The Catholic World, Vol. 27, April 1878 to September 1878 (part 2 of 7)
“Nowadays,” pursued Conrad, as if in soliloquy, “people affect to be democratic; we win our spurs by speculating in cotton, or grain, or some other stuff, instead of by brave deeds on the battle-field. Well, well, I for one prefer the helmet and the battle-axe to the chinking of the money-changers.” Then, turning to Ulrich: “It surprises you to hear me say this, eh?”
To tell the truth, it did surprise him; but Ulrich did not show it.
“Well, a fortnight ago I would not have spoken thus,” he continued. “But the truth is, the veriest democrat loves in his secret heart a pedigree; and if he hasn’t one, he’ll pay somebody to make him a family-tree; and then he’ll buy a ruin, as I have done, and get to feel as I feel, perhaps. Why, Ulrich, I do believe somebody has thrown a spell over me; ay, this fair lady sleeping under the old stone here has touched me with her spirit wand. Why, I feel as if I were a Loewenstein—I do! I do!” Here Conrad brandished his cane and repeated aloud the Loewenstein motto: Intaminatis fulget honoribus.
“How it would please Walburga to hear him talking thus!” said Ulrich inwardly. “Proud as she is, I think her heart might incline towards him.”
It should perhaps be observed that hardship had wrought little effect upon Walburga. It had scarcely bent her spirit at all; and not once since she quitted the home of her forefathers had she returned to visit the dearly-loved spot. “It would be too bitter a sight to see vulgar people wandering amid its ruins,” she would tell her brother. “I’d rather have Loewenstein disappear entirely, be covered up by the mountain, than that some rich upstart should buy it, then pull down the mite that is left of its glorious walls, and erect a modern villa in their stead.”
Nor had she for several years entered Moida Hofer’s store, where so many curious objects were exposed for sale; and once, when her friend had disposed of a Loewenstein clock, one of the primitive kind, with pendulum swinging in front—ay, and disposed of it, too, for a pretty good price—Moida did not dare mention the fact. Indeed, the old-curiosity shop was now a banished theme of conversation between them.
By and by, after telling Ulrich for the twentieth time how finely the castle was to be renovated, Conrad said: “Now let us go in and take some repose; for to-morrow, you know, we are to be up early—you to do a good day’s work, while I must be off by the first train to Munich, where I am determined to have another look at my Dream.”
With this they went back into the tower, and after trying, but without success, to drive the bats out of their dormitory, Conrad and Ulrich lay down to rest. The former was soon fast asleep; but the youth, who had a more vivid imagination, stayed awake a whole hour thinking of the many who had occupied this chamber in days gone by. The moon shimmering in through the iron-barred window over his head flung a weird halo round about the lady painted on the wall; and he could not but think what a very, very ghostly chamber it was.
A month had gone by since Ulrich had laid eyes on Moida Hofer—only a month, yet it seemed as long as six months. So next morning, when Conrad was making ready to descend the hill on his way to Munich, the youth thrust his hand into his pocket, and, drawing forth some small pieces of silver, counted them over carefully. With anxious heart he counted them, and to his great delight found that there was just enough money to carry him to his betrothed and back. The other, who had a quick eye, was not slow to read what was passing in Ulrich’s mind, and said: “Is there any message you wish delivered to Miss Hofer? Or perhaps you will accompany me? Do; and we may visit her curiosity-shop together. To-morrow will be time enough to begin work on the frescos.”
“Well, I own, sir,” replied Ulrich, “’twould give me great happiness to see my lady-love; and I’ll labor all the harder for making her a visit.”
Accordingly they both set out for Munich, which was reached in four hours—eight it seemed to the impatient travellers, who as soon as they arrived went straight to Fingergasse.
Never was street better named, for it is little broader than a finger, and consequently only at high noon does the sun cheer it with its rays.
But this morning Fingergasse looked anything but dismal to the young artist, who knew that a pair of bright eyes were about to greet him, and already were shooting floods of light into his heart.
“Why, Ulrich! Ulrich!” These were Moida’s first words as she flew towards him. Perhaps in presence of a stranger she may have expected only a warm shake of the hand in response or a pat on the cheek. But in an instant the arms of her lover were twined about her neck. Then, when the greeting was over, Conrad Seinsheim was introduced, and we need not say that the girl surveyed him carefully. Moida found him not handsome like her Ulrich; rather the opposite. But she admired his broad forehead and the energy which flashed through his eyes; even his air of sternness did not displease her, for she recognized in him a man with opinions of his own, a man of power and decision.
And now, reader, blame her not for telling Conrad frankly and in her most winning way that her store was the best place in town to find old curiosities. “Why, sir,” said Moida, “I have even some fourteenth-century chairs from Loewenstein Castle, of which doubtless you have heard. ’Tis the oldest castle in Tyrol, and——”
“Moida,” interrupted Ulrich, “did I not write to you that——”
“Oh, hush! hush!” said Moida, blushing and putting her plump hand over his mouth.
“Well, I am here,” observed Conrad, trying hard not to smile—“I am here purposely to buy everything your store contains; for I am now owner of Loewenstein, and mean to fit it up as far as possible in true mediæval style.”
“Really!” exclaimed Moida. “Really!”
Whereupon Conrad did smile outright at her look of surprise and joy. Then presently she turned towards Ulrich, and her lips moved as if she were trying to speak. But he could only guess what she wanted to say. Yes, Moida, if Conrad purchases all that your little store holds, then indeed you may name your wedding-day. And if a radiant expression can make a homely face beautiful, it would have been difficult to find a more beautiful girl than Moida at this moment.
After speaking volumes to Ulrich through her blue eyes, she turned again to Conrad and said in an earnest tone: “O, sir! how kind you are. I cannot find words to express my thanks.”
The latter waved his hand, as if to say, “Pray do not thank me,” then set about examining the curiosities. These consisted of nine chairs ranged side by side along the wall, half a dozen breast-plates and helmets, a stack of arquebuses and pikes, three crossbows, some silver plates and goblets, a ewer, a couple of clocks which had not ticked in a century, an earthenware stove quaintly embossed with scenes from Holy Writ, and apparently a countless number of smaller objects, such as seals, rings, miniatures, and coins.
Picking up one of the miniatures, Conrad exclaimed: “Why, I declare, this is very like a young lady whom I saw lately in the Pinakothek, only here is a full view of her face, whereas I saw but the profile of my Dream.”
