did, I was quite unmanned. It was not until I had made sufficient trial of the sweet bitterness or bitter sweetness, as may be, of what was a hard and often seemed a hopeless struggle, that I wrote to Kenneth under the strictest pledge of secrecy, giving him a true and unvarnished account of my life since we parted, and transmitting at the same time certain evidences of what I was pleased to accept as the dawn of success in the shape of sundry articles in The Packet and other journals. He was enjoined merely to inform them at home that I was in the enjoyment of good health and reaping a steady income of, at an average, ten dollars a week, which I hoped soon to be able to increase; and by a continuance of steady work and the strictest economy I had every hope, if I lived to the age of Methusaleh, of being in a position to retire on a moderate competency, and end my patriarchal days in serene retirement and contemplation under the shade of my own fig-tree. I described Mrs. Jinks and her household arrangements at considerable length, and did that estimable lady infinite credit, while I drew a companion picture of Mr. Culpepper that would have done honor to the journal of which he was the distinguished chief. But put not your trust in bosom friends! Mine utterly disregarded my binding pledge, and the only answer I received to my letter was in Nellie’s well-known handwriting on the occasion and in the manner already described.

* * * * *

That was a stormy passage back to England. We were detained both by stress of weather and an accident that occurred when only a few days out. It was the morning of Christmas eve when at length we landed at Liverpool. The delay had exasperated me almost into a fever. I despatched a telegram to Nellie announcing my arrival, and that I should be in Leighstone that evening. The train was crowded with holiday folk: happy children going home for the Christmas holidays; stout farmers, red and hearty, hurrying back from the Christmas market; bright-eyed women loaded with Christmas baskets and barricaded by parcels of every description. The crisp, cold air seemed redolent of Christmas pudding and good cheer. The guard wished us a merry Christmas as he examined our tickets. The stations flashed a merry Christmas on us out of their gay festoons of holly and ivy with bright-red berries and an ermine fringe of snow, as we flew along, though it seemed to me that we were crawling. Just as we entered London the snow began to fall, and I was grateful for it. I was weary of the clear, cold, pitiless sky under which we had passed. London was in an uproar, as it always is on a Christmas eve; but the uproar rather soothed me than otherwise. What I dreaded was quiet, when my own thoughts and fears would compel me to listen to their remorse and foreboding. I saw lights flashing. I heard voices calling through the fog and the snow. Songs were sung, and men and women talked in a confused and meaningless jargon together. I heard the sounds and moved among the multitude, but with a far-off sense as in a dream. How I found my way about at all is a mystery to me, unless it were with that secret instinct that guides the sleep-walker. I saw nothing but the white snow falling, falling, white and silent and deadly cold, covering the earth like a shroud. I remember thinking of Charles I., and how on the day of his death all England was draped in a snow-shroud. That incident always impressed me when a boy as so sad and significant. And here was my Christmas greeting after more than a year’s absence: the sad snow falling thicker and thicker as I neared home, steadily, solemnly, silently down, with never a break or quaver in it, mystic, wonderful, impalpable as a sheeted ghost; and more than a month ago my sister called me away from another world to tell me that my father was dying.

“Great God! great God!” I moaned, “in whom I believe, against whom I have sinned, to whom alone I can pray, spare him till I come.”

“Leighstone! Leighstone!” rang out the voice of the guard.

I staggered from the railway carriage, stumbled, and fell. I had tasted nothing the whole day. The guard picked me up roughly--the very guard who used to be such a great friend of mine in the old days--a year seemed already old days. He did not recognize me now. I suppose he thought me drunk, for I heard him say, “That chap’s beginning his Christmas holidays pretty early,” and a loud laugh greeted the sally. I contrived to make my way outside the little station. Not a soul recognized me, and I was afraid to ask any one for information, dreading the answer that I could not have borne. Outside the station my strength gave out. My head grew dizzy; I staggered blindly towards some carriages drawn up in front of me, and fell fainting at the feet of one of the horses.

My eyes opened on faces that I did not recognize. Some one was holding up my head, and there were strange men around me. “Thank God! he recovers,” said a voice I knew well, and all came back on me in a flash.

“Kenneth!” I cried, “Kenneth! Is he dead?”

“Hush, old boy. Take it easy. Rest awhile.”

His silence was sufficient.

“My God! I am punished!” I gasped out, and fainted again.

TO BE CONCLUDED NEXT MONTH.

THE CARDINALATE.

I.

The Senate and Sovereign Council of the Pope in the government and administration of the affairs of the church in Rome and throughout the world is composed of a number of very distinguished ecclesiastics who are called Cardinals. The office and dignity of a member of this body is termed the Cardinalate.

There is some dispute among the learned about the precise origin and meaning of the word cardinal as applied to such a person; but the commoner opinion derives it from the Latin cardo, the hinge of a door, which is probably correct; but the reason assigned for the appellation--because the Cardinals are, in a figurative sense, the pivots around which revolve the portals of Christian Rome--is more descriptive than accurate. At a comparatively early age the parish priests of the churches, and later the canons of the cathedrals of Milan, Ravenna, Naples, and other cities of Italy, also in parts of France, Spain, and other countries, were called cardinals; and Muratori suggests that the name was taken in imitation, and perhaps in emulation, of the chief clergymen of the church in Rome. He thinks that they were so called at Rome and elsewhere because put in possession of, or immovably attached--incardinati--to certain churches, which was expressed in low Latin by the verb cardinare or incardinare, formed, indeed, from cardo as above, and the application of which in this sense receives an illustration from Vitruvius, who writes, in his treatise on architecture, of tignum cardinatum--one beam fitted into another.

Our oldest authority for the institution of the cardinalate is found in a few words of unquestionable authenticity in the Liber Pontificalis, or Lives of the Popes, extracted and compiled from very ancient documents by Anastasius the Librarian in the IXth century. It is there written of S. Cletus, who lived in the year 81, was an immediate disciple of the Prince of the Apostles, and his successor only once removed: “Hic ex præcepto beati Petri XXV[95] presbyteros ordinavit in urbe Roma, mense decembri.” These priests, ordained by direction of blessed Peter, formed a select body of councillors to assist the pope in the management of ecclesiastical affairs, and are the predecessors of those who were afterwards called cardinals of the Holy Roman Church. Hence Eugene IV. said in his constitution Non Mediocri (XIX Bull. Mainardi) that the office of cardinal was evidently instituted by S. Peter and his near successors. Again, in the Life of Evaristus, who became pope in the year 100, we read: “Hic titulos in urbe Roma divisit presbyteris.” To this day the old churches of the city, at the head of which stand the cardinal-priests, are called titles, and all writers agree that the designation was given under this pontificate. There is hardly less difference of opinion about the original meaning of this word than there is about that of cardinal. Some have imagined that the fiscal mark put on objects belonging to, or that had devolved upon, the sovereign in civil administration being called titulus in Latin, the same word was applied by Christians to those edifices which were consecrated to the service of God; the ceremonies, such as the sprinkling of holy water and the unction of oil used in the act of setting them apart for divine worship, marking them as belonging henceforth to the Ruler of heaven and earth. Others think that as a special mention was made in the ordination of a priest of the particular church in which he was to serve, it was called his title, as though it gave him a new name with his new character; and this may be the reason of a custom, once universal, of calling a cardinal by the name of his church instead of by his family name.[96] Father Marchi, in his work on the Early Christian Monuments of Rome, has given several mortuary inscriptions which have been discovered of these ancient Roman priests and dignitaries, and from which we take these two: “Locus Presbyteri Basili Tituli Sabinæ,” and “Loc. Adeodati Presb. Tit. Priscæ.” After locus in the first and its abbreviation in the second inscription, the word depositionis--“of being laid to rest”--must be understood.

Let us here remark with the erudite Cenni that these titled priests were not such as were afterwards called parish priests or rectors of churches, with whom they were never confounded, and over whom, as intermediaries between them and the pope, they had authority. These titulars were a select body of men not higher in point of order, but otherwise distinct from and superior to those priests who had parochial duties to perform within certain limits. Whether we believe that cardinal meant originally one who was chief in a certain church, just as was said (Du Cange’s Glossarium) Cardinalis Missa, Altare Cardinale, and as we say in English, cardinal virtues, cardinal points; or whether we accept it as one who was appointed to a particular church, it is not true that the Roman cardinals were so called either because they were the chief priests--parochi--of certain churches, or because they were attached--incardinati--to a title. The great Modenese author on Italian antiquities has been deceived by similarity of name into stating that the origin and office of the cardinals of Rome did not differ from that of those of other churches (Devoti, Inst. Can., vol. i. p. 188, note 4). Observe that the ordination performed by Cletus was done by direction of blessed Peter; that it was that of a special corps of priests; that it was not successive, but at one time, and that in the month of December, the same which an unbroken local tradition teaches is the proper season[97] for the creation of cardinals, out of respect for the first example. Now, the pope surely needed no special injunction to continue the succession of the sacred ministry; we may consequently believe that the ordination made by him with such particular circumstances was an extraordinary proceeding, distinct from, although immediately followed by, the administration of the sacrament of Orders. Therefore if after the Evaristan distribution of titles the successors of these Cletan priests came to be called cardinals, it was not so much (accepting the origin of the name given above) because they were attached to particular churches as because they were attached in solidum to the Roman Church, the mother and mistress of all churches, or, better still, as more conformable to the words of many popes and saints, because they were attached to (some good authors say incorporated with) the Roman pontiff. And it is in this figurative but very suggestive sense that Leo IV. writes of one of his cardinals whom he calls “Anastasius presbyter cardinis nostri, quem nos in titulo B. Marcelli Mart. atque pontif. ordinavimus” (Labbe, Conc., tom. ix. col. 1135). In the same sense S. Bernard, addressing Eugene III., calls the cardinals his coadjutors and collaterals, and says (Ep. 237) that their business is to assist him in the government of the whole church, and (Ep. 150) that in spiritual matters they are judges of the world. Not otherwise did Pope John VIII., in the year 872, write that as he filled in the new law the office of Moses in the old, so his cardinals represented the seventy elders chosen to assist him. For this reason cardinals alone are ever chosen legates a latere--i. e., Summi Pontificis. The cardinals of Rome, therefore, were not cardinals because they had titles, but just the contrary. We have been a little prolix on a point that might seem minute, because there was once a determined effort made in some parts of France and Italy, especially during the last century, to try to prove that the cardinals of the Roman Church were no more originally than any other priests having cure of souls in the first instance, except that by a fortunate accident they ministered in the capital of the then known world. This was an attempt to depress the dignity of the cardinalate, or at least, by implication, to give undue importance to the status of a parish priest, as though he and a cardinal were once on the same footing. The like insidious argument would be prepared to show, on occasion, that the pope himself was in the beginning no more than any other bishop. The same name was often used in the early church of two persons, but of each in a different sense; and thus the mere fact of there having been cardinals in other churches than that at Rome no more diminishes the superior authority and higher dignity of the Roman cardinalate than the name of pope, once common to all bishops, lessens the supremacy of the Roman pontificate. In ecclesiastical antiquities a common name often covers very different offices. In general, however, the instinct of Catholics will always be able to make the proper distinction, no matter how things are called; and the words of Alvaro Pelagio, who wrote his lachrymose treatise De Planctu Ecclesiæ about the year 1330, show how different was the popular opinion of the provincial and of the urban cardinals: “Sunt et in Ecclesia Compostellana cardinales presbyteri mitrati, et in Ecclesia Ravennate. Tales cardinales sunt derisui potius quam honori.” The name of cardinal was certainly in use at the beginning of the IVth century; for the seven cardinal-deacons of the Roman Church are mentioned in a council held under Pope Sylvester in 324; and a document of the pontificate of Damasus in 367, registering a donation to the church of Arezzo by the senator Zenobius, is subscribed in these words: “I, John, of the Holy Roman Church, a cardinal-deacon, on the part of Damasus, praise this act and confirm it.” Among the archives, also, of S. Mary in Trastevere, there is mention of Paulinus, a cardinal-priest in 492. The name of cardinal was restricted by a just and peremptory decree of S. Pius V. in 1567 exclusively to the cardinals of pontifical creation, and it was only then that the haughty canons of Ravenna dropped this high-sounding appellation. The idea figuratively connected with the cardinalship in the edifice of the Holy Roman Church is briefly exposed by Pope Leo IX., a German, in a letter to the Emperor of Constantinople. “As the gate itself,” he says, “doth rest upon its post, thus upon Peter and his successors dependeth the government of the whole church. Wherefore his clerics are called cardinals, because they are most closely adhering to that about which revolveth all the rest” (Labbe, tom. ii. Epist. i. cap. 22.) The author of an old poem on the Roman court (Carmen de Curia Romana) gives in a few lines the principal points of a cardinal’s pre-eminence:

“Dic age quid faciunt quibus est a cardine nomen Post Papam, quibus est immediatus honor? Expediunt causas, magnique negotia mundi, Extinguunt lites, fœdera rupta ligant. Isti participes onerum, Papæque laborum, Sustentant humeris grandia facta suis.”

More completely, however, than anywhere else are the rights, prerogatives, and dignity of the cardinalate set forth in the 76th Constitution of Sixtus V., beginning Postquam ille verus, of May 13, 1585.

A fact recorded by John the Deacon in the life of S. Gregory I. shows us how high was the office and rank of a cardinal, and that to be appointed to a bishopric was considered a descent from a higher position. He says that this great pope was always careful to obtain the consent of a cardinal before appointing him to govern a diocese, lest he should seem, by removing him from the person of Christ’s Vicar, to give him a lower place: “Ne sub hujusmodi occasione quemquam eliminando deponere videretur.” That bishops undoubtedly considered the cardinalate, in the light of influence on the affairs of the whole church and the prospect of becoming pope, as superior to the episcopate, appears at an early period, from a canon which it was necessary to make in order to repress their ambition in this direction. In a council held at Rome in the year 769 this canon was passed: “Si quis ex episcopis … contra canonum et sanctorum Patrum statuta prorumpens in gradum Majorum[98] sanctæ Romanæ Ecclesiæ, id est presbyterorum cardinalium et diaconorum, ire præsumpserit, … et hanc apostolicam sedem invadere … tentaverit, et ad summum pontificalem honorem ascendere voluerit, … fiat perpetuum anathema.”

There was at one period not a little divergence of opinion about the precedence of cardinals over bishops; but the matter has long ago been irrevocably settled. A cardinal, indeed, cannot, unless invested with the episcopal character, perform any act that depends for its validity upon such a character, nor can he lawfully invade the jurisdiction of a bishop; but apart from this his rank in the church is always, everywhere, and under all circumstances superior to that of any bishop, archbishop, metropolitan, primate, or patriarch. Nor can it be said that this is an anomaly, unless we are also prepared to condemn other decisions of the church; for the precedence of cardinals over bishops has a certain parity with that of the archdeacons in old times over priests, which very example is brought forward by Eugene IV. in 1431 to convince Henry, Archbishop of Canterbury, who had a falling out with Cardinal John of Santa Balbina: “Quoniam in hujusmodi prælationibus officium ac dignitas, sive jurisdictio, præponderat ordini, quemadmodum jure cautum est ut archidiaconus, non presbyter suæ jurisdictionis obtentu, archipresbytero præferatur” (Bullarium Romanum, tom. iii.) But we could bring a more cogent example from the modern discipline of the church. A vicar-general, although only tonsured, outranks (within the diocese) all others, because, as canonists say, unam personam cum episcopo gerit; with as much justice, therefore, a cardinal, who is a member of the pope, whose diocese is the world, precedes all others (we speak of ecclesiastical rank) within mundane limits. There is one example, particularly, in ecclesiastical history that shows us how important was the influence of the Roman cardinals in the whole church, and how great was the deference paid to them by bishops. After the death of S. Fabian, in the year 250, the priests and deacons--cardinals--of Rome governed the church for a year during the vacancy of the see, and meanwhile wrote to S. Cyprian, bishop, and to the clergy of Carthage, in a manner that could only become a superior authority, as to how those should be treated who, having lapsed from the faith during the persecution, now sought to be reconciled. The holy bishop answered respectfully in an epistle (xxth edition, Lipsiæ, 1838), in which he gave them an account of his gests and government of the diocese. Pope Cornelius testifies that the letters of the cardinals were sent to all parts to be communicated to the bishops and churches (Coustant, Ep. RR. PP. x. 5). It is also very noteworthy that in the General Council of Ephesus, in 431, of Pope Celestine’s three legates, the cardinal-priest preceded the two others, although bishops, and before them signed the acts. Those who say the Breviary according to the Roman calendar are familiar with the fact that at an indefinitely early age the cardinals were created (just as now) before the bishops of various dioceses were named, hence those familiar words: “Mense decembri creavit presbyteros (tot), diaconos (tot), episcopos per diversa loca (tot).”

The importance of a cardinal a thousand years ago can be imagined from the fact recorded by Muratori (Annali d’Italia, tom. v. part. i. pag. 55), that when Anastasius had absented himself from his title for five years without leave, and was residing in Lombardy, three bishops went from Rome to invite him back, and the emperors Louis and Lothaire also interposed their good offices.

Although all cardinals are equal among themselves in the principal things, yet in many points of costume, privilege, local office, and rank there are distinctions and differences established by law or custom, the most important of which follow from the division of the cardinals into three grades, namely, of bishops, priests, and deacons. Although the whole number of suburbicarian sees, of titles, and deaconries amounts to seventy-two (six for the first, fifty for the second, and sixteen for the third class), the membership of the Sacred College is limited since Sixtus V. to the maximum of seventy. There can be no doubt that the episcopal sees lying nearest to, and, so to speak, at, the very gates of Rome, have enjoyed from the remotest antiquity some special pre-eminence; but it is not easy to determine at what epoch their incumbents began to form a part of the body of cardinals. It is certain only that they belonged to it in the year 769. These suburban sees all received the faith from S. Peter himself; and the tradition of Albano is that S. Clement, who was afterwards pope, had been consecrated by the apostle and sent there as his coadjutor and auxiliary. The number of these sees was formerly seven, but for a long time has been only six. The Bishop of Ostia and Velletri is the first of this order and Dean of the Sacred College. He has the privilege of consecrating the pope, should he be only in priest’s orders when elected, and of wearing the pallium on the occasion.

The titles of the cardinal-priests are fifty, some being held by persons who have been consecrated bishops but have no diocese, or by jurisdictional bishops--i.e., those who are at the head of dioceses and archdioceses. The most illustrious, though not the oldest, of these is S. Lawrence in Lucina, which is called the first title, and gives its cardinal precedence--other things being equal--in his class.

In the life of S. Fabian, who reigned in the year 238, we read that he gave the districts of Rome in charge to the deacons: “Hic regiones divisit diaconibus”; and these are supposed to have been the first cardinal-deacons, or regionary cardinals, as they were long called. This order is third in rank, but second in point of time when it was admitted into the Sacred College. The number of cardinal-deacons became fourteen (one for each of the civil divisions of the city) towards the end of the VIth century, under the pontificate of S. Gregory the Great. In the year 735 Pope Gregory III. added four and raised the number to eighteen, which was reduced under Honorius II., in the beginning of the XIIth century, to sixteen. After various other mutations of number it was fixed as at present. Until the pontificate of Urban II. in 1088 these cardinals were denominated by the name of their district or region, except those added by Gregory III., who were called palatines. After the XIth century they were called from the name of their deaconries. S. Mary in Via Lata is the first deaconry. The cardinal-deacons are often in priests’ orders; but in this case they cannot celebrate Mass in public without a dispensation from the Pope, but they can say it in their private chapel in presence of their chaplain. In early times cardinal-deacons held a position of very singular importance, and the pope was frequently chosen from their restricted class. Even now some of the highest positions at Rome are occupied by them.

Although a cardinal is created either a cardinal-priest or a cardinal-deacon, there is a mode of advancement even to the chief suburbicarian see. This is called, in the language of the Curia, option, or the expressing a wish to pass from one order to a higher, or from one deaconry, title, or see to another. The custom is comparatively recent, and was looked upon at first with considerable disfavor. It owes its origin to the schism which Alexander V. attempted to heal in 1409 by forming one body of his own (the legitimate) and of the pseudo-cardinals of the anti-pope Benedict XIII. As there were two claimants to the several deaconries, titles, and sees, he proposed to settle the dispute by permitting one of them in succession to optate to the first vacant place in his order. What was meant as a temporary measure became an established custom under Sixtus IV. (1471-1484). If a cardinal-bishop be too infirm to perform episcopal duties in the see which he already fills, Urban VIII. decreed that he cannot pass to another one. If a cardinal-deacon obtain by option a title before he has been ten years in his own order, he must take the lowest place among the priests; but if after that period, he takes precedence of all who have been created in either of the two orders since his elevation. The favor of option is asked of the pope in the consistory held next after a vacancy has occurred, by the cardinal proposing such a change. The prefect of pontifical ceremonies having previously assured himself that no cardinal outranking the postulant contemplates the same, the cardinal-priest, to give an example from this order, rises and says: “Beatissime Pater, si sanctitati vestræ placuerit dimisso titulo N. transitu ex ordine presbyterali ad episcopalem, opto ecclesiam N.,” naming his title and the suburbicarian see that he seeks to occupy.

These three orders of cardinals certainly had a corporate character at an early period, and formed what the ancients called a college with its officers and by-laws; but Arnulf, Bishop of Lisieux in the Xth century, was the first to call them collectively Collegium Sanctorum; hence in all languages it is now called the Sacred College. A proof that the cardinals acted together in a public capacity, and of their exalted dignity, is that they are termed Proceres clericorum by Anastasius in the Life of S. Leo III. In olden times cardinals were strictly obliged to reside near the pope; and a Roman council, composed of sixty-seven bishops, held in 853 under S. Leo IV., called in judgment and deposed the cardinal-priest of S. Marcellus for having contumaciously absented himself during a long time from his title. This obligation of residence in the house or palace annexed to the title or the deaconry was somewhat relaxed in the XIIth century, when bishops of actual jurisdiction began to be created cardinals. The first example of a bishop governing a diocese who was made a cardinal is that of Conrad von Wittelsbach, of the since royal house of Bavaria, Archbishop of Mentz, who was raised to this dignity by Alexander III. in 1163.

Innocent III., however, refused a petition of the good people of Ravenna to let them have a certain cardinal for their archbishop, saying that he was more useful to Rome and to the church at large where he was than he could possibly be in any other position. At this period, and until a considerable time after, it was very rare that a bishop was made a cardinal without having to resign his diocese and reside in curia.

Leo X. was so strict in his ideas of the duty of cardinals to live near him that he issued a bull renewing the obligation in very strong terms; and in 1538 it was proposed to Paul III. to draw up a plan of reform making it incompatible to govern a diocese and be at the same time a cardinal, except in the case of the Fathers of the First Order, who, from the nearness of their sees to Rome, could perform their service to the pope as his councillors and assistants, and not neglect the faithful over whom they were placed (Natalis Alexander, Hist. Eccl., tom. xvii. art. 16). No such stringent rule was adopted, and a cardinal might be this and govern a diocese, if he made it his place of habitual residence, according to the decree of the Council of Trent (Session xxiii., on Ref., ch. 1).

Of the virtue, learning, and other qualities required in a cardinal of the Holy Roman Church, SS. Peter Damian and Bernard have written eloquently, and Honorius IV., of the great family of Savelli, once so powerful in Rome, was inexorable against unworthy subjects, saying that “he never would raise to the Roman purple any save good and wise men.” Different popes have made excellent laws on these matters and others connected with the cardinalate; but in some cases they have been disregarded, especially those about age and about there not being two near relatives in the Sacred College at the same time. The practice of the last hundred years has been above cavil, and the abuses of other ages have been exaggerated, partly through malice, and partly from not knowing the secret reasons that popes may have had for creating, for instance, mere youths--royal youths--cardinals, or conferring the high dignity upon members of their own family, or upon men who had nothing to recommend them but the importunate demands of their sovereigns. The hat bestowed upon S. Charles Borromeo was productive of more good than all the rest of “nepotism” was able to effect of evil.

The creation of cardinals is an exclusive privilege of the popes; but they have sometimes granted the prayers of the Sacred College or of sovereign princes asking to have the dignity conferred upon certain subjects. For a long time, especially during the XVIth century, the governments of France, Spain, Portugal, Poland, and the republic of Venice were favored by being permitted to name once in each pontificate a candidate for the cardinalate. This was called a crown nomination. Clement V. is said (Cancellieri, Mercato, p. 105, note 3) to have been the first to grant to princes the right of petitioning for a hat; and the sultan Bajazet II. wrote on 28th September, 1494, to Alexander VI., begging him to make a perfect cardinal of Nicholas Cibo, Archbishop of Aries, and cousin of Pope Innocent VIII. Clement XII. in 1732 tendered to James III. (the “Elder Pretender”) the nomination of some subject to the cardinalate, and he, like a true Stuart, neglecting his countrymen and those who had suffered in his cause, proposed Mgr. Rivera, whom he had taken a liking to for little courtesies shown at Urbino. It has long been a custom for the pope to promote to this dignity a member of the family or one of that religious order to which his predecessor belonged, from whom he himself received it. The Italians call this a restitution of the hat--Restituzione di capello. The number of cardinals has greatly varied at different times. It was generally smaller before than ever since the XVIth century. The cardinals could, of course, well be all Romans, as they were in the beginning; but with a change of circumstances the pontiffs have recognized the propriety of S. Bernard’s suggestive query to Eugene III.: “Annon eligendi de toto orbe, orbem judicaturi?” (De Consid., iv. 4). In 1331 John XXII. (himself a Frenchman), being asked by the king to create a couple of French cardinals, replied that two were too many, and he would make but one, because there were only twenty cardinals in all, and seventeen of them were Frenchmen. In 1352, after the death of Clement VI., the cardinals attempted to restrict the Sacred College to twenty members, on the principle that a dignity profusely conferred is despised--communia vilescunt; but Urban VI. found himself constrained, by the course of events at the schism, to create a large number of cardinals, in order to oppose them to the pseudo-cardinals of Clement VII., and at one creation he made twenty-nine, all except three being his own countrymen, Neapolitans; so that the French of another generation were richly paid back for their former preponderance. From this time the membership of the Sacred College gradually increased up to the middle of the XVIth century. It is much to the credit of Pius II. that when the Sacred College in 1458 remonstrated with him on the number of cardinals, saying that the cardinalate was going down, and begged him not to increase its membership to any considerable extent, he told the fathers that as head of the church he could not refuse the reasonable requests of kings and governments in such a matter, but that, apart from this, his honor forbade him to neglect the subjects of other countries than Italy in the distribution of the highest favors in his gift (Comment. Pii II., lib. ii. pp. 129, 130). Leo X., believing himself disliked by many cardinals, added thirty-one to their number at a single creation on July 1, 1517, the like of which the court has never seen before or after; but it had the desired effect. The Council of Trent ordained (Sess. 24, De Ref., c. i.) concerning the subjects of the cardinalate that “the Most Holy Roman Pontiff shall, as far as it can be conveniently done, select (them) out of all the nations of Christendom, as he shall find persons suitable.” This is not to be understood, however worded, as more than a recommendation to the pope. Paul IV. (Caraffa, 1555-59), a great reformer, after consulting the Sacred College and long discussions, issued a bull called the Compact--Compactum--in which he decreed that the cardinals should not be more than forty; but his immediate successor, Pius IV. (Medici), acting on the principle that one pope cannot bind another in disciplinary matters, created forty-six. Sixtus V. in 1585 fixed the number at seventy in imitation of the seventy elders chosen to assist Moses; and since then all the popes have respected this precedent. During the long reign of Pius VII., although, on account of the times, unable to hold a consistory for many years, he created in all ninety-eight cardinals, and when he died left ten in petto. Although, on the one hand, an excessive number of cardinals would lessen the importance and lower the dignity of the office, yet a very small number has occasioned long and disedifying conclaves, whereby for months, and even years, the Holy See has been vacant, to the great detriment of the church. This was the case four times during the XIIIth century, and by a coincidence, each time it was after a pope who was the fourth of his name, viz., Celestine (1241), Alexander (1261), Clement (1268), and Nicholas (1292).

The subject of this article has grown so much under our hands that we are reluctantly compelled to defer a description of the ceremonies attendant on the election of cardinals, etc., till the July number of THE CATHOLIC WORLD.

ON THE WAY TO LOURDES.

“Quacumque ingredimur, in aliquam historiam vestigium ponimus.”--Cicero.

The most direct route from Paris to Notre Dame de Lourdes crosses the Bordeaux and Toulouse Railway at Agen, where the pilgrim leaves the more frequented thoroughfares for an obscurer route, though one by no means devoid of interest, especially to the Catholic of English origin; for the country we are now entering was once tributary to England, and at every step we come, not only upon the traces it has left behind, but across some unknown saint of bygone times, like a fossil of some rare flower with lines of beauty and grace that ages have not been able to efface.

Approaching Agen, we imagined ourselves coming to some large city, so imposing are the environs. The broad Garonne is flowing oceanward, its shores bordered by poplars, and overlooked by hills whose sunny slopes are covered with vineyards and plum-trees. Boats from Provence and Languedoc are gliding along the canal, whose massive bridge, with its gigantic arches, harmonizes with the landscape, and reminds one of the Roman Campagna. The plain is vast, fertile, and smiling; the heavens glowing and without a cloud. Every hill, like Bacchus, has its flowing locks wreathed with vines of wonderful luxuriance, and is garlanded with clusters of grapes, under which it reels with joyous intoxication. Everywhere are white houses, fair villas, pleasant gardens, and all the indications of a prosperous country.

The town does not correspond with its surroundings. It is damp and said to be unhealthy. The streets are narrow and winding, the houses without expression. The population is mostly made up of merchants, mechanics, and gens de robe. Here and there we find a noble mansion, a few great families, and a time-honored name; but the true lords of the place are the public functionaries, worthy and grave, and clad in solemn black, quite in contrast with the joyous character of the people. The local peculiarities of the latter may be studied to advantage in an irregular square bordered with low arcades--the centre of traffic for all the villages eight or ten leagues around. Famous fairs are held here three or four times a year, one for the sale of prunes--and the Agen prunes are famous--but the most important one is the lively, bustling fair of the Gravier, which brings together all the blooming grisettes of the region, who, in festive mood and holiday attire, gather around the tempting booths. The Gravier was formerly a magnificent promenade of fine old elms, which Jasmin loved to frequent, and where he found inspiration for many of his charming poems in the Gascon language--one of the Romance tongues; for the so-called patois of this part of the country is by no means a corruption of the French, but a genuine language, flexible, poetic, and wonderfully expressive of every sweet and tender emotion. Some of Jasmin’s poems have been translated by our own poet Longfellow with much of the graceful simplicity of the original. Most of the fine elms of the Gravier have been cut down within a few years, to the great regret of the people.

One of the most striking features of the landscape in approaching Agen is a mount at the north with a picturesque church and spire. This is the church of the Spanish Carmelites, who, driven some years ago from their native country, came to take refuge among the caves of the early martyrs beside the remains of an old Roman castrum called Pompeiacum. Here is the cavern, hewn centuries ago out of the solid rock, where S. Caprais, the bishop, concealed himself in the time of the Emperor Diocletian to escape from his persecutors. And here is the miraculous fountain that sprang up to quench his thirst; sung by the celebrated Hildebert in the XIth century

“Rupem percussit, quam fontem fundere jussit; Qui fons mox uber fit, dulcis, fitque saluber, Quo qui potatur, mox convalet et recreatur.”

That is to say: “Caprais smote the rock, and forth gushed a fount of living water, sweet and salutary to those who come to drink thereof,” as the pilgrim experiences to this day.

From the top of this mount S. Caprais, looking down on the city, saw with prophetic eye S. Foi on the martyr’s pile, and a mysterious dove descending from heaven, bearing a crown resplendent with a thousand hues and adorned with precious stones that gleamed like stars in the firmament, which he placed on the virgin’s head, clothing her at the same time with a garment whiter than snow and shining like the sun. Then, shaking his dewy wings, he extinguished the devouring flames, and bore the triumphant martyr to heaven.

After the martyrdom of S. Caprais, the cave he had sanctified was inhabited by S. Vincent the Deacon, who, in his turn, plucked the blood-red flower of martyrdom, and went with unsullied stole to join his master in the white-robed army above. Or, as recorded by Drepanius Florus, the celebrated deacon of Lyons, in the IXth century: “Aginno, loco Pompeiano, passio sancti Vincentii, martyris, qui leviticæ stolæ candore micans, pro amore Christi martyrium adeptus, magnis sæpissime virtutibus fulget.”

His body was buried before S. Caprais’ cave, and, several centuries after, a church was built over it, which became a centre of popular devotion to the whole country around, who came here to recall the holy legends of the past and learn anew the lesson of faith and self-sacrifice. Some say it was built by Charlemagne when he came here, according to Turpin, to besiege King Aygoland, who, with his army, had taken refuge in Agen. This venerable sanctuary was pillaged and then destroyed by the Huguenots in 1561, and for half a century it lay in ruins. The place, however, was purified anew by religious rites in 1600; the traditions were carefully preserved; and every year the processions of Rogation week came to chant the holy litanies among the thorns that had grown up in the broken arches. Finally, in 1612, the city authorities induced a hermit, named Eymeric Rouidilh, from Notre Dame de Roquefort, to establish himself here. He was a good, upright man, as charitable as he was devout, mocked at by the wicked, but converting them by the very ascendency of his holy life. He brought once more to light the tomb of S. Vincent and S. Caprais’ chair, and set to work to build a chapel out of the remains of the ancient church. The dignitaries of the town came to aid him with their own hands, the princes of France brought their offerings, and Anne of Austria came with her court to listen to the teachings of the holy hermit. Among other benefactors of the Hermitage were the Duc d’Epernon, Governor of Guienne, and Marshal de Schomberg, the first patron of the great Bossuet.

Eymeric’s reputation for sanctity became so great that he drew around him several other hermits, who hollowed cells out of the rock, and endeavored to rival their master in the practice of rigorous mortification. They rose in the night to chant the divine Office, and divided the day between labor and prayer, only coming together for a half-hour’s fraternal intercourse after dinner and the evening collation. Eymeric himself, at night, sang the réveillè in the streets of Agen, awakening the echoes of the night with a hoarse, lamentable voice: “Prégats pous praubés trépassats trépassados que Diou lous perdounné!”--Pray for the poor departed, that God may pardon them all!

Eymeric was so scrupulous about using the water of S. Caprais’ fountain for profane purposes that, discovering some plants that gave indications of a source, he labored for six months in excavating the rock, till at length he came so suddenly upon a spring that he was deluged with its waters.

During the plague of 1628, and at other times of public distress, his heroic charity was so fully manifest that he was regarded as a public benefactor; and when he died, the most distinguished people in the vicinity came to testify their veneration and regret.

The cells of the Hermitage continued, however, to be peopled till the great revolution, when the place was once more profaned. But in 1846 a band of Spanish Carmelites came to establish themselves on the mount sanctified by the early martyrs. Martyrs, too, of the soul are they; for there is no martyrdom more severe than the inward crucifixion of those who, in the cloister, offer themselves an unbloody sacrifice to God for the sins of the world. Some, who have not tried it, think the monastic life to be one of ease and self-indulgence. But let them seriously reflect on the “years of solitary weariness, of hardship and mortification, of wakeful scholarship, of perpetual prayer, unvisited by a softness or a joy beyond what a bird, or a tree, or an unusually blue sky may bring,” with no consolations except those that spring from unfaltering trust in Christ and utter abandonment to his sweet yoke, and they will see that, humanly speaking, such a life is by no means one of perfect ease.

On this new Carmel lived for a time Père Hermann, the distinguished musician, who was so miraculously converted by the divine manifestation in the Holy Eucharist, and it was here he gave expression to the ardor of his Oriental nature in some of his glowing Cantiques to Jésus-Hostie, worthy to be sung by seraphim:

“Pain Vivant! Pain de la Patrie! Du désir et d’amour mon âme est consumée Ne tardez plus! Jésus, mon Bien-Aimé, Venez, source de vie, Ne tardez plus! Jésus, mon Bien-Aimé!”

Agen is mentioned on every page of the religious history of southern France. In the IIId century we find the confessors of the faith already mentioned. Sixty years later S. Phoebadus, a monk of Lerins who became Bishop of Agen, defended the integrity of the Catholic faith against the Arians in an able treatise. He was a friend of S. Hilary of Poitiers and S. Ambrose of Milan. St. Jerome speaks of him as still living in the year 392: “Vivit usque hodie decrepitâ senectute.” In the time of the Visigoths SS. Maurin and Vincent de Liaroles upheld and strengthened the faith in Novempopulania.