At this remark Moida stepped up and whispered: “’Tis the portrait of Walburga, the spouse of Hugo von Loewenstein; and ’tis the only thing I am not willing to part with.” The other turned towards her a moment with an air of disappointment; then, perceiving that she was in earnest, he let the subject drop.
A few minutes later Conrad was on his way to the picture-gallery, while Ulrich remained to enjoy the company of his betrothed. The first thing Moida did was to run out and fetch him a mug of beer. This may seem too trivial a fact to relate; nevertheless, truth may as well be told. She knew that in Tyrol he had had only water or wine to drink; and what can equal Munich beer? As Ulrich quietly sipped the delicious beverage, her quick eye ran over his buttons. She took them all in at a glance, and in another moment Moida’s needle was busy mending a rent in his sleeve. But while the girl sewed, she ever and anon peeped up at his face, and thought to herself: “In the whole kingdom of Bavaria there is nobody can compare with my Ulrich.” And, moreover, full of common sense as Moida was, there was nothing she admired more than the two sword-cuts on her dear boy’s cheek, in shape like a cross; and well did she remember the day when he received them, now five years ago. For, like most German students, Ulrich had belonged to a corps (his was the Teutonia), and occasionally engaged in a duel. It was on that memorable day that he addressed her the first tender word, after having had his wounds sewed up; while Moida, as she listened with fluttering heart and drooping eyes, thought to herself: “I am the third one to whom he has said this. Oh! I wonder which of us will win?”
Then she pretended that she did not care a straw for him; whereupon Ulrich presented her with a beautiful nosegay—four florins it cost him—and the rest we need not narrate.
“By the way, how is Caro?” inquired Ulrich, after holding the glass to her lips and making Moida take a sip of the beer.
“As frisky as if he were a puppy,” answered the latter, highly pleased at the question. Ulrich knew it would please her.
“Well, wouldn’t it be nice to have the old dog settled at Loewenstein, where he might get plenty of fresh air and be outdoors as much as he chose?” added the youth.
“Ay; but what chance is there of that?—unless you were to take him; and he’d be rather troublesome.”
“No pet of yours would ever trouble me,” rejoined Ulrich. “And let me tell you, Moida, strange things happen in the world.”
With this he proceeded to reveal how much Conrad Seinsheim admired a certain young lady whom he had seen in the Pinakothek.
“’Tis the very one you heard him say that miniature is so like; and I know he is gone there now purposely to see her again. And it must be Walburga, for isn’t she copying Carlo Dolce’s picture of Innocence?”
Leaving Ulrich and his betrothed to discuss the possibility of a union between a Von Loewenstein and a Seinsheim, let us follow the footsteps of Conrad.
He found the one of whom he was in quest seated at her easel, perhaps a trifle nearer the wall than before, and with the same expression on her face which had so ravished his heart the first time he lighted upon her. She seemed not to notice his approach, and when at length Conrad ventured to ask if the copy she was making were for sale, Walburga replied, apparently with indifference, and without taking her eyes off the canvas: “Yes, sir, it is.” Yet how his question set her heart a-throbbing! For the sale of the picture would enable the girl to pay several bills that were due, as well as take a trip to Nuremberg, which for years she had been longing to visit; for Nuremberg was the birthplace of Albert Dürer.
“How differently Miss Hofer would have answered me!” thought Conrad, observing Walburga with close attention. “She would have looked me full in the face and completed a bargain forthwith; ay, and persuaded me, too, to offer a high price for the picture.” Then aloud, and addressing Walburga in courtly German style: “Well, if the gracious lady will allow me to possess her beautiful copy, I shall be delighted. For I have just bought an old castle in the Tyrol, which I mean to restore, as far as money may, to its former state of grandeur, and I promise you your painting shall adorn the fairest chamber in it.”
“An old castle, indeed!” murmured Walburga, still without glancing at him. She wondered whether it might be Loewenstein. Then presently, unable to contain her eager desire to know if it was or not, she said: “May I ask, sir, in what part of the Tyrol your castle is?”
“In the Innthal, not far from Innspruck; and it once belonged to the noble house of Von Loewenstein.”
At these words a flush crimsoned the girl’s cheek for a moment, then disappeared, leaving her paler than before; while her brush, always so steady, now tremblingly touched the canvas. At length, after vainly endeavoring to master her feelings, she let the brush drop and buried her face in her hands.
Conrad’s curiosity was here raised to a high pitch; for although Ulrich had not told him that he had a sister an artist, yet he was quick-witted, and since he had seen the miniature in the old curiosity-shop—and Moida, we remember, had informed him that it came from Loewenstein—Conrad had been hoping that the young lady whom he called his Dream might prove to be one of the Loewenstein family, a near relative of Ulrich’s—his sister, perhaps.
“And why not?” he asked himself. “A likeness may be handed down through many generations; it may vanish for a space, like a lost stream, then reappear in the person of a far-off descendant. And verily, this charming girl is the living image of Walburga, the bride of Hugo von Loewenstein. And, oh! if I am right, what a treasure she will be. True, I am not highborn, and she may not view me at first with favor. But I’ll go through fire to win her!”
Presently Walburga uncovered her face, and for the first time stole a furtive glance at the one who stood beside her. Then quick her eyes were fastened on the canvas again; and while Conrad was wondering at her shyness a tear rolled down her cheek. His curiosity to know who she was now increased tenfold, and he said, in a voice the tenderness of which he did not care to conceal:
“Gracious lady, pray be not offended if I ask whether you have ever been to Loewenstein?”
“I was there once; I never wish to lay eyes on it again,” answered Walburga, trying to conceal her emotion.
“Would it offend you if I were to inquire the reason why?” pursued Conrad, now scarcely doubting who she was.
For more than a minute Walburga did not trust herself to speak. Finally she said:
“What spot, sir, can be so sad as an abandoned home? Parting with our birthplace to strangers does not tear up the deep roots whereby our heart clings to it. We feel towards it as towards a dear friend whom we have deserted. O sir! for many, many years—for centuries”—here Walburga drew herself proudly up—“my race held the castle which now is yours; and I love it so much that I cannot speak of it with calmness. A friend dies and we hide him in the earth; a dead home remains, mournfully gazing on us whenever we pass by. ’Tis why I will not go near dear, dear Loewenstein: nothing so ghostlike as an abandoned home!”
By this time tears were glistening in the dark, cavernous eyes of her listener; and when Walburga finished speaking Conrad said:
“Gracious lady, you cannot imagine how precious to me the old ruin has become. I love it, too.”