In feudal times the bishops of Agen were high and puissant lords who had the royal prerogative of coining money by virtue of a privilege conferred on them by the Dukes of Aquitaine. The money they issued was called Moneta Arnaldina, or Arnaudenses, from Arnaud de Boville, a member of the ducal family, who was the first to enjoy the right.

It was a bishop of Agen, of the illustrious family Della Rovere that gave two popes--Sixtus IV. and Julius II.--to the church, who induced Julius Cæsar Scaliger to accompany him when he took possession of his see. Scaliger’s romantic passion for a young girl of the place led him to settle here for life. Not far from Agen may still be seen the Château of Verona, which he built on his wife’s land, and named in honor of his ancestors of Verona--the Della Scalas, whose fine tombs are among the most interesting objects in that city. This château is in a charming valley. It remained unaltered till about forty years ago; but it is now modernized, and therefore spoiled. The oaks he planted are cut down, the rustic fountain he christened Théocrène is gone. Only two seats, hewn out of calcareous rock, remain in the grounds, where he once gathered around him George Buchanan, Muret, Thevius, and other distinguished men of the day. These seats are still known as the Fauteuils de Scaliger.

The elder Scaliger was buried in the church of the Augustinian Friars, which being destroyed in 1792, his remains were removed by friendly hands for preservation. They have recently been placed at the disposition of the city authorities, who will probably erect some testimonial to one who has given additional celebrity to the place. The last descendant of the Scaligers--Mlle. Victoire de Lescale--died at Agen, January 25, 1853, at the age of seventy-six years.

Agen figures also in the religious troubles of the XVIth century, as it was part of the appanage of Margaret of Valois; but it generally remained true to its early traditions. Nérac, the seat of the Huguenot court at one time, was too near not to exert its influence. Then came Calvin himself, when he leaped from his window and fled from Paris. Theodore Beza too resided there for a time. They were protected by Margaret of Navarre, who gathered around her men jealous of the influence of the clergy and desirous themselves of ruling over the minds of others. They boldly ridiculed the religious orders, and censured the morals of the priesthood, though so many prelates of the time were distinguished for their holiness and ability. Nérac has lost all taste for religious controversy in these material days. It has turned miller, and is only noted for its past aberrations and the present superiority of its flour.

On the other side of the Garonne, towards the plain of Layrac, we come to the old Château of Estillac, associated with the memory of Blaise de Monluc, the terrible avenger of Huguenot atrocities in this section of France. He was an off-shoot of the noble family of Montesquiou, and served under Bayard, Lautrec, and Francis I.--a small, thin, bilious-looking man, with an eye as cold and hard as steel, and a face horribly disfigured in battle, before whom all parties quailed, Catholic as well as Protestant. He had the zeal of a Spaniard and the bravado of a true Gascon; was sober in his habits, uncompromising in his nature, and, living in his saddle, with rapier in hand, he was always ready for any emergency, to strike any blow; faithful to his motto: “Deo duce, ferro comite.”

We are far from justifying the relentless rigor of Monluc; but one cannot travel through this country, where at every step is some trace of the fury with which the Huguenots destroyed or desecrated everything Catholics regard as holy, without finding much to extenuate his course. We must not forget that the butchery which filled the trenches of the Château de Penne was preceded by the sack of Lauzerte, where, according to Protestant records, Duras slaughtered five hundred and sixty-seven Catholics, of whom one hundred and ninety-four were priests; and that the frightful massacre of Terraube was provoked by the treachery of Bremond, commander of the Huguenots at the siege of Lectoure.

Among the other remarkable men upon whose traces we here come is Sulpicius Severus, a native of Agen. His friend, S. Paulinus of Nola, tells us he had a brilliant position in the world, and was universally applauded for his eloquence; but converted in the very flower of his life, he severed all human ties and retired into solitude. He is said to have founded the first monastery in Aquitaine, supposed to be that of S. Sever-Rustan, where he gave himself up to literary labors that have perpetuated his name. The Huguenots burned down this interesting monument of the past in 1573, and massacred all the monks. It was from the cloister of Primulacium, as it was then called, that successively issued his Ecclesiastical History, which won for him the title of the Christian Sallust; the Life of S. Martin of Tours, written from personal recollections; and three interesting Dialogues on the Monastic Life, all of which were submitted to the indulgent criticism of S. Paulinus before they were given to the public. The intimacy of these two great men probably began when S. Paulinus lived in his villa Hebromagus, on the banks of the Baïse, and it was by no means broken off by their separation. The latter made every effort to induce his friend to join him at Nola; but we have no reason to complain he did not succeed, for this led to a delightful correspondence we should be sorry to have lost. We give one specimen of it, in which modesty is at swords’ points with friendship. Sulpicius had built a church at Primulacium, and called upon his poet-friend to supply him with inscriptions for the walls. The baptistery contained the portrait of S. Martin, and, wishing to add that of Paulinus, he ventured to ask him for it. Paulinus’ humility is alarmed, and he flatly refuses; but he soon learns his likeness has been painted from memory, and is hanging next that of the holy Bishop of Tours. He loudly protests, but that is all he can do, except avenge his outraged humility by sending the following inscription to be graven beneath the two portraits: “You, whose bodies and souls are purified in this salutary bath, cast your eyes on the two models set before you. Sinners, behold Paulinus; ye just, look at Martin. Martin is the model of saints; Paulinus only that of the guilty!”

Sometimes there is a dash of pleasantry in their correspondence, as when Paulinus sends for some good Gascon qualified to be a cook in his laura. Sulpicius despatches Brother Victor with a letter of recommendation which perhaps brought a smile to his friend’s face: “I have just learned that every cook has taken flight from your kitchen. I send you a young man trained in our school, sufficiently accomplished to serve up the humbler vegetables with sauce and vinegar, and concoct a modest stew that may tempt the palates of hungry cenobites; but I must confess he is entirely ignorant of the use of spices and all luxurious condiments, and it is only right I should warn you of one great fault: he is the mortal enemy of a garden. If you be not careful, he will make a frightful havoc among all the vegetables he can lay his hands on. He may seldom call on you for wood, but he will burn whatever comes within his reach. He will even lay hold of your rafters, and tear the old joists from your chimneys.”

Among other Agen literary celebrities is the poet Antoine de La Pujade, who was secretary of finances to Queen Margaret of Navarre--not the accomplished, fascinating sister of Francis I., but the wife of the Vert-Galant, “Du tige des Valois belle et royale fleur,” who encouraged and applauded the poet, and even addressed him flattering verses. His tender, caressing lines on the death of his little son of four years of age are well known:

“Petite âme mignonnelette, Petite mignonne âmelette, Hôtesse d’un si petit corps! Petit mignon, mon petit Pierre, Tu laisses ton corps à la terre, Et ton âme s’en va dehors.”

La Pujade consecrated his pen to the Blessed Virgin in the Mariade, a poem of twelve cantos in praise of the très sainte et très sacrée Vierge Marie.

Another rhymer of Agen, and a courtier also, is Guillaume du Sable, a Huguenot, who in his verses held up his wife, his daughter, and his son-in-law as utterly given up to avarice. As for himself, he was always ready to spend! Yes, and as ready to beg. That he was by no means grasping, that his palms never itched, is shown by his poems, which are full of petitions to the king for horses, clothes, and appointments. Like so many of his co-religionists, he did not disdain the spoils of the enemy, as is apparent from this modest request to Henry IV.:

“Mais voulez-vous guérir, Sire, ma pauvreté? Donnez-moi, s’il vous plait, la petite abbaye, Ou quelque prieuré le reste de ma vie, Puisque je l’ai vouée à votre majesté.”

He wrote against priests and monks, but stuck to the royal party, condemning all who revolted under pretext of religion. Perhaps the most supportable of his works is that against the Spanish Inquisition--a subject that never needs any sauce piquante. His Tragique Elégie du jour de Saint Barthélemy affords an additional proof in favor of the approximate number of one thousand victims at the deplorable massacre of August 24, 1572.

As a proof of the tenacity with which the Agenais have clung to past religious traditions and customs, we will cite the popular saying that arose from the unusual dispensations granted during Lent by Mgr. Hébert, the bishop of the diocese, in a time of great distress after an unproductive year:

“En milo sept centz nau L’abesque d’Agen debenguèt Higounau”--In 1709 the Bishop of Agen turned Huguenot!

Leaving Agen by the railway to Tarbes, we came in ten minutes to Notre Dame de Bon Encontre--a spot to which all the sorrows and fears and hopes of the whole region around are brought. This chapel is especially frequented during the month of May, when one parish after another comes here to invoke the protection of Mary. A continual incense of prayer seems to rise on the sacred air from this sweet woodland spire. A few houses cluster around the pretty church, which is surmounted by a colossal statue of the Virgin overlooking the whole valley and flooding it with peace, love, and boundless mercy. The image of her who is so interwoven with the great mysteries of the redemption can never be looked upon with indifference or without profit. The soul that finds Mary in the tangled grove of this sad world enters upon a “moonlit way of sweet security.”

We next pass Astaffort, a little village perched on a hill overlooking the river Gers, justifying its ancient device: Sta fortiter.[99] It played an important part in the civil wars of the country. The Prince de Condé occupied the place with four hundred men, and, attacked by the royalists, they were all slain but the prince and his valet, who made their escape. A cross marks the burial-place of the dead behind the church of Astaffort, still known as the field of the Huguenots.

Lectoure, like an eagle’s nest built on a cliff, is the next station, and merits a short tarry; for, though fallen from its ancient grandeur, it is a town full of historic interest, and contains many relics of the past. It is a place mentioned by Cæsar and Pliny, and yet so small that we wonder what it has been doing in the meantime. It was one of the nine cities of Novempopulania, and in the IXth century still boasted the Roman franchise, and was the centre of light and legislation to the country around, on which it imposed its customs and laws. It governed itself, lived its own individual life, unaffected by the changes of surrounding provinces, and proudly styled itself in its public documents “the Republic of Lectoure.” In the XIIth century it was the stronghold of the Vicomtes de Lomagne; and when Richard Cœur de Lion wished to bring Vivian II. of that house to terms, he laid siege to Lectoure, which, though stoutly defended for a time, was finally obliged to yield. In 1305 it belonged to the family of Bertrand de Got (Pope Clement V.), which accounts for a bull of his being dated at Lectoure. Count John of Armagnac married Reine de Got, the pope’s niece, in 1311, and thus the city fell into the hands of the haughty Armagnacs, who made it their capital. At this time they were the mightiest lords of the South of France, and seemed to have inherited the ancient glory of the Counts of Toulouse. For a time they held the destiny of France itself in their hands. For one hundred and fifty years they took a prominent part in all the French wars. Their banner, with its lion rampant, floated on every battle-field. Their war-cry--Armagnac!--resounded in the ears of the Derbys and Talbots. It was an Armagnac that sustained the courage of France after the surrender of King John at Poitiers; an Armagnac that united all the South against the English in the Etats-Généraux de Niort; and an Armagnac--Count Bernard VI.--who maintained the equilibrium of France when Jean-sans-Peur of Burgundy aimed at supremacy, and fell a victim to Burgundian vengeance at Paris.

Lectoure gives proofs of its antiquity and the changes it has passed through in the remains of its triple wall; its fountain of Diana; the bronzes, statuettes, jewels, and old Roman votive altars, that are now and then brought to light; its mediæval castle, and the interesting old church built by the English during their occupancy, with its massive square tower, whence we look off over the valley of the Gers, with its orchards and vineyards and verdant meadows shut in by wooded hills, and see stretching away to the south the majestic outline of the Pyrenees.

At the west of Lectoure is the forest of Ramier, in the midst of which once stood the Cistercian abbey of Bouillas--Bernardus valles--founded in 1125, but now entirely destroyed.

“Never was spot more sadly meet For lonely prayer and hermit feet.”

There is a popular legend connected with these woods, the truth of which I do not vouch for--I tell the tale as ’twas told to me:

A poor charcoal-burner, who lived in this forest close by the stream of Rieutort, had always been strictly devout to God and the blessed saints, but, on his deathbed, in a moment of despair at leaving his three motherless children without a groat to bless themselves with, invoked in their behalf the foul spirit usually supposed to hold dominion over the bowels of the earth, with its countless mines of silver and gold. He died, and his three sons buried him beside their mother in the graveyard of Pauillac; but the wooden cross they set up to mark the spot obstinately refused to remain in the ground. Terrified at this ominous circumstance, the poor children fled to their desolate cabin. The night was dark and cold, and wolves were howling in the forest. “Brothers,” said the oldest, “we shall die of hunger and cold. There is not a crumb of bread in the house, and the doctor carried off all our blankets yesterday for his services. The Abbey of Bouillas is only half a league off. I am sure the good monks will not refuse alms to my brother Juan. And little Pierréto shall watch the house while I go to the Castle of Goas.”

Both brothers set off, leaving Pierréto alone in the cabin. He trembled with fear and the cold, and at length the latter so far prevailed that he ventured to the door to see if he could not catch a glimpse of his brothers on their way home. It was now “the hour when spirits have power.” Not a hundred steps off he saw a group of men dressed in rich attire, silently--“all silent and all damned”--warming themselves around a good fire. The shivering child took courage, and, drawing near the band, begged for some coals to light his fire. They assented, and Pierréto hurriedly gathered up a few and went away. But no sooner had he re-entered the cabin than they instantly went out. He went the second time, and again they were extinguished. The third time the leader of the band frowned, but gave him a large brand, and threateningly told him not to come again. The brand went out like the coals; and the men and fire disappeared as suddenly. Pierréto remained half dead with fright. An hour after Juan returned from the Convent of Bouillas with bread enough to last a week, and Simoun soon arrived from the castle with three warm blankets.

When daylight appeared, Pierréto went to the fire-place to look at his coals, and found they had all turned to gold. The two oldest now had the means of making their way in the world. One became a brave soldier, and the other a prosperous merchant; but Pierro became a brother in the Abbey of Bouillas. Night after night, as he paced the dark cloisters praying for his father’s soul, he heard a strange rushing as of fierce wind through the arches, and a wailing sound as sad as the Miserere. Pierro shuddered and thought of the cross that refused to darken his father’s grave; but he only prayed the longer and the more earnestly.

Years passed away. Simoun and Juan, who had never married, weary of honors and gain, came to join their brother in his holy retreat. Their wealth, that had so mysterious an origin, was given to God in the person of the poor. Then only did the troubled soul of their father find rest, and the holy cross consent to throw its shadow across his humble grave.

Lectoure is surrounded by ramparts; but the most remarkable of its ancient defences is the old castle of the Counts of Armagnac, converted into a hospital by the Bishop of Lectoure in the XVIIIth century. This castle witnessed the shameless crimes of Count John IV. and their fearful retribution at the taking of Lectoure under Louis XI. The tragical history of this great lord affords a new proof of the salutary authority exercised by the church over brutal power and unrestrained passion during the Middle Ages.

There is no more striking example of the degradation of an illustrious race than that of John V., the last Count of Armagnac, who shocked the whole Christian world by an unheard-of scandal. Having solicited in vain a dispensation to marry his sister Isabella, who was famous for her beauty, he made use of a pretended license, fraudulently drawn up in the very shadow of the papal court, as some say, to allay Isabella’s scruples, and celebrated this monstrous union with the greatest pomp. He forgot, in the intoxication of power and the delirium of passion, there could be any restraint on his wishes, that there was a higher tribunal which watched vigilantly over the infractions of the unchangeable laws of morality and religion. The pope fulminated a terrible excommunication against them. King Charles VII., hoping to wipe out so fearful a stain by the sacred influences of family affection, sent the most influential members of the count’s family to exert their authority; but in vain. The king soon turned against him, because he favored the revolt of the Dauphin, and sent an army to invade his territory. Count John’s only fear was of losing Isabella; and rather than separate from her to fight for the defence of his domains, he fled with her to the valley of Aure, while the royal army ravaged his lands.

Condemned to perpetual banishment, deprived of his dominions, his power gone, under the ban of the church, his eyes were opened to the extent of his degradation, his soul was filled with remorse. He took the pilgrim’s staff and set out for Rome, begging his bread by the way, to seek absolution for himself and his sister. Isabella retired from the world to do penance for her sins in the Monastery of Mount Sion at Barcelona. The church, which never spurns the repentant sinner, however stained with crime, granted him absolution on very severe conditions. The learned Æneas Sylvius (Pius II.) occupied the chair of S. Peter at that time. His great heart was touched by the heroic penance of so great a lord. He received him kindly, dwelt on the enormity of the scandal he had given to the world, and reminded him that Pope Zachary had condemned a man, guilty of an offence of the same nature, to go on a round of pilgrimages for fourteen years, the first seven of which he was ordered to wear an iron chain attached to his neck or wrist, fast three times a week, and only drink wine on Sundays; but the last seven he was only required to fast on Fridays; after which he was admitted to Communion.

More merciful, Pius II. enjoined on Count John never to hold any communication with Isabella by word, letter, or message; to distribute three thousand gold crowns for the reparation of churches and monasteries; and to fast every Friday on bread and water till he could take up arms against the Turks; all of which the count solemnly promised to do. Nor do we read he ever violated his word. Affected by such an example of penitence, the pope addressed Charles VII. a touching brief to induce him to pardon the count.

When Louis XI. came to the throne, remembering the services he had received from Count John, he restored him to his rank. The count now married a daughter of the house of Foix. Everything seemed repaired. But divine justice is not satisfied. Louis XI., determined to destroy the almost sovereign power of the great vassals, took advantage of Count John’s offences against his government, and resolved on his destruction. He sent an army to besiege him at Lectoure. At this siege Isabella’s son made his first essay at arms, and displayed the valor of his race but the young hero finally perished in a rash sortie, and the count soon after capitulated. The royal forces, taking possession of the place, basely violated the terms of surrender. The city was sacked and nearly all the inhabitants massacred. Among the victims was Count John himself, who died invoking the Virgin. The walls of the city were partly demolished, and fire set to the four quarters. The dead were left unburied, and for two months the wolves that preyed thereon were the only occupants of the place. Never was there a more fearful retribution. It took the city nearly a century to recover in a measure from this horrible calamity.

Lectoure was in the hands of the Huguenots when Monluc laid siege to it in 1562. Bremond, the commander, offered to capitulate, and, proposing an exchange of hostages, he asked for Verduzan, La Chapelie, and a third. Monluc consented, and as they approached the gates of the city they were fired upon by thirty or forty arquebusiers, but without effect. Monluc cried out that was not the fidelity of an honest man, but of a Huguenot. Bremond protested his innocence of the deed, and, pretending to seize one of the guilty men, he hung an innocent Catholic on the walls in sight of Monluc. Unaware of the fraud, the hostages again approached, and again they were fired upon. A gentleman from Agen was killed and others wounded. Indignant at such treachery, and supposing his own life particularly aimed at, Monluc exclaimed that, since they held their promises so lightly, he would do the same with his, and he immediately sent Verduzan with a company of soldiers to Terraube to despatch the prisoners whose lives he had spared. This order was executed with as much exactness as barbarity, and the implacable Monluc declared he had made “a fine end of some very bad fellows.”

Bremond, urged by the inhabitants, again renewed negotiations, and finally surrendered the city on condition of being allowed to withdraw with his troops to Bearn, flags flying and drums beating, and the Protestants left in the place permitted the free exercise of their religion--terms that were faithfully kept by Monluc.

It was probably the sympathy of Lectoure with the Huguenot party that led Charles IX. to deprive it of many of its ancient rights and privileges, which hastened its decline. It put on a semblance of its former grandeur, however, when it received Henry IV. within its walls, and Anne of Austria with Cardinal Richelieu.

It was in the old historic castle that Richelieu imprisoned the unfortunate Duc de Montmorency. The people favored his escape, and sent him a silk ladder in a pâté; but his kindness of heart led to his destruction. Desirous of saving a servant to whom he was attached, he took him with him in his attempt to escape. The servant fell from the ladder, and was wounded. His cry aroused the guard. Montmorency was taken and soon after beheaded at Toulouse. The soldiers present at his execution drank some of his blood, that, infused into their veins, it might impart something of the valor of so brave a man. He was so beloved by the common people that the peasantry of Castelnaudry, where he was taken prisoner, are familiar with his history, and speak of him with admiration and affection to this day. His wife, an Italian princess, became a Visitandine nun after his execution.

One cannot visit the old castle of Lectoure, with its thousand memories, without emotion. It is now a hospital. Charity has taken the place of brutality and lawless passion. Looking off from the walls over the pleasant valley below, watered by streams and divided by long lines of trees, we hear the song of the peaceful laborer instead of the battle-cry of the olden time, and the lowing of the fawn-colored Gascon cattle instead of the neighing of war-horses.

Before the castle opens a street that goes straight through the town, at the further end of which is the parish church of S. Gervais, a fine, spacious edifice of the Saxo-Gothic style, built by the English during their rule. The immense square tower was once a fortress, called the tower of S. Thomas, from which the sentinel signalled the approach of the enemy. It was formerly surmounted by the highest steeple in France, but, repeatedly struck by lightning, it was taken down some years ago by order of the bishop.

The Carmelite nuns at Lectoure have had from time immemorial a cross of marvellous efficacy, especially in cases of fever. It is of a style not often met with in France, though common in Spain, where it is held in great veneration from its miraculous prototype--the Santa Cruz de Caravaca.

This cross is made of copper, and has two cross-beams, like a patriarchal cross, with figures in relief on each side, which are connected with an interesting history. On the top of one side of the cross is the monogram of Christ, with a crosslet above and the three nails of the Passion below. The upper cross-beam has a chalice on the left arm, and on the right the lance that pierced the Sacred Heart, crossed by a reed with a sponge at the end. In the middle is an open space for relics.

On the left arm of the lower cross-beam is the scourge and the lantern that lit the soldiers to the Garden of Olives; on the right is a ladder; and in the centre the cock crowing on a pillar that extends up from the foot of the cross, at which is a death’s head.

These are the usual emblems of the Passion, familiar to all; but the other side is more mysterious. On the upper part is a patriarchal cross supported by two angels, one on each arm of the upper cross-beam. Lower down, in the centre of the lower cross-beam, is a priest in sacerdotal vestments, ready to offer the Holy Sacrifice, standing in an attitude of astonishment and admiration, looking up at the cross borne by the two angels. On his breast is the monogram of Christ, and beneath that of the Virgin. On each side are lilies in full bloom, and above his head, in the centre of the upper cross-beam, stands a chalice, as on an altar, covered with the sacred linen veil. It is evident the artist intended to represent all the objects necessary to celebrate the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass. There are two lighted candles at the side of the priest, and at the end of the right arm of the lower cross-beam are two kings filled with evident amazement, one of whom is gazing at the angelic apparition. At the left extremity is a queen and an attendant.

The Cross of Caravaca is associated with a chivalric legend of southern Spain. We give it as related by Juan de Robles, a priest of Caravaca, whose account was published at Madrid in 1615.

About the year of our Lord 1227 there reigned at Valencia a Moorish prince, known in the ancient Spanish chronicles by the Arabic name of Zeyt Abuzeyt, who embraced Christianity. According to Zurita, he became King of Murcia and Valencia in 1224, and was at first a violent persecutor of his Christian subjects. In 1225 he made peace with Iago, King of Aragon, promising him one-fifth of the revenues of his two capitals, which enraged his people and caused him the loss of Murcia. The Moors, discovering he held secret intercourse with the King of Aragon and the pope, drove him from Valencia in 1229. He died about 1248, before King Iago took possession of that city.

Zeyt Abuzeyt’s conversion to Christianity took place in consequence of a miracle that occurred in his presence at Caravaca, a town in his kingdom where he happened to be. At that time the Spanish victories over the Moors announced the speedy expulsion of the latter from the Peninsula, and frequent conversions took place among them. A Christian priest ventured among the Moors of the kingdom of Murcia to preach the Gospel. He was seized and brought before Zeyt Abuzeyt, who asked him many questions concerning the Christian religion, and, in particular, about the Sacrifice of the Mass. The explanations of the priest interested him so much that he requested him to celebrate the Holy Mysteries in his presence. The priest, not having the necessary articles, sent for them to the town of Concha, which was in the hands of the Christians; but it happened that the cross, which should always be on the altar during the celebration of Mass, had been forgotten. The priest, not remarking the deficiency, began the Holy Sacrifice, but, soon observing the cross was wanting, did not know what to do. The king, who was present with his family and the court, seeing the priest suddenly turn pale, asked what had happened. “There is no cross on the altar,” replied the priest. “But is not that one?” replied the king, who at that moment saw two angels placing a cross on the altar. The good priest joyfully gave thanks to God and continued the sacred rites. So marvellous an occurrence triumphed over the infidelity of Zeyt Abuzeyt, and he at once professed his faith in Christ. Popular tradition says he was baptized by the name of Ferdinand, in honor of the holy king, Ferdinand III., who stood as sponsor. Pope Urban IV. addressed him a brief of felicitation on account of his baptism.

Zeyt Abuzeyt had one son, who received the name of Vincent when baptized, and subsequently married a Christian maiden. At the death of his father he took the title of the King of Valencia, which he held till the King of Aragon took possession of the city. He then contented himself with the lands and revenues assigned him by the conqueror.

This account explains the figures on the Cross of Caravaca. We see the astonished priest and the cross borne by the angels. The two kings, who are gazing at the cross, are of course King Zeyt Abuzeyt and S. Ferdinand, his god-father. The queen opposite is doubtless Dominica Lopez, whom, according to tradition, he married after his baptism; and beside her is her daughter, called Aldea Fernandez in honor of King Ferdinand.

This cross, to which a great number of miracles are attributed, is preserved with great care in the church at Caravaca, in the ancient kingdom of Murcia. It is believed to be made of the sacred wood of the true cross. A great number of similar crosses have since been made, and there is hardly a family in Spain which has not a Cross of Caravaca. Many people wear one.

S. Teresa had great devotion to this cross, and her cross of Caravaca fell into the possession of the Carmelites of Brussels, who gave it to the monastery of S. Denis during the time of Mme. Louise of France; but this precious relic has since been restored to the convent at Brussels.

On an eminence in sight of Lectoure is one of the sanctuaries of mysterious origin dear to popular piety, so numerous in this country. It is Notre Dame d’Esclaux. Its modest tower looks down on a secluded valley which delights the eye with its freshness and fertility, its fine trees, and the sparkling streams here and there among the verdure. Beyond are fertile heights in the direction of Nérac. The origin of this church is somewhat obscure. Old traditions tell of oxen kneeling in a thicket in the meadow belonging to the lord of S. Mézard. The shepherds, attracted by the circumstance, found a statue of Our Lady buried in the ground. There are many instances of similar discoveries in this region. The animals that witnessed the Nativity have always had a certain sacredness in the eyes of the people, and they have part in many an ancient legend, like that in which they are made to kneel at the midnight hour at Christmas. The lord of the manor built a chapel for the wondrous image, and a fountain soon after sprang up, which to this day is celebrated for its miraculous virtues. The most ancient document concerning this chapel bears the date of April 23, 1626, stating it had been destroyed by the Huguenots during the religious wars, and owed its restoration to the piety of the noble family who, according to tradition, first founded it. The concourse of pilgrims has not ceased for three centuries. Whole parishes come here in procession in perpetual remembrance of some great benefit. The parish of Pergain has not failed to make its annual pilgrimage for two hundred years in fulfilment of a vow made to avert the divine wrath after a fearful hail-storm that had ravaged its lands. Only a few of the wonders wrought in this sanctuary have been recorded. We find a striking one, however, in the beginning of last century. A little boy of seven years of age, who had never walked in his life and had no use whatever of his feet, was taken by his pious parents to Notre Dame d’Esclaux, where Mass was said for his benefit. At the moment of the Elevation the little cripple rose without assistance, and went up to the railing of the chancel, and afterwards walked home to La Romieu, a distance of about six miles. He always celebrated the anniversary of his miraculous cure with pious gratitude, and his descendants have continued to do the same to this day. The details of this wonderful occurrence have been furnished by M. Lavardens, the present head of the family, one of the most respectable in the region.

A path leads the devout pilgrim up the sad way of the cross to the summit of the hill, where stands a large crucifix, in which is enshrined a relic of the true cross. We loved to see these heights consecrated to religion with the sign of the Passion--emblem of the triumph of moral liberty.

“O faithful Cross! O noblest tree! In all our woods there’s none like thee. No earthly groves, no shady bowers, Produce such leaves, such fruit, such flowers; Sweet are the nails, and sweet the wood, That bear a weight so sweet and good.”

Fifteen minutes’ walk to the south of Lectoure brings you to the Chapel of S. Geny, on the banks of the Gers. Behind it rises the mount on whose summit this saint of the early times was wont to pray. Here he was when thirty soldiers, sent by the Roman governor in pursuit of him, appeared on the other side of the Gers. S. Geny lifted up his clean hands and pure heart to heaven. The hill trembled beneath his knees. The river rose so high that for two days the amazed soldiers were unable to cross, and then it was to throw themselves at the saint’s feet and acknowledge the power of the true God. They received baptism, and were soon after martyred in a place long known as the “Blood of the Innocents.” A new band being sent against S. Geny, he again ascends the mount, but this time to pray his soul may be received among those whose robes have just been washed white in the blood of the Lamb. And while he was praying with eyes uplifted the heavens opened, he saw the newly-crowned martyrs, encircled with rejoicing angels, chanting: Let those who have overcome the adversary and kept their garments undefiled have their names written in the Lamb’s book of life! At this sight the saint’s knees bend, his ravished soul breaks loose from its bonds and takes flight for heaven. This was on the 3d of May. His body remained on the top of the mount, giving out an odor of mysterious sweetness, till the Bishop of Lectoure brought it down to the foot of the hill, and buried it in the little church S. Geny had erected over his mother’s tomb. Not long after two persons, overtaken by darkness, sought refuge in this oratory, and found it filled with a great light and embalmed with lilies and roses--beautiful emblems of the supernatural love and purity that had distinguished the saint.

Not far from Lectoure was once another “devout chapel,” one of the most noted in the country around--Notre Dame de Protection, in the village of Tudet, a place of pilgrimage as far back as the XIIth century. The Madonna has a miraculous origin, like so many others in this “Land of Mary.” According to the old legend, it was discovered by shepherds in a fountain at which an ox had refused to drink. The statue was set up beside the spring, and became a special object of devotion to the neighborhood and a source of many supernatural favors. Vivian II., Vicomte de Lomagne, in gratitude for personal benefits received, built a chapel for the reception of the statue in 1178, but, as it proved too small for the numerous votaries, Henry II. of England, a few years after, erected a large church adjoining Vivian’s chapel, with a hospice, served by monks, for the accommodation of pilgrims. All over the neighboring hills rose little cells inhabited by hermits drawn to this favored spot from the remotest parts of southern France. Not only the common people, but the nobles and renowned warriors of the Middle Ages, and even the kings of France, came here to implore the protection of the Virgin. Every year, at spring-time, came the inhabitants of Lectoure, Fleurance, and all the neighboring parishes, often fourteen or fifteen at a time, accompanied by priests in their robes and magistrates in red official garments, chanting hymns in honor of Mary. Countless miracles were wrought at her altar. The walls were covered with crutches and ex votos. One of the fathers of Tudet writes thus at the close of last century: “Here Mary may be said to manifest her power and goodness in a special manner. How many times has she not caused the paralytic to walk, cured the epileptic, given sight to the blind, hearing to the deaf, and speech to the dumb! How often has she not healed the sick at the very gates of death, snatched people from destruction at the very moment of danger, and put an end to hail-storms, tempests, and the plague!”

Nothing enrages the impious so much as the evidences of a piety that is a constant reproach to their lives; and the Revolution of 1793 swept away, not only the ancient chapel of the Viscounts of Lomagne, but the church of Henry II., the hospice, and the hermits’ cells, leaving only a few broken arches where now and then a solitary pilgrim went to pray. The miraculous statue, however, was rescued from profanation, and for a long time buried in the ground. It is still honored in the village church of Gaudonville, but it is only a mutilated trunk, its head and most of the limbs being gone. So many holy recollections, however, are associated with it, that people still gather around it to pray, especially in harvest-time, to be spared the ravages of hail, often so destructive in this region.

Some of the old hymns in the expressive Gascon tongue, as sung at Notre Dame de Protection, are still extant, and nothing is more pathetic than to see a group of hard-working peasants around the altar of the chapel of Gaudonville singing:

“Jésus, bous aouets tribaillat Prenéts noste tribail en grat!”[100]

or:

“Jésus! bous ets lou boun Pastou, Bost’oilhe qu’ey lou pécadou Gouardats-lou deu loup infernau, Et de touto sorto de mau!”[101]

Among other prayers they chant is a rhymed litany of twenty-seven saints of different trades, and twenty-one shepherd saints, with an appropriate invocation to each, not exactly poetical, but, sung by the uncultivated voices of poor laborers in that rustic chapel in a measured mournful cadence, there is something akin to poesy--something higher--which awakens profound and salutary thoughts. It is in this way they invoke S. Spiridion, the reaper; S. Auber, the laborer in the vineyard; S. Isidore, the gardener:

“Sent Isidore, qui ets estats Coum nous au tribail occupat,” etc.--S. Isidore, who wast like us in labor occupied, etc.--a touching appeal for sympathy to that unseen world of saints of every tribe and tongue and degree, which excludes not the highest, and admits the lowest.

The Church of Notre Dame de Tudet is about to be rebuilt. The corner-stone was laid a short time since on the feast of Our Lady of Protection, under the patronage of the pious descendants of the ancient Viscounts of Lomagne, true to the traditions of their race. The entire population of fourteen neighboring villages assembled to witness the solemn ceremony and pray in a spot so venerated by their ancestors. The mutilated statue of Gaudonville is to be restored, and brought back in triumph to the place where it was once so honored. Thus all through France there is a singular revival of devotion to the venerable sanctuaries of the Middle Ages. Everywhere they are being repaired or rebuilt--a significant fact of good augury for the church.

TO BE CONCLUDED NEXT MONTH.

BROTHER PHILIP.[102]

The century in which we live has distinguished itself by a terrible propaganda of evil, error and corruption taking every variety of form to insinuate themselves into society; yet this same century is also marked by great and generous efforts in the cause of truth and goodness, and in these France has proved herself true to her ancient vocation. From a peculiar vivacity of energy (if we may be allowed the expression) in the national character, whether for good or for evil, the land that has produced some of the most hardened atheists, the worst and wildest communists, and the most frivolous votaries of pleasure, continues to produce the most numerous and devoted missionaries, the readiest martyrs, and saints whose long lives of hidden toil for God and his church are a noble pendant to her martyrs’ deaths.

One of these lives of unobtrusive toil is now before us--that of Brother Philip, who during thirty-five years was Superior-General of the Frères des Ecoles Chrétiennes, or Brothers of the Christian Schools. Before tracing it, even in the imperfect manner which is all for which we have space, it will be well to give a brief sketch of the institute of which he was for so long the honored head.

Jean Baptiste de la Salle, the son of noble parents, was born at Rheims in the year 1651. Entering Holy Orders early in life, he greatly distinguished himself in the priesthood, not only as a scholar and theologian, but also as an orator, so eloquent and persuasive that he might have aspired to the highest dignities in the church had he not chosen to limit his ambition to the lowly work of popular education. This education was not then in existence. Not that there was an utter absence of schools, but these were all unconnected with each other, and were besides greatly wanting in any good and efficient method of teaching. The Abbé de la Salle invented the simultaneous method, namely, that which consists in giving lessons to a whole class at a time, instead of to each child separately. The subjects of instruction were reading, writing, French grammar, arithmetic, and geometry, with Christian teaching as the basis and invariable accompaniment of all the rest. He founded an association of religious who were not to enter the priesthood, of which, however, they were to become the most efficient allies in the education of the young according to the mind of the church, this intention being their distinguishing characteristic. Resolving to live in community with them, he resigned his canonry at Rheims, and sold his rich patrimony, distributing the money among the poor. He gave the brethren their rule, and also the habit which they wear. Thus a new religious family, not ecclesiastical, appeared in France, the members of which were only to be brothers, united by the vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience. The Abbé de la Salle also established a school for training teachers, which was the first normal school ever founded in France; he also originated Sunday-schools for the young apprentices of different trades, and pensionnats, or boarding-schools, the first of which was opened at Paris, for the Irish youths protected by James II. of England, and fugitives like himself.

The chief house of the order was St. Yon (formerly Hauteville), an ancient manor just outside the gates of Rouen, surrounded by an extensive enclosure, and affording a peaceful solitude where M. de la Salle enjoyed his few brief intervals of repose in this world. He had been invited to settle there by Mgr. Colbert, Archbishop of Rouen, and M. de Pontcarré, First President of the Parliament of Normandy, and, after the death of Louis XIV., made it more and more the centre of his work. It was at St. Yon that he resigned the post of superior-general in 1716, and there he died on Good Friday, the 7th of April, 1719, aged sixty-eight years. The house was soon afterwards enlarged and a church built, to which in 1734 the Brothers transferred the remains of their holy founder, which had until then rested in the Church of S. Sever.