Here for the second time Walburga looked at him, but, as before, only by a swift side-glance. Then she said: “I must return you thanks, sir, for your kindness to my brother. He wrote to a young lady, his betrothed, all about it, and she told me; and I sincerely rejoice that Loewenstein has fallen into the hands of a gentleman like yourself.”
“Then you are Ulrich’s sister?” exclaimed Conrad.
“His only sister, and he my only brother. You cannot tell how I miss him.”
“Well, he accompanied me today, and is now with Miss Hofer.”
“Indeed! How delighted I am!”
“And I am much pleased with his lady-love,” added Conrad.
“Well you may be, sir. She is the salt of the earth. Ulrich needs a shrewd, practical woman for his wife; for the dear fellow is somewhat of a dreamer like myself. We both of us live in the past. But now do let me know how you came to meet Moida Hofer.”
“It happened in this wise: Your brother told me there were in her curiosity-shop many relics from Loewenstein, which I determined to possess. And really, I was charmed with the few words she addressed to me; her ways are so sprightly and winning. And I, for my part, am curious to know how you fell in with the granddaughter of Hofer the Patriot.”
“Well, I’ll tell you all about it,” answered Walburga, as she went on finishing the golden hair of her picture. “You must know, sir, that Ulrich and I were left orphans at an early age, and immediately after the death of our parents the castle fell into the hands of the state; for there were many taxes unpaid, as well as heavy debts owing here and there. So away went Loewenstein. But, although quite penniless, God sent us in our uttermost need a generous lady, who had no children of her own, and who adopted us and gave us a home in Munich. This lady had a small fortune, enough to live comfortably on and to educate us. Ah! what should we have done without her? Well, ’twas during this happy period that Ulrich made Moida’s acquaintance. She was then an orphan, too, and clad in the picturesque costume of Tyrol; a real mountain daisy she was, and brother fell in love with her. Shortly thereafter our adopted mother died, bequeathing to us her fortune, and we little thought we should ever suffer want. But, alas! the bank where our money was placed failed, and all, or nearly all, was lost. Then poor Ulrich, who had already become engaged to Moida, feared that he could not be married—at least not so soon as he had hoped. ’Twas a bitter disappointment to them both. But Moida said: ‘Let us be patient and hope. I will never give you up.’ Brother and I were now fortunately well advanced in our art studies—Ulrich, moreover, had passed through the university—and we resolved to try and earn our bread by painting.
“But ’tis easier to paint a picture than to sell one”—here Walburga’s cheek reddened—“and so for Ulrich and I ’twas Lent all the year round; and we grew very thin, for we did not even eat fish. Until one day dear Moida discovered our miserable plight: we had done our best to conceal it. Then she insisted on doing her utmost to help us. She made me share her lodging; she even clothed me. And this was most noble in her, for Moida knew that our high-born acquaintances had told Ulrich he would be marrying infinitely beneath him if he married her. Yet not one of those proud families extended to us a helping hand. About this time Moida had set up a little store—the one she keeps to-day. But she would not let me help her to dispose of anything; she treated me as if she knew I was not born for such drudgery—sometimes archly saying I could not make a good bargain, which perhaps was true.
“But when the furniture of dear Loewenstein was sold at auction, and when Moida bought it all, oh! from that day I have not set foot in her curiosity-shop; for I know every clock and cup and pike and helmet, and ’twould break my heart to see this man and that coming in and cheapening those precious heirlooms. But Moida is not displeased with me for holding aloof; she respects my feelings, although not at all a sentimental girl herself. Unhappily during the past year business has been very dull, and she sells but few things, while the rent of the store keeps high; and only that my friend has great spirit she might almost fall into despair. Yet even now, in what I may call her darkest hour, she tells Ulrich to be cheerful, that their wedding-day will come sooner or later.”
“Yes, yes; very soon,” murmured Conrad, who felt tempted to lay bare at once his whole heart to Walburga. But a moment’s reflection deterred him: it might appear too abrupt, for the young lady had never seen or spoken to him before. So, while admiring her more and more, he resolved to wait a little.
But Walburga’s voice sounded so sweetly to his ears that Conrad urged her to go on and tell him something more about herself and Moida.
Whereupon Walburga smiled and hesitated; for although she had scarcely paused an instant with her brush, yet his presence was felt to be a distraction. If she interested him, it was no less certain that he interested her. She could not feel towards Conrad as towards a stranger; she knew that he had befriended Ulrich; that he was now the owner of the place where she was born; and that the many precious things which debt and the auction-sale had scattered to the winds he was bent on recovering and taking back to Loewenstein. What wrought most potently upon Walburga was the evident interest which he showed in herself. Instead of buying her picture and then retiring, Conrad had dallied half an hour by her side, and prevailed on her to talk about her affairs with an openness at which she inwardly blushed.
Nor was he at all like the other sight-seers who were wont to visit the gallery. The two shy glances she had given him had convinced her that Conrad was no ordinary man; that whatever his origin—even if he did not know who his great-grandfather was, as Ulrich had written to Moida—yet his was not a grovelling, low-born soul.
Accordingly, after remaining silent well-nigh a minute, Walburga yielded to his request and proceeded to tell him more about herself. “Moida and I and two others, sir,” she resumed, “have a home together—which makes four of us in one small lodging.”
“Four!” repeated Conrad, just a little disturbed and wondering who the other two might be.
“Yes, four. There is myself, Moida, Caro, and a nightingale.”
“Oh! indeed—Caro and a nightingale,” ejaculated her admirer, with a sense of relief he was hardly able to conceal.
“And never was a more peaceful home. Up under the roof it is; but that gives us fresh air, and into our dormer windows the sunshine comes sooner than into any other windows on the street.”
“And you have the sweetest of all birds to sing for you,” observed Conrad.
“Yes, indeed. But I sometimes think of giving my pet his freedom. Moida laughs at me for it. Moida is——”
“Not in the least sentimental,” interrupted the other, with a smile.
“Well, true, she is not. But my bird is now a prisoner, and I am sure he must feel lonesome where he is.”
“Oh! believe me, he is far happier as your prisoner than if he were enjoying the freedom of all the woods in Bavaria,” said Conrad, with a faint tremor in his voice.
“Indeed!” exclaimed Walburga, answering his emotion by a crimson spot on her cheek.
“Well, you may be right,” he added presently. “Your kind heart may tell you that your nightingale sighs for some other little bird to love.”
At these words the sweet, pink blush spread itself with the quickness of light over Walburga’s whole cheek, and she answered:
“I declare, ’tis just what I told Moida.”