The Brothers of the Christian Schools were called the Brothers of St. Yon, and sometimes les Frères Yontains, whence originated the title of Frères Ignorantins, which has, however, been lived down by the institute, the excellence of the instruction afforded by the Christian Schools not permitting the perpetuation of the derisive epithet.

The new order supplied a want too generally felt not to extend itself rapidly, and at the time of the Abbé de la Salle’s death it numbered twenty-seven houses, two-hundred and seventy-four Brothers, and nine thousand eight hundred and eighty-five pupils. In 1724 Louis XV. granted it letters-patent expressive of his approval, and it was in the same year that Pope Benedict XIII. accorded canonical institution to the congregation, thus realizing the earnest desire of the venerable founder, that his institute should be recognized by the Sovereign Pontiff as a religious order, with a distinctive character and special constitutions. Brother Timothy was at that time superior-general. He governed the institute with energy and wisdom for thirty-one years, during which time no less than seventy additional houses of the order were established in various of the principal towns of France, everywhere meeting with encouragement and protection from the bishops and the Christian nobility, so that every inauguration of a school was made an occasion of rejoicing.

The successor of Brother Timothy was Brother Claude, who was superior-general from 1751 to 1767, when, having attained the age of seventy-seven, he resigned his office, continuing to live eight years longer in the house of St. Yon, where he died. It was at this period that the atheism of the XVIIIth century was making its worst ravages. A band of writers, under the leadership of Voltaire, laid siege, as it were, to Christianity, by a regular plan of attack, and, employing as their weapons a false and superficial philosophy, distorted history, raillery, ridicule, corruption, and lies, they conspired against the truth, while licentiousness of mind and manners infected society and literature alike. At the very time when the followers of the faith were devoting themselves with renewed energy to the instruction of the ignorant and the succor of the needy, philosophy, so-called, by the pen of Voltaire, wrote as follows:

“The people are only fit to be directed, not instructed; they are not worth the trouble.”[103]

“It appears to me absolutely essential that there should be ignorant beggars. It is the towns-people (bourgeoisie) only, not the working-classes, who ought to be taught.”[104]

“The common people are like oxen: the goad, the yoke, and fodder are enough for them.”[105] Thus contemptuously were the people regarded by anti-Christian philosophy, which, while it paid court to any form of earthly power, perpetuated, and even outdid, the traditions of pagan antiquity in its hardness and disdain towards the lower orders.

On the retirement of Brother Claude, Brother Florentius accepted, in 1777, the direction of the house at Avignon, where the storm of Revolution burst upon him. After undergoing imprisonment and every kind of insulting and cruel treatment he died a holy death, in 1800, when order was beginning to be restored to France.

Brother Agathon, who next ruled the congregation, was a man of high culture in special lines of study, of wise discernment regarding the interests and requirements of the religious life, and of rare capacity as an administrator. The circular-addresses he issued from time to time have never lost their authority with the Brothers, and furnish a supplement as well as a commentary to the rule of their institute. He did much to increase the extent and efficiency of the latter, but was interrupted in the midst of his work by the political disturbances that were agitating his country. The decree of the 13th of February, 1790, by which “all orders and congregations, whether of men or women,” were suppressed, did not immediately overthrow the institute; but, although it suffered the provisional existence of such associations as were charged with public instruction or attendance on the sick, the respite was to be of short duration. The Brothers, however, notwithstanding the anxiety into which they were thrown by the decree of the Constitutional Assembly, ventured to hope that their society would be spared on account of its known devotedness to the interests of the people. Brother Agathon, moreover, was not a man who would silently submit to unjust measures, and several petitions were addressed by him to the Assembly, in which he fearlessly pleaded the cause of his institute, on the ground of its acknowledged utility among the very classes whose benefit the Assembly professed to have so greatly at heart. The simple and conclusive reasoning of these petitions must have gained their cause with reason and justice; but reason and justice were alike dethroned in France. One member alone of the Assembly did himself honor by representing the excellence of their teaching and the reality of their patriotism, but he spoke in vain; and on the universal refusal of the Brothers to take the oath imposed by the civil constitution on the members of any religious society, as well as on those of the priesthood, the houses to which they belonged were summarily suppressed. They were abused for not sending their pupils to attend the religious ceremonies presided over by schismatic ministers; they were accused of storing arms in their houses to be used against the country; they were charged with monopolizing and concealing victuals; but after a visit of inspection at Melun the municipal officers were compelled to bear testimony to the disinterested probity of these pious teachers, and similar perquisitions invariably resulted in the confusion of their calumniators.

But the Revolution continued its course. A decree passed on the 18th of August, 1792, suppressed all “secular ecclesiastical corporations” and lay associations, “such as that of the Christian Schools,” it being alleged that “a state truly free ought not to suffer the existence in its bosom of any corporation whatsoever, not even those which, being devoted to public instruction, have deserved well of the country.”

The Reign of Terror had begun; the dungeons were filling, and the prison was but the threshold to the scaffold. The children of the venerable De la Salle were not spared. Brother Solomon, secretary to the superior-general, was martyred on the 2d of September for refusing to take the schismatic oath. Brother Abraham was on the very point of being guillotined when he was rescued by one of the National Guard. The Brothers of the house in the Rue de Notre Dame des Champs continued to keep the schools of S. Sulpice until the massacre of the Carmelite monks. Several of the Brothers were put to death. The courageous words of Brother Martin before the revolutionary tribunal at Avignon have been preserved. “I am a teacher devoted to the education of the children of the poor,” he said to his judges; “and if your protestations of attachment to the people are sincere; if your principles of fraternity are anything better than mere forms of speech, my functions not only justify me, but claim your thanks.” Language like this ensured sentence of death. Besides, at that time they condemned; they did not judge.

After eighteen months of imprisonment Brother Agathon was restored to liberty, and died in 1797, at Tours, leaving his institute dispersed; but consoled by the last sacraments, which he received in secret.

Among the scattered members of a congregation too Christian not to be persecuted in those days we do not find one who did not remain faithful. Many of them, in the name and dress of civilians, continued to occupy themselves in teaching, and filled the post of schoolmasters at Noyon, Chartres, Laon, Fontainebleau, etc. From the municipal authorities of Laon they received a public testimonial of esteem; and in 1797, being imprisoned on the denunciation of a schismatic priest, the Brothers were set at liberty by a grateful and avenging ebullition on the part of the mothers of families. Their exit from prison was a triumph, the population crowding to meet them and throwing flowers in their way until they reached the school-house, in the court of which a banquet had been prepared, at which masters and scholars found themselves happily reunited.

In spite of the decree which had smitten their institute, the Brothers were still sought after as teachers in purely civil conditions. Nothing had replaced the orders and establishments which had been destroyed; no instruction was provided for the young; and as the churches were still closed and the pulpits silent, a night of ignorance was beginning to spread itself over the rising generation. On the 25th of August, 1792, a boy demanded of the National Assembly, for himself and his comrades, that they should be “instructed in the principles of equality and the rights of man, instead of being preached to in the name of a so-called God.”

Such men as Daunou, Desmolières, and Chaptal were deploring the state of public instruction in France, which during ten years had been a mere mixture of absurdities and frivolities, when Portalis dared to declare openly that “religion must be made the basis of education.”

This was in 1802, about the time that the relations of France with the Sovereign Pontiff were renewed by the Concordat, and the three consuls had gone together in state to the metropolitan church of Notre Dame. By the consular law of the 1st of May, 1802, on public instruction, the Brothers were authorized to resume their functions. The institute no longer possessed any houses in France, but a few remained to it in Italy, and over these Pope Pius VI. had appointed, as vicar-general, Brother Frumentius, director of the house of San Salvatore at Rome.

Lyons was the first city in France where the members of the scattered congregation began to reassemble; Paris was the next; then St. Germain en Laye, Toulouse, Valence, Soissons, and Rheims. The Brothers at Lyons--namely, Brother Frumentius and three companions--received, in 1805, a memorable visit. Pope Pius VII., in quitting France, after having crowned at Notre Dame the emperor by whom, three years later, he himself was to be discrowned, repaired, accompanied by three cardinals, to the Brothers of the Christian Schools. He blessed the restored chapel and the reviving institute, his fatherly words of encouragement being a pledge and promise of its beneficent prosperity.

As it was of importance that the dispersed members should be made aware of the reorganization of their society, an earnest and affectionate circular-letter was addressed to them by Cardinal Fesch, archbishop of Lyons, inviting them to repair to Brother Frumentius to be employed according to the rule of their congregation, towards which he at the same time assured them of the emperor’s good-will.

The decree for the organization of the University, issued on the 17th of March, 1808, restored to the institute a legal existence, together with all the civil rights attached to establishments of public utility. In these statutes it is stated that the Brothers form a society for gratuitously affording to children a Christian education; that this society is ruled by a superior-general, aided by a certain number of assistants; that the superior is elected for life by the General Chapter or by a special commission; and that the superior nominates the directors, and also the visitors, whose duty it is to watch over the regularity of the masters and the efficient management of the schools.

The Brothers had a powerful friend in M. Emery, the Superior of S. Sulpice, a man of high character and sound judgment, and who was held in great esteem by the emperor, as well as by every one with whom he had anything to do. Napoleon, particularly, appreciating the excellent organization of the society, recommended “the Brothers of De la Salle in preference to any other teachers.”

We now come to the special subject of our memoir.

Among the dispersed members of the institute who first responded to the invitation of Cardinal Fesch were two brothers of the name of Galet, whose memory is especially connected with Brother Philip. On the suppression of the house at Marseilles they sought shelter from the violence of the Revolution in the retired hamlet of Châteaurange (Haute Loire), where they kept a school. On receiving the cardinal’s circular the elder brother announced to the pupils that he had been a Brother of the Christian Schools, until compelled to return to secular life by the suppression of his institute; but learning that this was re-established, he was about to depart at once to Lyons, there to resume his place in it, adding that, if any of them should desire to enter there, he would do all in his power to obtain their admission and to help them to become accustomed to the change of life.

Amongst those who availed themselves of this invitation, and who, three years later (in 1811), presented himself to be received into the novitiate, was Mathieu Bransiet, born on the 1st of November, 1792, at the hamlet of Gachat, in the Commune of Apinac (Loire). Pierre Bransiet, his father, was a mason; the house in which he lived, with a portion of land around it, which he cultivated, constituting all his worldly possessions. Like his wife (whose maiden name was Marie-Anne Varagnat), he was a faithful Christian, and during the revolutionary persecution habitually afforded refuge to the proscribed priests. It was the custom of the little family to assemble at a very early hour of the morning in a corner of the barn, where, on a poor table behind a wall or barricade of hay and straw, the Holy Sacrifice was offered up, as in the past ages of paganism, and as under Protestant rule, whether in the British Isles not so many generations ago, or in Switzerland at the very time at which we write; some trusty person meanwhile keeping watch without, in readiness to give timely warning in case of need. Nor did Pierre Bransiet confine himself to the exercise of this perilous but blessed hospitality; many a time did he accompany the priests by night in their visits to the sick and dying, and bearing with them the sacred Viaticum after the hidden manner of the proscribed.

Amid scenes and impressions such as these the young Bransiet passed his childhood, learning the mysteries of the faith from an “abolished” catechism; kneeling before the crucifix, which was hated and trampled under foot in those godless days; and worshipping when those who prayed must hide themselves to pray. Thus a deeply serious tone became, as it were, the keynote of his soul, which harmonized with all that was earnest and austere. Even as an old man he never spoke without deep feeling of his early years, when he only knew religion as a poor exile and outcast on the earth. The simple and hardy habits of his cottage-home, his own early training in labor, self-denial, and respectful obedience, the Christian teaching of his mother and elder sister (now a religious at Puy), all helped to form his character and mould his future life. He was the most diligent of the young scholars of Châteaurange, which is half a league distant from Gachat, and made his first communion in the church of Apinac, when the Church of France had issued from her catacombs, and the Catholic worship was again allowed. As a child Mathieu was remarkable for his never-failing kindness and affectionateness towards his brothers and sisters, for the tenderness of his conscience, and for his jealousy for the honor of God, which would cause him to burst into tears if he saw any one do what he knew would offend him.

Mathieu was seventeen years of age when, with the full consent of his parents, he entered the novitiate at Lyons. He had six brothers, one of whom followed his example, and is at the present time worthily fulfilling the office of visitor to the Christian Schools of Clermont-Ferrand. Boniface was the name by which the young novice was at first called; but as this was soon afterwards exchanged for that of Philip, we shall always so designate him.

His exemplary assiduity and piety, as well as his rare qualifications as a teacher, quickly drew attention to him, and on account of his skill in mathematics he was appointed professor in a school of coast navigation at Auray in the Morbihan, where he was very successful. While here he wrote a treatise on the subject of his instructions, which was his first attempt in the special kind of writing in which he afterwards so greatly excelled. M. Deshayes, the curé of Auray, and a man of great discernment, was so much struck by his practical wisdom and good sense that he said to the Brother director, “See if Brother Boniface is not one day the superior of your congregation!”

It was at Auray, in 1812, that he made his first vows, and there he remained until 1816. Of the boys who during this time were under his care, no less than forty afterwards entered the sacerdotal or the monastic life. From Auray he was sent to Rethel as director, and from thence, in 1818, to fill the same office at Rheims, the nursery of his order, and afterwards at Metz. In 1823 the superior-general, Brother William of Jesus--who was seventy-five years old, and had been in the congregation from the time he was fifteen--appointed him to the responsible post of director of S. Nicolas des Champs at Paris, as well as visitor of several other houses in the provinces and in the capital. In 1826 he published a book entitled Practical Geometry applied to Linear Design,[106] which is regarded by competent judges as the best work of the kind in France. He continued director at Paris during the eight remaining years of Brother William’s life, which ended a little before the Revolution of July, 1830. On the succession of Brother Anaclete as superior-general Brother Philip was elected one of the four assistants of the General Chapter, and thus found himself associated with the general government of the congregation; but the higher he was raised in the responsible offices of his order, the more apparent became his good sense and sound understanding--qualifications of especial value amid the troubles of that stormy time.

The opening of evening classes for working-men is due to Brother Philip, who first commenced them in Paris, at S. Nicolas des Champs, and at Gros Caillou, extending them, with marked encouragement from the Minister of Public Instruction, M. Guizot, to other quarters of the city. The law of 1833, by establishing normal schools for primary instruction, furnished a test as well as a rivalry to the schools of the Brothers; but the latter showed themselves equal to the emergency, supplementing their course of instruction by additional subjects, and taking all necessary measures for carrying on their work in the most efficient manner.

Their novitiates were the models of the normal primary schools; but in comparing the vast difference of expense between the one and the other it is easy to perceive on which side self-denial and prudent administration are to be found. A normal school like the one at Versailles costs more than 60,000 francs, or 12,000 dollars, yearly; and that of Paris more than 100,000 francs, or 20,000 dollars; while the Brothers, for the training of their masters, receive nothing from the state; and these young masters, formed with the aid of small resources, become none the less admirable teachers, having moreover in their favor the double grace of devotedness and a special vocation.

Under the name of Louis Constantin, Brother Anaclete began the publication of works of instruction which was afterwards so efficiently continued by Brother Philip. The latter gave particular attention to the formation of a preparatory novitiate called le petit noviciat, which is not a novitiate, properly so called, but a preliminary trial of vocations, similar to that of the Petit Séminaire. Should the young members persevere, their education prepares them for teaching; and if their vocation is found to be elsewhere, this time of study will, all the same, be of great advantage to them, whatever may be their future.

The little novices were particular favorites of Brother Philip, who took delight not only in instructing them himself in both sacred and secular knowledge, but watched over them with a sort of maternal affection, and was often seen carrying into their cells warm socks or any other article of apparel of which he had discovered the need.

On the death of Brother Anaclete, in 1838, Brother Philip was unanimously elected superior by the General Chapter, on the 21st of November. After the election the chapter, contrary to its wont, abstained from passing any decree, “leaving to the enlightened zeal of the much-honored superior the care of maintaining in the Brothers the spirit of fervor.”

The Abbé de la Salle had recommended the practice of mortification, silence, recollection, contempt for earthly things and for the praise of man, humility, and prayer; and the venerable founder has continued to speak in the persons of the successive superiors of his institute. We have not space here to give quotations from the circulars issued by Brother Philip during the thirty-five years of his government, but they must be read before a just appreciation can be had of all that a “Christian Brother” is required to be, and also of the heart and mind of the writer, who never spoke of himself, but whose daily life and example were his best eloquence. He always presided over the annual retreats, commencing by that of the community in Paris. One of the Brothers, in speaking of these, said: “In listening to him I always felt that we had a saint for our father.”

A rule had been made by the chapter of 1787 that the Brother assistants should cause the portrait of the superior-general to be taken with the year of his election. It was with the greatest reluctance, and only from a spirit of obedience, as well as on account of the insistence of the Brother assistants, that Brother Philip suffered this rule to be observed in his case. Horace Vernet had the highest esteem for the superior-general, and told the Brothers who went to request him to take the portrait that he would willingly give them the benefit of his art in return for the benefit of their prayers. Brother Philip sat to him for an hour, and the painting so much admired in the Exhibition of 1845 was the result. Later on the visits of Brother Philip were a much-valued source of help and consolation to the great painter during his last illness.

Our sketch would be incomplete were we to leave unnoticed the daily life of the Brothers of the Christian Schools, which exhibits their profession put into practice.

The Brothers rise at half-past four; read the Imitation until a quarter to five, followed by prayer and meditation until Mass, at six, after which they attend to official work until breakfast, at a quarter-past seven; at half-past seven the rosary is said, and the classes commence at eight; catechism at eleven, examination at half-past; at a quarter to twelve dinner, after which is a short recreation. At one o’clock prayers and rosary; classes recommence at half-past one. Official work at five; at half-past five preparation of the catechism; spiritual reading at six; at half-past six meditation; at seven supper and recreation; at half-past eight evening prayers; at nine the Brothers retire to bed; and at a quarter-past nine the lights are extinguished, and there is perfect silence.

After having been for twenty-five years established in the Rue du Faubourg St. Martin the Brothers had to make way for the building of the Station of the Eastern Railway (Gare de l’Est), and after long search found a suitable house in the Rue Plumet, now Rue Oudinot, which they purchased, and of which they took possession, as the mother-house of the institute, in the early part of 1847.

On entering this house it is at once evident that rule and order preside there. All the employments, even to the post of concièrge, or door-keeper, are carried on by the Brothers, each one of whom is engaged in his appointed duty. The first court, called the Procure, presents a certain amount of movement and activity from its relations with the world outside. The second court, which is the place for recreations, and which leads into the interior, is much more spacious and planted with trees. It was in these alleys that Brother Philip was accustomed to walk during his few moments of repose, conversing with one of the Brothers or readily listening to any of the youngest little novices who might address him.

The Salle du Régime, or Chamber of Government, is a marvel in the perfection of its arrangements. The superior-general is there at his post, the assistants also; the place of each occupying but a small space and on the same line. Each has his straw-seated chair, his bureau, and papers; the chair of the superior differing in no way from the rest. On each bureau is a small case, marked with its ticket, indicating the countries placed under the particular direction of the Brother assistant to whom it belongs. There are to be found all the countries to which the schools of the institute have been extended, from the cities of France and of Europe to the most distant regions of the habitable globe. Little cards in little drawers represent the immensity of the work. Everything is ruled, marked, classified, in such a manner as to take up the smallest amount of space possible; as if in all things these servants of God endeavored to occupy no more room in this world than was absolutely necessary. “We have seen,” writes M. Poujoulat, “in the Salle du Régime, the place which had been occupied by Brother Philip; his straw-seated chair and simple bureau, upon which stood a small image of the Blessed Virgin, for which he had a particular affection, and one of S. Peter, given to him at Rome. From this unpretending throne he governed all the houses of his order in France, Belgium, Italy, Asia, and the New World, and hither letters daily reached him from all countries. He wrote much; and his letters had the brevity and precision of one accustomed to command. The secretariate occupies ten Brothers, and, notwithstanding its variety and extent, nothing is complicated or irregular in this well-ordered administration.

“We visited, as we should visit a sanctuary, the cell of Brother Philip, and there saw his hard bed and deal bedstead, over which hung his crucifix.… A few small prints on the walls were the only luxury he allowed himself.… Some class-books ranged on shelves, a chair, a bureau, and a cupboard (the latter still containing the few articles of apparel which he had worn), … compose the whole of the furniture. How often the hours which he so needed (physically) to have passed in sleep had Brother Philip spent at this desk or kneeling before his crucifix, laying his cares and responsibilities before God, to whom, in this same little chamber, when the long day’s toil was ended, he offered up his soul!”

In another room, that of the venerable Brother Calixtus, may be seen the documents relating to the beatification of the Abbé de la Salle, bearing a seal impressed with the device of the congregation--Signum Fidei. Besides thirty-five autograph letters of the founder and the form of profession of the members, there are here the bulls of approbation accorded by Pope Benedict XIII. in 1725, and the letters-patent granted the previous year by Louis XV. In a room called the Chamber of Relics are preserved various sacred vestments and other objects which had belonged to the venerable De la Salle. The chapel is at present a temporary construction.

The mother-house comprises the two novitiates and a normal school appropriated solely to the perfecting of the younger masters. It is from the little novices that the Brothers select the children of the choir. To see these twenty-five or thirty little fellows on great festivals, in alb and red cassock, swinging censers or scattering flowers before the Blessed Sacrament, amid the rich harmonies of the organ and the church’s sacred chant, was Brother Philip’s especial delight; he seemed to see in them, as it were, a little battalion of angels offering their innocent homage to the hidden God.

If order forms one part of the permanent spirit of the institute, so also does the practice of poverty; but it is holy poverty, tranquil and cheerful. Self-denial is the foundation of all that is seen there, but so also are propriety and suitability. The life of the Brothers is austere, but by no means gloomy; on the contrary, one of their prevailing characteristics is a cheerful equanimity, which seems never to forsake them. Nothing useless is permitted in any of the houses. “We must not,” wrote Brother Agathon in 1787, “allow anything which may habitually or without good reason turn aside the Brothers from the exercises of the community or trouble their tranquillity; such things, for instance, as fancy dogs, birds, the culture of flowers, shrubs, or curious plants.” And these regulations have been faithfully observed.

This the mother-house, in the Rue Oudinot, is the centre of government to the numerous establishments of the institute spread over the earth; it is, in fact, their little capital, from whence the superior-general and his assistants, like the monarch and parliament of a constitutional kingdom, exercise a wise and beneficent dominion.

The Revolution of February, 1848, notwithstanding the general disorganization of which it was the cause, did not prejudicially affect the work of the Brothers of the Christian Schools. The moderate spirit of a large majority of the constituency was in their favor, and the triumph of what was styled the “right of association” was of benefit to the religious orders. And, besides this, men high in office acknowledged the small consideration given to the religious element in the primary instruction organized by the law to have occasioned the moral devastation of which they had been the sorrowful witnesses.

This state of opinion, by producing an increased respect for the Brothers and appreciation of their work, was very favorable to the institute of De la Salle. In 1849 the superior-general was requested to take part in an extra-parliamentary commission on the subject of public instruction and liberty of teaching. His extensive and practical knowledge made a great impression on his fellow-commissioners. Naturally modest and retiring, he was never one of the most forward to speak, but the most listened to of any; his observations being so conclusive and to the point as invariably to decide the ultimate resolution of a question; and answers which others were painfully seeking he found at once in the store-house of his long experience. That portion of the law of March 15, 1850, relating to primary instruction, bears the impress of these discussions.

The epoch of the Second Empire was a time of difficulty for the Brothers. The new government, which had begun by wishing to decorate Brother Philip--who was always rebellious against seductions of this nature--raised against his institute the question of scholar remuneration, alleging that it owed its success merely to its rule of teaching gratuitously, to the prejudice of the schools of the state, and requiring the municipality of every place where the Brothers were established to insist on their adoption of the remunerative system. These difficulties, which had begun under the ministry of M. Fortoul, became more serious under that of M. Rouland.

Now, it was one of the fundamental rules of the institute that the Brothers should receive no remuneration whatever in return for their instructions. Brother Philip, therefore, in the name of the statutes of his order, resolutely resisted their infringement. To punish him for so doing the annual sum of eight thousand four hundred francs, which had been granted to the institute under the ministry of M. Guizot for the general expenses of administration, was suppressed, many of the houses were closed, and forty more threatened with the same fate.

At last, after an anxious struggle of seven years’ duration, it was decided by the General Chapter, assembled in 1861, that, to avoid worse evils and save the institute from destruction, a partial concession should be made. Payments were allowed where the government insisted, but it was expressly stipulated that these payments would be the property of the municipal council, the Brothers themselves having nothing whatever to do with them.

This concession, which had only been forced from him by a hard necessity, was a great vexation to Brother Philip, who, however, consoled himself with the thought that this moral oppression would only be of temporary duration. Nor was he mistaken. For twenty years past not only has the gratuitous system not been attacked, but the very men who opposed it in the case of the Brothers have themselves insisted on its general adoption, in their endeavors to force upon the whole of France a primary instruction without religion.

The ministry of M. Rouland, being particularly jealous of Brother Philip as head of a religious congregation, had other trials in store for him, taking out of his hands the right of appointing masters, in order that it might, through the prefects, place lay teachers of its own selection in places where the people themselves had requested that their children should be taught by the Brothers of the Christian Schools. The measures taken to attain this end were, however, only partially successful.

In 1862 a curious complaint was made against those who had for so long been called Ignorantins, accusing them of teaching too many things and overstepping the limits allowed by Article 23 of the law of 1850.[107]

When at Dijon, in 1862, Brother Pol-de-Léon made his request to be instituted as director of the pensionnat, the administration refused to grant it, on the ground that the title of “elementary school” taken by the said pensionnat was in manifest contradiction to the advanced instruction given there, and which included algebra, geometry, trigonometry, French literature, cosmography, physics, chemistry, mechanics, English, and German. The Brothers, thus accused of distributing too much learning, replied that, if the law of 1850 did not mention these subjects of instruction, neither did it prohibit them; they consented, however, to withdraw a portion from this programme. The president of the provincial council, M. Leffemberg, was merciful, and allowed some of the additions, among which were English and German, to remain.

Subsequent arrangements have been made, by which a regular course of secondary or higher instruction has been organized by the Brothers. This is admirably carried on in their immense establishment at Passy (amongst other places), and its normal school is at Cluny; and no one now disputes with the institute the honor of having been the originator of the special course of secondary instruction which has been found to answer so remarkably in France.

One of the most serious anxieties of Brother Philip under the Second Empire arose in 1866 on the subject of dispensation from military service. Since their reorganization the Brothers of the Christian Schools had been exempted from serving in the army, on account of their being already engaged in another form of service for the public benefit, and on condition of their binding themselves for a period of not less than ten years to the public instruction. A circular of M. Duruy, by changing the terms of the law, deprived the Brothers of their exemption, whilst in that very same month of February M. le Maréchal Randon, in addressing general instructions to the marshals of military divisions in the provinces, gave distinct orders that the Brothers of the Christian Schools should not be required to serve, on account of the occupation in which they were already engaged; thus, in two contradictory circulars on the same question, the interpretation of the Minister of Public Instruction was unfavorable to the education of the people; the contrary being the case with that of the Minister of War.

We have not space to give the particulars of the long struggle that was carried on upon this question, and in which Cardinals Matthieu and Bonnechose energetically took part with the Brothers; the Archbishop of Rennes and the Bishop of Ajaccio also petitioning the senate on their behalf. But in vain. To the great anguish of Brother Philip, the senate voted according to the good pleasure of M. Duruy. The superior-general left no means untried to avert the threatened conscription of the young Brothers; he petitioned, he wrote, he pleaded, with an energy and perseverance that nothing could daunt, until the law, passed on the 1st of February, 1868, relieved him from this pressing anxiety. He had unconsciously won for himself so high an opinion in the country that his authority fought, as it were, for his widespread family.

Ever since the Revolution of 1848 a great clamor has been raised in France about the moral elevation of the laboring classes; but while the innovators who believe only in themselves have been talking, the Christian Brothers have been working. We have already mentioned the classes for adults established by the predecessor of Brother Philip. These, and especially the evening classes, were made by the latter the objects of his especial attention. He arranged that linear drawing should in these occupy a considerable place; thus there is scarcely a place of any importance in France in which courses of lessons in drawing do not form a part of the popular instruction, and, with the exception of a few large towns which already possessed a school of design, nearly all the working population of the country has, up to the present time, gained its knowledge of the art in the classes directed by the Brothers. Proof of this fact is yearly afforded in the “Exhibition of the Fine Arts applied to Practical Industries,” which, since 1860, has been annually opened at Paris, and in which the productions of their schools are remarkable among the rest for their excellence, as well as their number. The gold medal as well as the high praise awarded them by the jury of the International Exhibition in 1867 testified to the thoroughness of the manner in which the pupils of the Christian Brothers are taught.

One of the gods worshipped by the XIXth century is “utility,” and to such an extent by some of its votaries that one of them, some years ago, proposed to the Pacha of Egypt to demolish the pyramids, on the ground that they were “useless.” This reproach cannot certainly be applied to the Brothers of the Christian Schools. All their arrangements, their instructions, their daily life, have the stamp of utility, and that of the highest social order.

Although our space does not permit us to speak of the works of the Brothers in detail, their variety answering, as it does, to all the needs of the people, yet a few words must be given to that of S. Nicolas, for the education of young boys of the working-classes.

Towards the close of the Restoration, in 1827, M. de Bervanger, a priest, collected seven poor orphan children, whom he placed under the care of an honest workman in the Rue des Anglaises (Faubourg St. Marceau), who employed them in his workshop, his wife assisting him in taking charge of them. This was the commencement of the work of S. Nicolas. In a few months the little lodging was too small for its increasing number of inmates, and, assistance having been sent, a house was taken in the Rue de Vaugirard, where the boys were taught various trades and manufactures, but still under a certain amount of difficulty, a sum of seven or eight thousand francs being pressingly required. It was at this time that M. de Bervanger became acquainted with Count Victor de Noailles, who at once supplied the sum, and from that time took a great and increasing interest in the establishment, of which he afterwards became the head. On the breaking out of the revolution of 1830 he saved it by establishing himself there under the title of director; M. de Bervanger, for the sake of prudence, having only that of almoner. The two friends, being together at Rome in the winter of 1834-5, were warmly encouraged in their undertaking by Pope Benedict XIII., who desired Count Victor to remain at its head. Soon afterwards a purchase of the house was effected, and in this house of S. Nicolas the count died in the following year. From that time M. de Bervanger took the sole direction, and the work prospered in spite of every opposition. To meet its increased requirements he bought the Château of Issy, and Mgr. Affre, Archbishop of Paris, announced himself the protector of what he declared to be “the most excellent work in his diocese.” The republic of 1848 was rather profitable to it than otherwise. Former pupils of the house, enrolled in the Garde Mobile, did their duty so bravely in quelling the terrible insurrection of June that to fifteen of their number the Cross of Honor was awarded, proving that in those days of violence the gamin de Paris, the foundation or material of the work of S. Nicolas, could be a hero.

This work, owing to the unbounded energy and devotion of its reverend director, had immensely increased in efficiency and extent. More than eleven hundred children were here receiving the elementary instruction, religious and professional, of which no other model existed. But although his courage never failed, his strength declined, and, to save the work, he gave it up, in 1858, into the hands of the Archbishop of Paris, Cardinal Morlot. A document exists which proves it to have been necessary to resist the will of the holy priest, in order that, after having given up the value of about a million and a half of francs, without asking either board or lodging, he should not be left utterly without resources. The archbishop, after treating with the members of the council of administration and obtaining the consent of Brother Philip, who threw himself heartily into the work, placed S. Nicolas in the hands of the Brothers of the Christian Schools, who for the last fifteen years have admirably fulfilled this additional responsibility then confided to them. At the time of their installation the Brothers appointed to S. Nicolas were seventy in number; they have now increased to a hundred and thirty, for the direction of the three houses, one of which is at Paris, another at Issy, and the third at Igny. The house in the Rue Vaugirard alone contains about a thousand boys, who are there taught various trades; there are carpenters, cabinet-makers, carvers, opticians, watchmakers, designers of patterns for different manufactures, etc., etc. At the end of their apprenticeship these lads can earn six, seven, or even eight francs a day. The most skilful enter the schools of Arts et Métiers--arts and trades--the most brilliant efforts being rewarded by the rank of civil engineer.

The large and fertile garden of Issy is a school of horticulture, and at Igny the boys are taught field-labor and farming, as well as gardening; the fruits and vegetables of Igny forming a valuable resource for the house in the Rue Vaugirard, at Paris. The Sisters of the Christian Schools have charge of the laundry and needle-work of the three establishments. Once every month two members of the council inspect these schools to the minutest details--the classes, the workshops, the gardens, the house arrangements, the neatness of the books, etc.--and interrogate the children.

Instrumental as well as vocal music is taught at S. Nicolas as a professional art. A few years ago might be seen on the road from Issy to Paris two battalions of youths who passed each other on the way, the one that of the “little ones,” clad in blouses of black woollen; the other the pupils and apprentices of the Rue Vaugirard, in dark gray, each with its band of music. The passers-by called them “the regiments of S. Nicolas.” In the French expedition into China the band of the flag-ship was chiefly composed of former pupils of these establishments, who, faithful to their old traditions, had with them the banner of their patron saint, which was duly displayed on grand occasions, to the great satisfaction of the admiral commanding the expedition.

The idea of the celebrated Dr. Branchet, of placing blind and also deaf and dumb children in the primary schools of the Brothers, has been attended with the happiest results. These children enter at the same age as those who can speak and see, and, like them, remain until they have made their first Communion, and leave just at the period when they can be received into special institutions, where they are kept for eight years longer. The rapid improvement in these poor children, who are under the care of the Brothers, and of the Sisters of S. Vincent de Paul and of S. Marie, is truly wonderful. Mistrust, timidity, and reserve speedily give place to cheerfulness, confidence, and affection; the habitual contact with children who can see and hear being a great assistance to the development of their intelligence and capabilities.

In 1841 the Minister of the Interior, acting by desire of the local authorities, requested that the Brothers should be sent to certain of the great central prisons of France. The first essay was made at Nîmes, where three Brothers were placed over that portion of the prison appropriated to the younger offenders, in whom so great a change for the better soon became apparent that a general desire arose that all the prisoners, twelve hundred in number, should be put under their charge. Brother Philip, after taking the matter into careful consideration, gave his consent, to the great joy of the prefect of Nîmes; and in the same year, 1841, the rough keepers were replaced by a detachment of thirty-seven Brothers of the Christian Schools. In the course of two months the new organization had effected a complete change in the prison, not only as regarded the docility and general improvement of the prisoners, but their health also, from the alterations made by the new managers in the sanitary arrangements of the building. Brother Facile, a man of great intelligence, firmness, and good sense, was the director of the Brothers, who had various trials to undergo in the exercise of their present functions. In spite of various difficulties, most of which were occasioned by the conduct of lay officials, the Brothers remained at Nîmes until 1848, when the revolution cut short their work, not only there, but also at Fontevrault (where they had the charge of fourteen hundred prisoners), at Aniane, and at Mélun.

The institute of the Brothers of the Christian Schools, being of French origin, naturally developed itself first in France. At the beginning of 1874 it numbered nine hundred and forty-five establishments in that country, more than eight thousand Brothers, and above three hundred and twelve thousand pupils. From the commencement of the congregation it has had a house at Rome; and at Turin their schools are attended by more than three thousand five hundred children. They easily took root in Catholic Belgium, where their pupils are above fifteen thousand in number. They are in England, Austria, Prussia, and Switzerland. Passing out of Europe, we find them honored and encouraged in the little republic of Ecuador, where they were first planted in 1863, under Brother Albanus, a man of great prudence as well as of activity and zeal. Two years later four Brothers embarked for Cochin-China, the Admiral of La Grandière having requested Brother Philip to send them to teach the children of the new French colony. Their first house there was at Saïgon, to which others were added in different parts of the country, as more Brothers arrived. They have establishments in Madagascar, the Seychelles, the East Indies, and the Isle of Mauritius, and have been in the Ile de la Réunion ever since 1816. They are at Tunis, where they teach the children in Italian (that language being the one most usually spoken there); and in Algiers, where for years the bishop, Mgr. Dupuch, had been begging that they might be sent. Brother Philip was both ready and willing, but the delays and difficulties raised by the French Minister of War, would not allow him to accede to the request until 1852, after the death of M. Dupuch, who had begun the negotiation ten years before. When, in 1870, contrary to the entreaties of the bishop, Mgr. de Lavigerie, and the protest of the inhabitants of the place, the Brothers were forced out of their schools--their only offence being that they were Christian--they opened free schools, independent of any government arrangement, and had them filled at once by three thousand of their former pupils; the same thing being done at other towns with the same result. A change for the better took place in the ideas of the home government in 1871, and at the present time, thanks to the rule of Marshal MacMahon, the Christian Schools of Algiers have been restored to their rights.