“And what did she say?”
“Moida said—and no harm in repeating it—she said Ulrich was her nightingale.”
“Her nightingale! Well, really, your friend is sentimental; and I envy your brother. It must be the greatest of earthly joys to be happily wedded, as they soon will be.”
Here Walburga’s countenance grew suddenly pensive, and she murmured to herself: “Ay, the greatest of earthly joys.”
Conrad noticed the change in her expression and wondered at it. Then he thought to himself: “’Tis time for me to withdraw; I may be wearying her.”
But ere he retired he said: “May I come again, gracious lady, tomorrow or the day after? I sometimes have melancholy moods, but these lovely pictures bring the sunshine back to my heart; and the loveliest picture of all is in this part of the gallery.”
“You may, sir, if it pleases you,” was the answer he received. Then, making an obeisance, Conrad went away, leaving Walburga hardly in a fit state to continue her work; and she inwardly repeated the words which he had uttered about her nightingale: “Far happier as your prisoner than enjoying the freedom of all the woods in Bavaria.”
“What did he mean?” she asked herself. “What did he mean?”
A few minutes later the girl rose and went away too, still murmuring the question: “What did he mean?”
TO BE CONTINUED.
Footnote 43:
The narrowest street in Munich; hence the name.
Footnote 44:
The name of the park in Munich.
Footnote 45:
Valley of the Inn.
Footnote 46:
These are made afresh every year on the feast of the Epiphany.
Footnote 47:
An instrument not unlike a guitar.
ROSARY STANZAS. SORROWFUL MYSTERIES.
I.
Luke xxii. 44.
No impious hand, no torture-instrument The Son of Mary yet has touched. Alone His prostrate form upon the ground is rent With cruel agony of blood to atone For thy too easy life. A heart of stone Could but dissolve before the piteous sight. All through the Holy Hour he made his moan, Beneath the olives, on the sacred height; Wrongs of the ages saw in vision that dread night!
II.
JOHN xix. 1.
An act, a little word, of God made man Bears in itself his own immensity; To him the universe is but a span, A world’s full ransom his one tear might be. Not as we reckon outlay reckons he, Until his boundless love has lavished all. The knotted scourge precedes the fatal tree. Couldst thou return him less, if he should call? Or would the martyr’s palm thy coward soul appall?
III.
JOHN xix. 5.
A crown of thorns for him, a crown of bays For such as I! A fool might surely deem The servant greater than his Master. Praise Might to the sinner merest irony seem, The while the Sinless One is made a theme Of ribaldry. Before his crown of thorn Honor and earthly glory are a dream, A phantom flimsier than of vapor born: By that pierced brow the crown of all the worlds is worn.
IV.
MATT. xi. 30.
Simon to bear thy cross they would compel; Yet for the deed, though done against his will, On him and on his sons rich blessing fell, As old traditions say. How richer still The graces that the heart’s long thirst will fill For him who runs that sacred load to meet, And bear it upward to the holy hill! To share His burden be my footstep fleet: True love will make his yoke unfelt, his burden sweet.
V.
JOHN i. 29.
Behold, the Lamb of God is crucified! His head is bowed, to impart the kiss of peace; Stretched are his arms, to draw thee to his side; Opened his heart, thy heart’s love to increase. His all is spent to purchase thy release. Canst thou, my soul, love great as this refuse? Henceforth in thee let sin’s dominion cease, And with the Mother of the martyrs choose, Rather than him in death, a whole world’s wealth to lose.
PROHIBITORY LEGISLATION: ITS CAUSE AND EFFECTS.
It has been well said that “the best government is that which governs least”; and it might with infinite propriety be added that the legislative body stultifies itself when it passes laws that cannot possibly be carried into effect. One such law on our statute-books, yet constantly and notoriously violated, does more to destroy that political morality with which our people are, to say the least, not overburdened—of which certainly there is no surplus—than would ten wrong practices against which no law exists. We learned, during the late war, of how little avail legislation is when it undertakes to regulate and declare the value of gold; and it is designed briefly to set forth in this article that the proposed much-vaunted prohibitory legislation touching alcoholic liquors is false in theory, must be unsuccessful in practice; that remedial (not repressive) measures are what is required; and to suggest means by which the end aimed at by such enactments can be attained without invading the domain of the church, the free-will of humanity, or placing the state in the odious light of executor of a grinding tyranny exercised by a temporary majority over a recalcitrant minority.
And here, in the outset, let it be understood that there is no difference between ourselves and the most ardent favorers of the Maine Law, or any similar enactment on this matter, concerning the detestable nature of drunkenness, which we both admit to be a damning sin in the sight of God and a crying scandal before man. That it is a loathsome vice is a proposition requiring only to be stated, not argued. Even the wretched being who is enthralled by it will admit this and lament his deplorable condition. The days are past when Fox, Pitt, and Sheridan went openly drunk to the House of Commons; when the usages of the highest society were such that we still retain therefrom the saying, “Drunk as a lord”; when the literature of the age informs us everywhere that gentlemen were not expected to be sober after dinner; when Burns could write in Presbyterian Scotland, “I hae been fou wi’ godly priests”; and when, in our own country, the first thing on entering and the last on leaving a house was a visit to the sideboard. Drunkenness is now deservedly considered by the entire community not only a vice but an inherently vulgar one. Fashionable society will not tolerate it, and there is no pretence of usage any longer set up that will even partially condone it. In short, it is the one unpardonable sin against modern society, and we are well pleased to see it ranked in this category. But while detesting drunkenness, and deprecating, in the strongest manner, the habitual use of intoxicating liquors, we dislike very much to perceive a tendency on the part of the public to ignore the fact that there are other sins besides the abuse of liquor, and that it is not by legal provision that people are to be kept sober. As Almighty God has been pleased to leave us our free-will, the reason is not evident why frail man should seek to take it away; and we object utterly to that queer manipulation by which the word “temperance” itself, the proper meaning of which is “moderation in any use or practice,” should be restricted to the moderate use of alcoholic drinks, much more that it should falsely be twisted and perverted into implying a total abstinence from them. Why should we be wise above what is written? Has Almighty God failed his church? Are we prepared to admit that Christianity is a miscarriage? This we tacitly do when we invoke to her aid the arm of the civil law. It is not to be doubted but there are persons so unfortunately constituted that they cannot use stimulants of any kind without abusing them. “Madam,” said Dr. Johnson to a lady who asked him to take a little wine—“madam, I cannot take a little, and therefore I take none at all!” Such persons must plainly abstain entirely; whether they shall do so of their own accord, by taking a simple pledge or by joining a “temperance society,” is for themselves to answer. In any case there is no safety for them save in total abstinence; but said abstinence, to have any merit whatever, must be voluntary, not one of legal enforcement.