In concert with the Lazarists the Brothers opened schools at Smyrna in 1841, and soon afterwards at Constantinople, with the authorization of the government. They are settled also at Alexandria under the protection of the bishop, and under that of the vicar-apostolic at Cairo, where they have received marked proofs of interest from the Viceroy of Egypt.

But it is not of the children of the Old World only that the Brothers have so largely taken possession; the spirit of Christianity is a spirit of conquest, and the missionary, the Sister of Charity, and the Christian Brother are of the conquering race.

The infant foundations of the latter have a particular interest in the vast American continent, where either all is comparatively of yesterday, or else the vast solitudes of ages still await the footstep of civilization, or even of man. Religious orders prosper in this land; and the children of La Salle first settled in Canada in 1837, at the earnest invitation of M. Quiblier, Superior of the Seminary of S. Sulpice at Montreal, and of Mgr. Lartique, the bishop of that city. Four Brothers of the Christian Schools were sent by the packet-boat Louis Philippe, which sailed on the 10th of October in that year, reaching New York on the 13th of November. The curés of S. Sulpice at Paris were the earliest supporters of the venerable De la Salle; and it is interesting to notice, at a distance of two centuries and on the other side of the Atlantic, the sons of the same house faithful to the same traditions. The work spread rapidly in Montreal, where in a short time twenty-five Brothers were occupied in teaching eighteen hundred children. Four of their pupils of this city, who had become postulants, took the habit on All Saints’ Day, 1840. The same year brought them a visit from the Governor-General of Canada, Lord Sydenham, who, after entering with interest into the details of their work, gave them the greatest encouragement. In the course of the following year they held their classes in presence of the bishops of Montreal, Quebec, Kingston, and Boston, numerously accompanied by their clergy, and received the congratulations and benediction of the prelates. They opened a school at Quebec in 1843, and later, on the invitation of the Archbishop of Baltimore, Brother Aidant went to found one also in that city. It was he who was authorized by Brother Philip, in 1847, to go to Paris in order to give an account of the work which had been carried on in America during the previous ten years, and who returned thither, accompanied by five more Brothers.

When, in 1848, the members of the institute were withdrawn from the central prisons of France, their superior felt that the energetic Brother Facile would be an invaluable superintendent of the Christian Schools in the New World. Brother Aidant had done great things during the eleven years that he had occupied the post of director and visitor of the province of Canada and of the United States. Five principal houses, employing fifty Brothers, had been established there--namely, those of Montreal, Quebec, Three Rivers, Baltimore, and New York; but the work received a new and extensive development during the twelve years of the directorship of Brother Facile, who, when summoned to France by Brother Philip in 1861, left behind him 78 schools, 24,532 pupils, 368 Brothers, and 74 novices; and this wonderful increase has subsequently continued.

In 1863 Brother Philip considered it advisable to divide North America into two provinces, namely, those of Canada and the United States; Brother Ambrose, director of the schools of St. Louis, Missouri, being named visitor of the province of the United States, in residence at New York; and Brother Liguori, of Moulins, in residence at Montreal, visitor of the province of Canada.

The Brothers of the Christian Schools in America are recruited not only from France, but from all the nationalities of the country. Among them are Franco-Canadians, Anglo-Americans, Irish, Belgians, and Germans. The visit of Lord Young, the Governor-General of Canada, in 1869, to their principal school in Montreal, was a sort of official recognition of their teaching on the part of Great Britain. He praised their work as being the “type and model of a good education.” Amongst those who were presented to him, the governor-general saw with particular interest Brother Adelbertus, the only surviving one of the four who were sent to Canada in 1837. They now have schools in all the six provinces of Canada, and since 1869 have been established also at Charlottetown, the capital of Prince Edward’s Island. A Protestant writer who visited their schools at Halifax, in giving an account of what he had seen, stated that he was greatly struck by “the perfect discipline of the pupils, their silence, their prompt obedience and great assiduity, their neatness, and the good expression of their countenances, whether Catholic or Protestant.” He did not take offence at the short prayer said at the striking of every hour. “Each child,” he observes, “can repeat to himself the prayer learnt at his mother’s knee.” But what most of all excited his wonder were the difficult exercises in geometry, trigonometry, land-surveying, algebra (and other sciences, of which he gives a list), which he saw accomplished by the class of advanced pupils under the direction of Brother Christian. According to his account, the so-called Ignorantins are almost alarmingly scientific.

When we bear in mind that Canada, although its present population does not amount to four millions, is one-third larger than France, and that its natural resources are equivalent to those of France and Germany combined, we can understand the importance of its future when once those resources shall be made available; and also we perceive the wisdom of the Christian Brothers in doing their utmost to prepare the way for this result to be attained by a well and religiously instructed generation.

But to return to Europe. The work of the Christian Schools began in Ireland, in 1802, when Mr. Edmund Rice, of Waterford, founded one in his native town, with great success. Another was established in 1807, by Mr. Thomas O’Brien, at Carrick-on-Suir, and a third at Dungarvan; but it was not until 1822 that the Irish Brothers adopted the rule of the venerable De la Salle. The institute in Ireland is the same in spirit as it is the same in rule, with some slight modifications; but it does not depend upon the French institute, although connected with it in friendly and fraternal relations, its separate existence being especially adapted to the wants of the people of Ireland.

In tracing some of the widespread ramifications of his work we seem to have lost sight of the toiling Brother to whom so much of its success was due. The fact of having the responsibility of so extensive an administration did not prevent his personally working at the classes like any other Brother of the institute. He possessed in a remarkable degree the gift of imparting knowledge, whether in things human or divine. From the time of his entrance into the institute his manner of teaching the catechism had been remarked; and it was always with the liveliest enjoyment that he fulfilled this important portion of his duties. Nothing of all this teaching has been written down; but there remains a book written by Brother Philip, of which the title is Explanations in a catechetical form of the Epistles and Gospels for all the Sundays and principal festivals of the year, in which the varied depths of religious thought of the pious writer are presented with a precision and yet readiness of expression in themselves constituting a simple and earnest eloquence. This book is considered a model, both with regard to the substance and the art of teaching; the writer does not fit the truth to his words, but his words to the truth.

Thus far we have sketched the origin and progress of the institute of the Brothers of the Christian Schools in times of comparative peace, with brief exceptions; in the second and concluding part of our notice the members of this institute will appear under a new aspect--on the battle-fields where these men of prayer and peace showed themselves to be, in that which constitutes true heroism, the bravest of the brave.

TO BE CONCLUDED NEXT MONTH.

THE LADY ANNE OF CLEVES.

Anne of Cleves, the fourth queen and third wife of Henry VIII. of England, is one of the least known personages in history. Fortunately for herself, she never gained the sad celebrity of his victims, Catherine of Aragon, Anne Boleyn, and Catherine Howard. As virtuous and sedate as the former, she was less high-spirited and dangerously fearless. At the same time, her gentleness was much the same as that of her only royal predecessor, and, like her, she won the respect and love of the people. If she submitted somewhat too passively to the sentence of divorce, or rather of nullification of her marriage, as pronounced by Cranmer, it must be remembered that, unlike Catherine of Aragon, she had reason to dread the consequences of opposition to the king’s despotic will. Her husband’s brutal treatment of her during the short time they lived together, his coarse expressions of disrespect and loathing, his utter want of consideration towards her as a princess, and lack of gentlemanlike behavior towards her as a woman and a stranger in his realm, were enough to dispose her to consent to any conditions which left her alive and safe, even had she not had before her eyes the sad experience of several judicial murders committed just before and after her ill-omened wedding. Among the strange circumstances of her--in a sense--obscure life is this: that, having been brought up a Lutheran, and proposed as a wife to Henry VIII. as a means of conciliating the league of powerful Protestant princes in Germany, she died a Catholic in her adopted country. Her sister, Sibylla, had married John Frederick, the Elector of Saxony, who uniformly befriended Luther. Whether Anne’s convictions were very strong or not it is not easy to say; a terror of her future husband was enough to explain her making no demur at being married according to the Catholic form, which was done with great pomp and solemnity; but she did her best while queen to save Dr. Barnes, the Reformer, probably on account of her sympathy with his opinions. In this she was unsuccessful; indeed, she never had any influence with the king. This is perhaps the only decided evidence of her being attached to the doctrines in which she had been educated, and probably the religious impressions she received in England were all in favor of Catholicity. At this time neither court nor people had changed in doctrine, though there was a real Protestant party, quite distinct from the king’s time-serving prelates and obsequious courtiers. Still, Henry was unswervingly attached to the forms of the church of his fathers, and in many points to its doctrines, and, indeed, would have been by no means flattered by becoming the head of a “church” without outward symbolism and stately ceremony, such as the hidden body of Puritans already desired.

The portrait of Anne of Cleves--i.e., of her disposition and character--is very winning. Her mother, who, says Nicolas Wotton, was a “very wise lady, and one that very straightly looketh to her children,” had evidently brought her up, as most Flemish and German girls, in a womanly, modest, and useful fashion. She is described as “of very lowly and gentle conditions, by which she hath so much won her mother’s favor that she is very loath to suffer her to depart from her. She occupieth her time much with her needle. She can read and write her own, but French, or Latin, or other language she knoweth not; nor yet can sing or play on any instrument, for they take it here in Germany for a rebuke and an occasion of lightness that great ladies should be learned or have any knowledge of musick.”

It is not surprising that they should have had such a prejudice at that time, considering how polite learning was fast becoming the all-atoning compensation for the lowest morals and most shameless intrigues in the courts of Italy, of France, and of England. Later on the English annalist Holinshed, who wrote of her after her death, praised her as “a lady of right commendable regard, courteous, gentle, a good housekeeper, and very bountiful to her servants.” Of her kind heart her will is a striking instance; for her heart seems more set on her “alms-children” than on any other of her pensioners and legatees. Herbert, the author of a short sketch of her life, gives his opinion as follows: “The truth is that Anne was a fine, tall, shapely German girl, with a good, grave, somewhat heavy, gentle, placid face”; but he goes on to add up her deficiencies in beauty, style, and accomplishments, and calls her “provincial” as compared with the “refined, volatile beauties of the French and English or the stately donnas of the Spanish courts.”

That she was not beautiful, and that Henry was purposely deceived as to her personal charms by the short-sighted Cromwell, is undeniable. Henry, who had so unfeelingly discarded his once beautiful and sprightly and his still loving, stately, and queenly wife, Catherine of Aragon, as soon as his wandering fancy had fixed upon a younger beauty, could not be expected to feel less than a sheer disappointment at the sight of Anne of Cleves. So fastidious was he that he had actually asked Francis I. of France to send him twenty or thirty of the most beautiful women in France, that he might pick and choose among them; and when the hapless ambassador, Marillac, had respectfully proposed that he should send some one to the court to choose for him, he had abruptly exclaimed with an oath: “How can I depend upon any one but myself?” Cromwell, to whose political schemes the alliance of the Schmalkalden League (as the coalition of German Lutheran princes was called) was necessary, duped the king by causing Holbein to paint a flattering miniature of Anne. This was enclosed in a box of ivory delicately carved in the likeness of a white rose, which, when the lid was unscrewed, showed the miniature at the bottom. Her contemporaries vary so greatly in their reports of her appearance that an exact description of an original pencil-sketch (unfinished) among the Holbein heads in the royal collection at Windsor may be of some value. Miss Strickland, in her Lives of the Queens of England, gives it thus: “There is a moral and intellectual beauty in the expression of the face, though the nose and mouth are large and somewhat coarse in their formation. Her forehead is lofty, expansive, and serene, indicative of candor and talent. The eyes are large, dark, and reflective. They are thickly fringed, both on the upper and lower lids, with long, black lashes. Her hair, which is also black, is parted and plainly folded on either side the face in bands, extending below the ears--a style that seems peculiarly suitable to the calm and dignified composure of her countenance.” What must have been most to her disadvantage was not the brown complexion of which Southampton, the lord-admiral, so dexterously spoke when the king asked him in anger, “How like you this woman--do you think her so fair?” nor her heavy features, but the marks of the small-pox, with which she was plentifully pitted. This, in itself, may have materially contributed to the clumsiness of her features. Her “progress” from her native city of Düsseldorf to the shores of England lasted two months, partly from stress of weather, which detained her nearly three weeks at Calais, partly from the state of the roads and the necessary pageantry which her own countrymen and her future subjects tendered to her on her way. Antwerp distinguished itself, as usual, by a lavish display of bravery. The English merchants of that town came out four miles to meet her, to the number of fifty, dressed in velvet coats and chains of gold; while at her entrance into the town, at daylight, she was honorably received with twice fourscore torches. Again, we find that she arrived at Calais between seven and eight o’clock in the morning, and that in mid-December. As she is said to have travelled generally at about the rate of twenty English miles a day, and each of these places, at which she arrived so early, was made the scene of rejoicing and feasting for her and her train, it is evident that much of her journey must have been performed in the chilly hours before the dawn of a winter’s day. In the train sent to welcome Anne of Cleves were kinsmen of five out of Henry’s six queens. The time was whiled away in the then English city of Calais in the usual festivities, and she was taken to see the king’s ships Lyon and Sweepstakes, which were decked in her honor with a hundred banners of silk and gold, and furnished with “two master-gunners, mariners, thirty-one trumpets, and a double-drum that was never seen in England before; and so her grace entered into Calais, at whose entering there were one hundred and fifty rounds of ordnance let out of the said ships, which made such a smoke that not one of her train could see the other.”[108] From Dover, after a quick and prosperous passage of the proverbially churlish Channel, she went to Canterbury and thence to Rochester, where, on New Year’s eve, 1540, the king, impelled by a boyish curiosity ill-suited to his years and antecedents, told Cromwell that he intended to visit the queen privately and suddenly. So he and eight of his attendant gentlemen dressed themselves alike in coats of “marble color” (probably some kind of gray), and presented themselves in her apartments. He was taken aback at her appearance, and for once “was marvellously astonished and abashed.” It was the first time he had had a queen proposed to him whom he had not seen beforehand, and he felt that, at least in the eyes of the people, he had gone too far to be able to draw back now. He, who had never been taught self-restraint in anything, was not the man to exercise forbearance towards his luckless bride; yet, for the first and almost the only time, it was noticed that he absolutely showed her some scant civility. Either she knew him from his portraits or the evident prominence of one of her visitors indicated to her who was her future husband; for she sank on her knees at his approach, probably reading his surprise by her own instincts, and wishing to propitiate him with the meekness and deep humility of her behavior. Still, it was not Catherine of Aragon’s dignified humility and Christian majesty of demeanor, as she had pleaded for herself as a stranger no less than as a loving and faithful wife. The chronicler Hall says that the king “welcomed Anne with gracious words, and gently took her up and kissed her”--which is likely enough; yet we cannot rely on Hall’s authority as a grave historian, in after-times, as we always find him a gossiping and complacent relater of court pageantries, and a blind admirer of the king’s every word and look. No doubt he was wise in his generation--for what else could contemporary historians do to save their heads?--and after three hundred and fifty years we are glad to have his gorgeous Chronicles to dip into. Strype, Lord Herbert of Cherbury, Burnet, Lingard, and others agree that immediately after the king left Anne (with whom he had supped) he angrily called his lords together, and reproached them with having deceived him by false reports of her beauty; and, further, that he sent her the New Year’s gift, which he had intended to present to her in person, by his master of the horse, Sir Anthony Browne, with a cold, formal message, excusing himself to those about him by saying that “she was not handsome enough to be entitled to such an honor” as his personal offering.

The French ambassador, Marillac, preserved the record of many little details in his sprightly but gossiping correspondence with his superiors during the years 1539-40. These diplomatic gossipings seem to have been much the fashion; for the Venetian envoys also indulge in them. Courts and cabinets were more intimately connected then than the bourgeois improvements of the later domestic life in royal circles make it possible for them to be now. But if the French ambassador could be minute in his descriptions, he was not so good an adept at the mysteries of English spelling. He invariably spells Greenwich Greenwigs, and Westminster Valsemaistre. After Henry’s discourteous reception of his bride he returned to his palace at the former place, and there met the cunning contriver of the match, Cromwell, whom he upbraided coarsely for having yoked him with a “great Flanders mare.” The minister tried to shift the blame on Southampton, who had conducted the princess to England; but the latter bluntly replied that “his commission was only to bring her to England; and … as she was generally reputed for a beauty, he had only repeated the opinion of others, … and especially as he supposed she would be his queen.” Dealing with Henry VIII. involved a dangerous game, as no one knew for two days together to whom to look as the “rising sun.” The mild, gentle woman who was never to have any influence, and yet was to win all hearts save that of the brutal king, was perhaps an object of chivalrous pity to the lord high admiral, who thus prudently entrenched himself within the safe limits of his “commission.”

At length, after repeated, peevish outbursts of despotic ill-temper and such expressions as this: “Is there, then, no remedy but that I must needs put my neck into the yoke?” the king gave orders for his marriage preparations. It is curious to think of the now dense and unsavory city accumulations that cover the “fair plain” at the foot of Shooter’s Hill, on which were pitched the tent of cloth of gold and the gay pavilions where the slighted bride was publicly met and saluted by her future husband. To do him justice, he behaved with proper outward respect towards her. From Greenwich to Blackheath “the furze and bushes” were cut down and a clear road made, lined with the companies of merchants, English, Spanish, Flemish, and Italian, in coats of embroidered velvet, while “gentlemen pensioners” and knights and aldermen wore massive chains of gold. The princess and her retinue, consisting both of her English escort and her native attendants, met the king at some distance from the tent, and patiently listened to a long Latin oration delivered by the king’s almoner, and answered on her behalf by another solemn string of classical platitudes by her brother’s learned secretary, of neither of which speeches she understood one word. Anne wore a rich but somewhat tasteless dress, cut short and round, without any train, which rather shocked the fastidious eyes of the French ambassador and the English courtiers. The king, for his fourth bridal, wore a dress which, though rich, must have been unbecoming to one of his size and complexion. The chronicler Hall describes it as a sort of frock of purple velvet, “so heavily embroidered with flat gold of damask and lace that little of the ground appeared. Chains and guards of gold hung round his neck and across his shoulders. The sleeves and breast were cut and lined with cloth of gold, and clasped with great buttons of diamonds, rubies, and orient pearls, … his sword and girdle adorned with emeralds, … but his bonnet so rich of jewels that few men could value them; … besides all this, he wore a collar of such balas, rubies, and pearls that few men ever saw the like.” He was on horseback, but his “horse of state” was led behind him by a rein of gold, and wore trappings of crimson velvet and satin embroidered with gold. A multitude of gorgeously-dressed pages followed, each mounted on coursers with trappings to match. The princess was no less loaded with jewels, and her horse wore trappings which, together with the “goldsmith’s work” of the dress of her running footmen, was embroidered with the black lion of the shield of Hainaut. The king advanced and embraced her, and, to all outward appearance, did princely homage to her--all through an interpreter, however; and with more descriptions of wonderful clothes and ornaments, the old chronicler moves the whole pageant forward through the park to Greenwich palace. At one stage of the procession the princess seems to have exchanged her horse for a chariot of curious, antique fashion. A prominent place was assigned among her retinue to her three Flemish washerwomen, or, in the language of that day, her launderers. Then followed the great water-pageant on the Thames, where each city guild rivalled its fellows in display, every barge rowing up and down, proudly showing its streamers, pensiles, and targets, some painted with the king’s arms, some with her grace’s, and some with those of their own “craft or mystery.” Then there was a barge, made like a ship, called the bachelor’s bark, decked with the same streaming banners, besides a “foyst,” or gun, “that shot great pieces of artillery.” The barges also bore companies of singers and players, some concealed, some elevated on decorated platforms. This was the fifth time that they had been decked for a bridal, if we count Catherine of Aragon’s first wedding-day, when the Prince Arthur, who might have rivalled his legendary namesake, received the acclamations of a loyal people. The loyalty must have got sadly rusty by this time, however, as the unwieldy, bloated king rode past in his ghastly finery, escorting another perspective victim to a palace which only good-luck prevented from becoming her prison. Again Henry gave Cromwell ominous hints of his distaste to Anne of Cleves, as on the evening of this holiday he asked his opinion of her beauty. Cromwell answered that she had a queenly manner; and for Henry, whose two beheaded favorites, Anne Boleyn and Catherine Howard, chiefly offended him by their indiscreet and familiar behavior, this ought to have been a source of satisfaction; yet even on that last day of his liberty he called his council together, and despotically ordered them to see if he could not, by any quibble, get rid of his bargain with the despised princess. Doubtless the indignity would have seemed rather a boon to the royal Griselda; but, such as it was, it was not granted. Things had gone too far. The Schmalkalden League might resent the insult; the English people, with their rough love of “fair play,” might even rise in insurrection. Tudorism had scarcely yet advanced to absolute Mahometanism, and the council decided that the marriage must take place. Henry sullenly acquiesced, but Cromwell’s fate was sealed. “I am not well handled,” exclaimed the king more than once, and alleged that his bride had been betrothed to the Prince of Lorraine in her childhood, though Anne, when required, solemnly denied that at present she was bound by any pre-contract. This she was forced to do in public before the whole council. When the marriage was fixed for the feast of the Epiphany, 1540, Henry, ignoring the right of her own countrymen, Overstein and Hostoden, to give her away, associated one of his subjects, Lord Essex, in the office which by every right, of custom as well as feeling, belonged only to the representatives of her family. The bridal robes were a repetition of the gorgeous apparel already described; but the round dress of the bride seems ungainly. She wore her long, luxuriant yellow hair flowing down her shoulders, says Hall; but, as in her portrait her eyes and hair are dark, Miss Strickland suggests that these “golden locks” were false. The contrast must have been unfavorable. On her coronal “were set sprigs of rosemary, an herb of grace, which was used by maidens, both at weddings and funerals, for souvenance,” say some MSS. of that day.

The marriage was performed at Greenwich by Cranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury, according to the rites of the Catholic Church. There was a solemn Mass, at the Offertory of which the king and queen went up to the altar and offered tapers. Then, returning to the gallery, they took wine and spices (i.e., comfits and preserves), and at nine in the morning (the marriage had been at eight o’clock) dined together. There was something terribly incongruous in the schismatic king, excommunicated for adultery, and the passive Lutheran princess, being joined together in matrimony by an archbishop whose complaisant character and loose morals made many, even of that day, consider him a false shepherd. And add to this that Queen Anne died a Catholic, and had as her chaplain and confessor a Spaniard, whom it is permissible to identify with the same Tomeo who was once in the service of the holy Queen Catherine of Aragon. The wedding-ring which Henry gave to his third and last lawful wife[109] had this motto engraved on it: “God send me weel to kepe,” in Old-English letters. In the evening of the wedding-day the royal pair attended Vespers in state and then supped together. These meals must have been characterized by the same barbarous etiquette as those on the occasion of Anne Boleyn’s coronation, during which we are told: “And under the table went two gentlewomen and sat at the queen’s feet during the dinner.” Their office was to hold the queen’s handkerchief, gloves, etc. Sometimes there were as many as four of these attendants. The queen publicly washed her hands in a silver basin full of scented water, and the basin and ewer were both held by the great dignitaries of the realm. Two countesses stood one on each side, “holding a fine cloth before the queen’s face whenever she listed to spit or do otherwise at her pleasure”--a most extraordinary office, but probably so old as to be still in form indispensable in that land of precedents and of tenacity concerning all old customs.

Anne’s short days with her ungallant husband were a sad trial to her; she never gained his affections nor acquired influence with him. She was too true to feign a love she did not feel or to use adulation to conquer power. Henry complained to Cromwell that she “waxed wilful and stubborn with him”; and her partial biographer, Miss Strickland, says of her: “Anne was no adept in the art of flattery, and, though really of ‘meek and gentle conditions,’ she did not humiliate herself meanly to the man from whom she had received so many unprovoked marks of contempt.”

The king, whether from ironical or politic motives, still called her “sweetheart” and “darling” before the ladies of her bed-chamber, but was already meditating a divorce. Their last public appearance together was at the jousts at Durham House, where a company of knights in white velvet took part in a tournament and a feast of good cheer which the king and queen honored with their presence. This was on the first of May, after they had been married but four months. The queen, whose conduct was so irreproachable that her direst enemy could find no link in this “armor of proof,” occupied her time in embroidery and needlework with her maids of honor, as the meek but dignified Catherine of Aragon had done, both in the days of her power and in those of her distress. Saving the beauty which had once been his first wife’s portion, and the majesty of character which never left her to her dying day, his third consort must have reminded him of the pure, domestic tie which had been his in his youth, of the blameless, gentle, yet stately courtesies in which his court had rejoiced under the sway of a royal mistress. But the unhappy Catherine had loved him, while the more passive Anne simply endured him. Even this was a surprise and a vexation to him, as appeared a few weeks later, when, on hearing that she gladly assented to the divorce, he wondered that she was so ready to part with him. When her ladies ventured to ask her if she had told “mother Lowe,” her confidential nurse and countrywoman, how the king neglected her, she answered truthfully, “Nay, I have not; but I receive quite as much of his majesty’s attention as I wish.” Henry meanwhile encouraged her English ladies to mimic and ridicule her in her dress, her foreign accent, her want of learning. He openly said that he had never given his inward consent to the marriage; that he feared he had wronged the Prince of Lorraine, to whom he persisted in considering her as “precontracted”; and further had the assurance to prate of his conscientious scruples as to marriage with a Lutheran![110] But the plotter whose schemes her marriage had served was doomed to fall before her. Cromwell was arrested a few days before she was dismissed from the court on the pretext of her health requiring change of air. She was banished to Richmond; he was confined in the Tower. The facile Cranmer for the third time “dissolved” a marriage he had made, and, obeying Henry’s changeful whims, pronounced both parties free to marry again. But the liberty so formally granted was by no means to be literally understood as regarded the queen. “The particulars of this transaction (the divorce),” says Miss Strickland, “show in a striking manner the artfulness and injustice of the king and the slavishness of his ministers and subjects.” A so-called convocation reviewed the case and pronounced the divorce, on the grounds already mentioned, dictated by the king, and the House of Lords cringingly passed the necessary bill. The very same Southampton who had escorted Anne of Cleves to England bore the message to her depriving her of her royal state. She swooned at first, thinking that the deputation had come to pronounce sentence of death upon her. As soon as she understood that her life was safe she showed an alacrity in stripping herself of her dangerous honors, which of itself was perhaps more dangerous. However, the king was too busy with his new toy-victim, the wretched Catherine Howard, to take notice of these symptoms of Anne’s joy at her safety. The terms were simply honorable imprisonment. She was not to leave the realm, and, in reality, was kept as a hostage for the good behavior of her relatives abroad, who might otherwise have been tempted to resent her wrongs. Here begins the uniqueness of her lot. She was adopted as the king’s “sister,” was to resign the title of queen, but to have precedence at court over every other lady, save the king’s future “wife” and his two daughters, and to be amply provided for out of the royal treasury. With Mary and Elizabeth she was on the most friendly terms, and at the beginning of her marriage endeavored, by every means in her power, to bring the neglected Mary into notice. From Anne’s expressions in her letters to her brother it appears that any hostile demonstration on his part to revenge her would have brought evil on her. She says: “Only I require this of you: that ye so conduct yourself as for your untowardness in this matter I fare not the worse, whereunto I trust you will have regard.” She humbly returned her wedding-ring to her dictatorial husband, and wrote a letter of submission in German, which the councillors sent to him in translation. A handsome maintenance was allotted her, and she evidently took kindly to her new position, even cheerfully acquiescing in the command to receive no letters or messages from her kindred. Thus the leave to “marry again” was in her case evidently only a matter of form. The king had the boldness to allude to her “caprice” as a woman, which might make her break these promises, and the meanness to order that measures should be taken to prevent the possibility of her breaking them. These are his words--a monument of despicable tyranny: “And concerning these letters to her brother, how well soever she speaketh now, with promises, to abandon the condition [caprice] of a woman, … we think good, nevertheless, rather by good means to prevent that she should not play the woman than to depend upon her promise; nor, after she have felt at our hand all gratuity and kindness, … to leave her at liberty, to gather more stubbornness than were expedient, … she should not play the woman [i.e., change her mind] if she would.… Unless these letters be obtained, all shall [i.e., will] remain uncertain upon a woman’s promise--that she will be no woman--the accomplishment whereof, on her behalf, is as difficult in the refraining of a woman’s will, upon occasion, as in changing her womanish nature, which is impossible.”[111]

Marillac, the ambassador, says on this occasion that “the queen takes it all in good part.” But the people had evidently grown to love her, and, as far as they dared, murmured at the indignity put upon her; for he adds: “This is cause of great regret to the people, whose love she had gained, and who esteemed her as one of the most sweet, gracious, and humane queens they have had; and they greatly desired her to continue with them as their queen.” No doubt the people had a greater sense of dignity than their king, and wished the sovereign lady of so great a realm to be of royal race and breeding. It was not for them to be subjects of a subject, while foreign kingdoms, and even small principalities, had queens-consort of royal degree. They had had sad experience, too, of the desolating rivalries produced among the great lords by these intermarriages with subjects, and therefore welcomed the gentle foreigner, so quick to learn English speech and English ways, but whose kindred was little likely to embarrass them.

Anne always signed herself “Daughter of Cleves” after her dismissal from court, and her gayety seems to have revived as soon as she found her life safe. Scarcely a month after the divorce was pronounced Henry visited her at Richmond, and she entertained him so pleasantly, says Marillac, that he stayed and supped with her “right merrily, and demeaned himself with such singular graciousness that some … fancied he was going to take her for his queen again.” If his hostess had thought so, doubtless she would have abated her pleasant humor and appeared less ready to welcome him. As it was, she put on every day a rich new dress, “each more wonderful than the last,” fared sumptuously, held her little court like a noble English lady of that day, dispensing alms and bounties, and passing her time, as Marillac says, “in sports and recreations.” Her real self bloomed again in this atmosphere of safety and unrestricted mental freedom; for such this “honorable imprisonment” as a hostage certainly was when compared with the teasing, daily companionship with the treacherous king. A feint was made a little later to give her a choice as to whether she would live in England or abroad; but as the jointure was tied up in English lands and their revenue alone, and to the possessor of these residence in England was attached as a sine qua non condition, the liberty of choice was practically null.

Anne’s court at Richmond and her life of gentle charities and innocent merry-makings were suddenly startled, after sixteen months’ peace, by the news of the trial and execution of her unhappy successor, Catherine Howard. Immediately her partisan maids of honor, and indeed all her household, who were devoted to her, began to speculate as to the chances of Providence interfering to reinstate their mistress in her rights. Every one but herself wished for this restoration. One of her ladies was actually committed to prison for having said, “Is God working his own work to make the Lady Anne of Cleves queen again?” adding that it was impossible that so sweet a queen as Lady Anne could be utterly put down. But, fortunately for the queen’s peace of mind, there was no such possibility, even though her brother’s ambassadors rather inconsiderately urged her restoration to her rightful position. The Privy-Purse expenses of her step-daughter, the Princess Mary, mentions a visit made by her to Anne in the year 1543 and her largesses to the latter’s servants; also a present of Spanish silk sent by Anne to Mary. Their intercourse seems to have been pleasant and familiar; they were nearly of the same age and had many domestic tastes in common. The contact between them may have been in part the means of Anne’s becoming a Catholic, though there is but little to show at what precise time this took place. So English had the queen grown that when Henry died, in 1547, she did not care to go to her own country, but willingly cast in her lot with her adopted land. Wise in her widowhood, as she had been virtuous in her married life--no less during the seven years of her separation than the six months of her reign--she did not marry again nor in any way mix in political matters. Posterity has unjustly set her down as an ugly, ill-conditioned, unlearned woman, a person without taste and discernment, at best a mere puppet of Henry’s. But we venture to see her otherwise; though she may not have been learned like Mary Tudor or Jane Grey, she was yet sufficiently instructed in all womanly arts, and quickly learned English, adapting herself, with rare prudence and discretion, to the ways of life and even the gorgeous sports of her adopted land; a trustworthy friend to the king’s daughters, especially the spurned and ill-fated Mary; a benevolent and self-denying woman, a good mistress, a pleasant hostess, an admirable manager of her tenants, estates, and household, deft with her fingers, skilful at her needle, gentle towards all, and, though not handsome, yet so winning that her ladies--though it was the worst policy--had no other title for her than their “sweet queen,” their “dear lady,” their “sweet mistress.” She outlived her stepson, Edward VI., and assisted publicly at Mary’s coronation, sitting in the same chariot as Elizabeth. “But,” says Miss Strickland, “her happiness appears to have been in the retirement of domestic life.” Further on the same biographer adds that it has been surmised, from certain items in her list of expenses, that she sometimes made private experiments in cooking. “She spent her time at the head of her little court, which was a happy household within itself, and we may presume well governed; for we hear neither of plots, nor quarrels, tale-bearings nor mischievous intrigues, as rife in her home-circle. She was tenderly beloved by her domestics, and well attended by them in her last sickness.” She survived her husband ten years, and died calmly and happily at the age of forty-one. In her will she left almost all the money and jewels which she had at her disposal to those who had served her and to poor pensioners, besides scrupulously ordering every debt to be paid. She left marriage-portions for her maids of honor, and ended by beseeching her executors to “pray for us and to see our body buried, … that we may have the suffrages of holy church according to the Catholic faith, wherein we end our life in this transitory world.”

Accordingly, Queen Mary had her buried in Westminster Abbey with great pomp, and the procession was graced with a hundred of her servants bearing torches, many knights and gentlemen with eight banners of arms (her own) and four banners of “white taffeta wrought with gold,” then the twelve bedesmen of Westminster in new black gowns, bearing twelve burning torches and four white branches, her ladies on horseback and in black gowns, and eight heralds, with white banners of arms, riding near the hearse. At the abbey-door the abbot and other Catholic dignitaries in mitres and copes received the corpse with the usual solemn ceremonies, and, bringing her into the church, “tarried dirge, and all the night with lights burning.” This stands for the Vespers in the Office for the departed. “The next day,” says the chronicler Stow, “requiem was sung, and my lord of Westminster (the abbot) preached as goodly a sermon as ever was made, and the Bishop of London sang Mass in his mitre, … and all the gentlemen and ladies offered [alms] at Mass.… Then all her head officers brake their staves, and all her ushers brake their rods and cast them into her tomb, … and thus they went in order to a great dinner given by my lord of Winchester to all the mourners.”

There was more rest and peace in this funeral pageant than there had been in the ill-omened wedding ceremony of which she had been the object seventeen years before. Her tomb is near the high altar Westminster Abbey, at the feet of King Sebert, the original Saxon founder, before the restoration of the abbey by Edward the Confessor. It is a plain-looking slab, like a bench, placed against the wall, and on parts of the unfinished structure the curious inquirer can trace her initials, A. and C., interwoven; but, such as it is, it is more of a memorial than fell to the lot of any of Henry’s queens, not one of whom, says Stow, “had a monument, except Anne of Cleves, and hers was but half a one.”

The horror felt on the Continent for the excesses and cruelty of the Bluebeard of England was such that it was long believed that Anne had either died by unfair means or had escaped from her “cruel imprisonment.” An impostor, therefore, for a time was enabled to take her place at one of the German courts--that of Coburg, where she was treated with royal consideration--but the fraud was afterwards discovered. This is mentioned in Shobert’s History of the House of Saxony. Upon the whole, Anne of Cleves may be considered as the most fortunate among the many women whose lives were connected with that of King Henry VIII.

IN MEMORY OF HARRIET RYAN ALBEE.

Like as remembered music long asleep Within the heavy, o’erencumbered brain, When touched by some remote, unheeded strain, Returns as turning tides from ocean creep Along the sandy flats, and fill again All the least wrinkles and each minute bowl Which in their ebbing had imprinted been, And soon with mightier longing overroll Their wonted, moon-drawn ways, and throb and swell ’Gainst the bared bosom of the happy earth; So comes her spirit in the empty well Of my dead heart, and overflows its dearth With her all-perfect presence and the spell Of love as strong, as sweet, as at its birth.

THE ROMAN RITUAL AND ITS CHANT

COMPARED WITH THE WORKS OF MODERN MUSIC.[112]

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