While attention had, from time to time within the last century, been called to the intemperate use of alcoholic liquors, it is only within comparatively recent times that any organized efforts have been made to grapple with this monstrous evil. The first association for the purpose was made in Massachusetts in 1813. By its means facts and statistics were gathered and published for the purpose of calling the attention of the public to the magnitude of the evil, and suggestions made for its abatement or suppression. Similar associations were soon formed in adjoining States, and these again organized branches, until associations of the kind existed in nearly all the Eastern and Middle States. About 1820 there was formed in Boston “The American Society for the Promotion of Temperance,” which in 1829 had over one thousand auxiliary societies, no State in the Union being without one or more. The influences relied upon by this institution were the dissemination of tracts in which were portrayed the evil effects of the use of alcohol, and the employment of travelling lecturers to deliver addresses in favor of temperance. The first society professing the principle of total abstinence from intoxicating liquors was formed at Andover in 1826. These several societies, under one form or other, soon spread largely not only in our own country but in Canada, England, and Scotland, until they existed by hundreds in each; and about this time the word temperance began to lose its normal signification, and to be used as a synonym for total abstinence from the use of liquors. Teetotalism became the popular cry. The country was taken by storm; lecturers loomed up all over the States, administered the “pledge” publicly to hundreds of thousands; various minor denominations refitted their terms of communion in accordance with the new war-cry. In Ireland the cause of total abstinence was so successfully advocated by Very Rev. Father Mathew that he is stated to have administered the pledge to more than a million persons within three years from 1838; and since that time there has been, in the popular mind, no such thing as temperance, except in the sense of total abstinence from all that can intoxicate. All the former associations which proposed to themselves any such secondary and inefficient object as moderation in the use of liquors, or which administered either a partial pledge or one merely for a specified time, were disbanded or fell out of sight. Societies of Washingtonians, Sons of Temperance, Good Templars, and Rechabites sprang up, most of them secret and with signs, passwords, grips, tokens, etc., the members of which were pledged neither to touch, taste, handle, buy, sell, manufacture, nor use as a beverage the accursed thing. In 1851 the Legislature of Maine passed the well-known “Maine Law,” by which it was made penal to manufacture, have in possession, or sell intoxicating drinks. The law was repealed in 1856, and it has since been lawful to distil, keep, or sell spirits under certain restrictions, but drinking-houses are prohibited. A similar law was enacted in Massachusetts in 1867. In many of the States there is a law prohibiting the sale of liquors on Sunday, and in a majority the local-option law (which leaves the question whether license to sell spirits shall be granted or not to the decision, at the polls, of the people of each city, town, township, or county) is now in full blast, with results that we shall glance at hereafter. A political party has been formed in many States, under the name of “prohibitionists,” which, though as yet but rarely sufficiently numerous or powerful to elect a governor on that single issue, yet numbers adherents enough frequently to hold the balance of power between the two prominent parties, and thus extort from candidates very important concessions in their own interests. They are active, energetic, conscientious in the main, and they besiege the various legislatures with petition upon petition against the liquor-traffic, which, to their minds, is the sum of all iniquities. The various religious sects come to their aid, loudly decrying all traffic in, and use of, spirituous drink. Matters have been brought to such a pass that a man’s reputation is imperilled by taking a glass of liquor; and there is yet wanting but the one further step of making its use illegal and its procurement impossible—a course strongly and unhesitatingly urged by almost all the various supporters of what is nowadays called temperance, and which seems quite likely to succeed, should the upholders of these views increase in numbers for a few more years as they have done within the last two decades.
It is a law of all fanatical movements, and one of their most peculiarly dangerous features, that they readily enmesh large numbers of people, and that their workings, tendencies, and developments fall of necessity, in the long run, into the hands of the extremists, the intransigentes, among themselves. Nor has this movement proved an exception, as is seen in the attempt made by legal enactment to coerce people into the practice of an enforced abstinence from stimulants—an abstinence not shown to be physiologically desirable, not commanded by the church, and most assuredly not inculcated in Scripture. But in secret societies always, in sectarian combinations generally, and oftentimes in political parties, the experience of all ages shows that people first set up for themselves a master, and then obey him like so many slaves. They do this, too, under the delusion, for the most part, that they are carrying out their own convictions of right. It is much easier to join one of these secret organizations in a flush of curiosity, enthusiasm, or other temporary excitement than it afterwards proves to leave them in calm blood. Ties of acquaintance and quasi friendship have been formed which most men strongly dislike to break. Good care is usually exercised that “the rhetorician, from whom,” as Aristotle says, “it is an error to expect demonstration,” shall be on hand to stimulate, exhort, inspirit, and incite to still further and more vigorous exertion; the boundaries between right and wrong fade away from the mental view; and few start in on this false track who fail to accompany their misled companions as far as the archbigot or archfanatic may choose to take them.
Within the Catholic Church a large number of total-abstinence societies have been formed, of course with her sanction. Most of these are at the same time beneficial institutions, which in case of sickness give the member, and in case of death to his nearest kin, a certain allotted sum. But probably most priests on the mission will say that the great mass of Catholics who feel the necessity for them of such abstinence take the pledge as individuals at the hands of the priest, either for a certain term or for life, without joining any special society. An immense amount of good has thus been accomplished, particularly among the poorer and laboring population, a very large proportion of whom are Catholics, and, from their circumstances and inevitable surroundings, most in danger of falling into temptation in the matter of drink, as well as most certain to suffer very severely from its effects. But it has at no time been, nor is it now, any part of the teaching of the church that her children shall not manufacture, buy, sell, and use (should they be so disposed) vinous, malt, or spirituous drink. Condemning the abuse of them, and reprobating drunkenness as a mortal sin, she yet allows to her children the moderate use and enjoyment of that wine which our Blessed Lord himself made for the use of the guests at the wedding at Cana, as well as of the other forms of it, which no physician or chemist ever found to be injurious per se until it chimed in with a cry emanating from a large, an influential, possibly a well-meaning, but in our view certainly, if so, a false-thinking, or it may be a deceived, portion of the community.
And here it may be well to note the unpardonable arrogance of assumption with which the intemperately temperate of all sorts take it for granted that all intelligence and morality belong peculiarly to those who inculcate or practise this one principle of abstinence from liquors. We see it displayed most offensively, indeed, among the variously bedizened and becollared gentry of the divers oath-bound secret societies, and among such sectaries as practically make total abstinence a term of communion; but truth compels us to go further, and to admit the tendency, even among Catholics, on the part of those who have ardently attached themselves to the societies got up with this view, to treat all outsiders as though living on a lower plane of piety and morality than themselves. “Stand thou off, for I am holier than thou” is too frequently their language in effect, if not in words; and, indeed, that is an almost inevitable effect of what the Scotch call “unco guidness.” However, the teaching and tenets of the church remain what they have always been, and the Catholic manufacturer or vender of wines and spirits, the total abstainer and the moderate drinker, go to confession, receive absolution and holy communion, together; nor do intelligent or well-instructed Catholics imagine for a moment that the formal pledge of abstinence from intoxicants, or membership in a total-abstinence society, are anything more than adminicula to the individual whom his own weakness, the circumstances under which he earns a livelihood, or other reasons place in peculiar danger with reference to this vice.
But there must be some strong reason why an all-pervading necessity has been felt, in this century, for doing something in regard to drunkenness, the need of which (if ever previously perceived) has certainly never been acted upon by the most enlightened nations, whether of antiquity or of modern times. Lot was made drunk; Noe was drunk; Nabal and the Ephraimites were “drunken withal”; and all the evils and phenomena of intoxication are fully described in various passages of the Old Testament, always with reprobation, but there is not to be found in the entire book the slightest disapproval of the use of the fruit of the vine. On the contrary, oblations of wine to the Deity are enjoined upon the children of Israel; and the most horrible judgments denounced by the prophets of God upon the Jews consist in their being deprived of wine. In New Testament times our Saviour was called by the Pharisees (the prototypes of our ultra-abstainers) a wine-bibber; yet the same Jesus does not deem it at all necessary to proclaim himself on the teetotal side, or to leave us any precept against the use of wine. On the contrary, he institutes in wine the sacrament of his love, thus rendering the manufacture of wine necessary till the end of time. He himself changes water into wine. His apostles nowhere discourage its use, while they frequently speak of and upbraid professing Christians with its abuse, and one of them actually advises another to drop water and use a little wine for sanitary reasons. It would be sheer waste of time to undertake to refute those very ignorant or very dishonest persons who try to make it appear that wine, when mentioned in Scripture with commendation, is merely the unfermented juice of the grape, and that the shechar, tirosh, and yayin were only intoxicating when excess in their use was reprobated. Either these people know better, and are wittingly making use of a dishonest argument, or their ignorance is too dense to be penetrated by any proof, however cogent. The reader who may wish to see this branch of the subject succinctly yet exhaustively treated should refer to an article in the Westminster Review for January, 1875, entitled “The Bible and Strong Drink.”
The Greeks and Romans cultivated the vine very largely, made and used wine habitually; but their whole literature, while teeming with reference to the use, in no single instance commends the abuse, of wine. That the Spartans were accustomed to make their slaves intoxicated, in order by their example to deter young men from becoming addicted to the vice, is as well attested as any fact in history; while even in the worst periods of Roman story drunkenness is invariably referred to as disgraceful in itself, never to be predicated of people entitled to respect, and relegated, even at the Saturnalia, to the rabble and to slaves.
In the Stromata of St. Clement of Alexandria, who lived in the latter part of the second century, we find allusion made to a few who at that day attempted to disturb the harmony of the church by imitating the example which they professed to consider set them in the narration by the Prophet Jeremias of the story of the sons of Jonadab-ben-Rechab, and we find those persons classed by him with those of whom the apostle speaks, as “commanding to abstain from that which God hath ordained to be received with thanksgiving.” Two centuries later St. Chrysostom and St. Augustine both pointedly condemn, as acting “plainly and palpably contrary to Scripture and to the doctrine of the Church,” some who, fancying they had attained spiritual information not generally accessible, tried to introduce among Christians the vow of the Nazarites. From that time till the former half of the present century we read, indeed, of drunkenness as existing; for that matter, we know of its existence in the earliest ages, and in all times and countries since, just as we do of incontinence, of theft, and of suicide by poison. It was reserved for the nineteenth century to attempt to do away with the possibility of the vice of drunkenness by rendering penal the production of the means; which is as though the law should step in to render men chaste by emasculation, theft impracticable by the abolition of property; and not in the least more feasible than would be the carrying out of an edict against the production of animal, mineral, or vegetable poisons.
Now, we should not in the least object to any well-devised and practical legislation that would do away with drunkenness entirely, if that were possible, which it unfortunately is not; nor will it ever be the case so long as the human race exists upon earth. The question, then, arises, What would be practical legislation in the matter? This, in turn, involves an inquiry into the latent causes of the great commotion raised within this generation on the subject. It will be fresh in the memory of reading people in the United States that some two years ago one of our ablest metropolitan journals employed an agent to purchase samples of every possibly adulterable commodity from the most reputable venders in that city, drugs of the same description from the most respectable apothecaries—in short, specimens of everything on sale that was capable of deterioration by admixture of foreign substances; and that, on handing them over to a competent chemist for analysis, there was not a single instance of an article so purchased and tested that was not found adulterated to the last extent. All, without exception, whether articles of food, drink, medicine, or products of the arts and manufactures, were debased and corrupted—always, of course, with an inferior and cheaper, frequently with an absolutely injurious, and in some instances with a poisonous, admixture. The exposure occupied the columns of the paper referred to for some two weeks, and was then discontinued; not, however, without leaving food for reflection in the minds of the thoughtful. Now, when we consider the still greater temptation, the patent feasibility, and the larger gains resulting from adulteration of the various liquors, owing to the many hands through which they must and do pass before reaching their consumers, and the almost total impossibility, as things are, of detection, we shall have strong reason à priori to believe that such adulteration takes place. But we have before us at this moment a book of some two hundred pages, entitled the Bar-keeper’s Manual, in which the facts are laid down, the method explained, the ingredients unblushingly named, the manipulations described, and a clear reason thus afforded why the use of liquors nowadays is so ruinous to health, so productive of hitherto comparatively unknown forms of disease, and has become in this century especially such a crying abomination. In this book (which forcibly recalls to our mind an advertisement for “a man in a liquor store” that we once saw, and which wound up by stating that no one need apply who did not understand “doctoring” liquors) recipes are given for making from common whiskey any kind of gin, brandy, rum, arrack, kirschwasser, absinthe, etc., as well as any other desired brand of whiskey; together with full directions for mixing, diluting, coloring, adding strength, bead, and fruitiness, as well as for flavoring them each up to the required mark. When we find among the ingredients recommended (and evidently used, as the result of experience in this diabolical laboratory) nux vomica, cocculus indicus, strychnia, henbane, poppy-seed, creosote, and logwood, to impart strength to the false liquor, we need not inquire after the thousand other less pernicious articles used to supply color, odor, or bead to the noxious compounds. Now, from conversations held with persons who have been engaged in the liquor business in its various forms, as well as from reliable information long since spread before the public, but to quote which in extenso would occupy too much space, we may generalize these facts, which we take to be not only undisputed but indisputable; viz., that wines never, and brandies, gins, etc., rarely, reach our shores in their pure state; that the same assertion is true of every imported liquor; that the subsequent adulteration is something fearful to contemplate; and that the advocates of prohibitory laws are talking within bounds when they call such preparations poisons. We may further learn that rarely indeed do our home-manufactured liquors pass in a pure state into the hands of the first purchaser; and that, after they have passed through two or three subsequent hands, whatever they may have become, they are anything in the world but pure liquors. By the time, then, that they reach the small groceries, drinking-shops, doggeries, and the lowest classes of saloons, all liquors will, on an average, have passed through at least seven or eight hands, each man quite as eager as the last to make all the gain he possibly can upon the article; and adulteration (he has the Manual before him) presenting the safest and easiest plan, it follows that the laborer or artisan, those whose poverty forces them to frequent the lowest and meanest places, will be supplied with the most villanous article possible to be conceived under the name of liquor. Mr. Greenwood, in his work, The Seven Plagues of London, says:
“Where there is no pure liquor—and there is little such in London, even for the wealthy—perhaps nothing used by man as a stimulant is liable to greater and more injurious adulterations than gin; and I assert that it is not to-day to be procured pure (I speak not of merely injurious but) of absolutely poisonous drugs at a single shop in London to which a poor man would go or where he would be served.”
Mr. Nathaniel Curtis, the founder and first Worthy Chief of the Order of Good Templars, has (though his deductions from the facts are entirely different from ours) made it abundantly evident that the adulteration of all liquors, fermented, vinous, and ardent, is carried on in a most reckless manner and without regard to consequences in our own country. His words are:
“From the tramp’s glass of beer, through the sot’s glass of rum, jorum of whiskey, or pull of gin, up to the merchant’s madeira or sherry and the millionaire’s goblet of champagne, we have shown them all to be, not what the drinker supposes—and that were bad enough in all conscience—but universally drugged, most frequently poisoned, and not in one case of ten thousand containing more than a small percentage of the article the purchaser paid for.”
We might multiply authorities, chemical, medical, and purely statistic, on this subject to an indefinite extent, but it would occupy too much space; besides which, reading men are already sufficiently convinced of the facts. Within the last few years such a mass of damning evidence has been put before the public on this subject that the man must be wilfully blind who does not admit adulteration of the most injurious sort to be the rule in all the various branches and phases of the liquor-traffic. One quotation, however, we must make from the pages of the Dublin Review, July, 1870, article “Protestant London,” in which the writer suggests something very like our own view, though he seems to have an idea that the wholesale adulteration was, in England, confined to fermented liquors, which is indeed a grave mistake, whether as regards England, Scotland, Ireland, Denmark, or in fact any of the countries peculiarly afflicted by this demon of drink. The writer says:
“Yet the effects of beer in England are confessedly far worse than those of wine in France. We believe the real explanation of this to be its adulteration. It is by drinking, at first in moderation, adulterated beer that the habit of intoxication becomes a slavery, by which men are afterwards led on to the abuse of gin. There are at this moment thousands of habitual drunkards among us who would never have been drunkards at all, had they not been betrayed into the snare by drinking in moderation adulterated beer—that is, if the beer sold in public-houses were not universally adulterated. This evil, at least, law well administered might meet and uproot. Government should not allow men both to cheat and poison their neighbors with impunity.”
It is, then, not at all surprising that mania a potu, delirium tremens, and other disorders arising from the abuse of good or the use of drugged liquor should have become so common in this country as to furnish a good or, at any rate, a plausible reason why many conscientious persons have attributed to the use of liquor effects due, either solely or in great measure, to the stupefying and poisonous decoctions vended under that name. But while this would have been, at all times as it is now, an excellent and an all-sufficient reason for trying to induce people to refrain, whether by pledge or otherwise, from such infernal compounds, and for having analysts appointed by law to examine and test the liquors sold in every tavern, we insist that it is no argument at all for doing away by law with the use of liquor in toto. We believe sincerely that no single measure (that can be carried out) would do more to lessen the national curse of drunkenness than the appointment of competent chemists to see to the purity of the liquors vended. And, considering the advanced state of chemical science among us, is it absurd to suppose, that if the government were determined that so it should be, the selling of adulterated liquor might not easily be made so dangerous a trade as to be very soon given over? It is lamentable that people are so eager for gain that they will and do adulterate everything capable of the process. Physicians tell us that it is nearly impossible to get at the ordinary drug-stores any of the higher-priced medicines in their pure state; that opium, quinine, etc., are nearly always impure, mixed with foreign ingredients; and that, for this reason, their prescriptions often fail of the intended effect. This, certainly, is no good reason for enacting a law to abolish entirely the use of adulterable drugs; nor because tea, coffee, sugar, tobacco, mace, mustard, and pepper are rarely found pure should we therefore abandon their use altogether.
Here, of course, it will be contended that the cases are not parallel; that whereas the abuse of liquor, or the use of the drugged article going by that name, renders man like the brute, degrades and obliterates the image of God in us, yet such is not the case with the adulterated commodities of food or with the drugs referred to. True, the analogy does not hold equally good throughout in each case, but the principle is exactly the same in all. We will go further, admitting that liquor is in very few cases an absolute necessity; but what a large number of mankind regard it as of prime importance to their well-being, to their comfort, or, finally, to their enjoyment! How few of the great mass of humanity, on the other hand, are of that unfortunate constitution of mind, of body, or of both that they cannot restrain themselves within the bounds of moderation in the use of liquor vinous or fermented! Suppose even that the passage of a prohibitory law by the majority were consonant with church and Scriptural teachings, would it be fair or reasonable that for the lamentable weakness of the very few the comfort and enjoyment of the vast mass of humanity should be lightly set aside as an unconsidered trifle? That Anglican bishop who said he “would rather see England free than England sober” expressed a noble sentiment, and we think, with him, that enforced sobriety (as would be that produced by such a law) would be dearly purchased at the expense of virtual slavery. Some one pithily condemns that false system of morality that begins by pledges of total abstinence, but the falsity of such a scheme is trifling compared with that which would invite us to come and admire a nation sober, enforcedly sober, de par la loi! As well ask us to applaud the sobriety of the convicts in the penitentiary. We are not placed in the world to be free from temptation, but to resist it. All theologians assure us that this is a state of probation, nor is it the business of the civil code either to abolish property lest many may steal, or to suppress the manufacture of liquor lest some shame themselves and sin against God by getting drunk. Again, if you begin this business, where is it to end? Human beings are very full of kinks and crotchets. Each half-century is sure to have its peculiar vagary. What may not be that of the next one? King James considered tobacco as a direct emanation from the devil; and John Wesley was no whit behind him either in the belief or its expression. It is certainly quite as unnecessary, quite as much an article de pur luxe, as beer, wine, or spirits. Who is bail to me that, the principle once established of suppressing human nature by act of Congress, future Good Templars, prospective Rechabites, Sons of Temperance yet to come, nay, the whole Methodistic fraternity, may not revivify the views of Wesley and thunder anathemas against Yaras, Fine-cut, and Cavendish? Or there may arise an expounder of Scripture who shall deduce thence a system of vegetarianism (quite as unlikely doctrines and practices have been deduced from Holy Writ) to his own satisfaction and that of crowds greater than wait on the ministrations of our latest evangelists. Of course then, marshalled to victory by the “Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals,” they will soon have a law enacted forbidding to us all beefsteak or mutton-chop! There is, in short, no end to the antics and absurdities that may, nay, that must, arise under the ægis of such a precedent as this law would furnish. We, for our part, fully believe in rendering to Cæsar what belongs to him; but it is the province of the church, representing God upon earth—of religion, in other words—so to dispose man as to enable him to withstand temptation to sin and crime; and the business of the civil power to punish him for offences committed, not to remove all temptation to wrongdoing. In short, the law is not held to an impossibility, which this would plainly be, unless the world were made a tabula rasa. The assumption, therefore, by the civil law, of the divinely-conferred duty and prerogative of the church would, in any case, be a usurpation, were it even practicable. We shall see that in the case before us, at least, it would be purely impossible to carry out the legal mandate by all the power of the government, were it multiplied a hundred-fold.
The heavy tariff on foreign, and the large internal revenue tax on domestic, liquors, necessitated by our civil war, have also been a great inducement to the adulteration of spirits, as well as to the advance of that already too wide-spread practice of cheating the government in matter of revenue, now so common as hardly to be regarded in the light of a moral wrong. Howsoever it may have come about, the fact is that the tone of political morality with us is about as low as it has ever been in any country that the sun shines on. From the Stocking & Leet trial, through the troubles of Tammany’s magnates and the charges of complicity with smugglers pending against some of our most prominent mercantile firms, down to the “crooked whiskey” cases of to-day, as well as the constantly-bandied and the sometimes thoroughly proven charges of bribery against our most highly-placed public men, we see everywhere either a desperate resolution to evade all law, or a serene belief that deception and the withholding of tax and tariff legally due cease to be cheating and swindling when the government is the party of the second part. It is now clearly made out that, since the laying on of high duties and revenue tax, it has cost our government an average of three dollars to collect every two dollars received from that source in the public treasury; while as to the amount of which the government is annually defrauded, no calculation other than an approximate one can, of course, be made, but those whose position gives them the best chance to form an accurate judgment place the yearly sum at the minimum of $80,000,000. Before our late war we had a federal treasury ever full. Indeed, but a very short time before that dismal experience the general government distributed a large surplus among the States; our treasury notes were always above par, and our simple government bonds at high premium. With the advent of war came the necessity for raising a large and an immediate revenue. Taxation, direct and indirect, was resorted to, the like of which has rarely (if ever) been known in civilized countries. Paper money, redeemable at the pleasure of the government, was issued. Gold and silver entirely disappeared. An army of internal revenue officers had to be created, and a supplementary host of detectives to ferret out infractions of the new-made laws. The tax on common whiskey was placed at two dollars and fifty cents per gallon, and corresponding sums on foreign liquors; Cognac, for example, being rated at seven dollars per gallon. Our people were not accustomed to, and did not like, taxation; and the government neither knew how to suggest, nor its officials how to carry out honestly and skilfully, any well-devised plans for the collection of revenue on such a gigantic scale. Here there was a strong inducement at once both to the illicit manufacture and to the increased adulteration of liquors, the latter of which (though existing too largely before) took, from that time, large strides in advance, and both have uninterruptedly continued their progress till the present day, threatening (unless most stringent measures be taken for their repression) to ruin our country, morally, and a large number of her citizens temporally and eternally. It is true that the tax on home-manufactured spirits was largely cut down in 1870, and that on foreign wines and liquors heavily curtailed; but those at all acquainted with the subject know how little this step, taken after eight years of the reverse practice, was likely to interfere with clandestine manufacture, and how immensely it tended to give a superadded impetus to the practice of adulteration. Our internal revenue officers are now legion, yet they do not collect one-half of the revenue that should be collected; and of that one-half not more than two-fifths inures to the benefit of the treasury. Our detectives swarm everywhere, yet illicit distillation and poisonous adulteration of liquors are on a very rapid increase. Now, a very large number of people, learned and lay, rich and poor, of practical experience in the use of liquor, and deriving their information from the experience of others, or from reading, are strongly of the opinion that the best and most practicable mode of decreasing actual drunkenness, and of mitigating or diminishing the acknowledged evils of drink, would be the furnishing of pure liquors instead of the noxious compounds now on sale. Certainly, to put the matter in the mildest terms, there prevails a very extensive belief, founded, we think, upon good reason, that if pure liquors alone were sold drunkenness would not prevail as it now does. It is not contended that intoxication would thereby be done away with, any more than that the most skilful devices can ever entirely prevent theft, forgery, murder, or other crime; but we insist that the tendency to drunkenness, now so inseparable (as experience shows) from the use of the drugged article, would not exist in a tithe of the instances nor to a hundredth part of the extent that we daily see. Certain it is that in the last century, and until adulteration began to prevail extensively in the present, the terrific effects of liquor-drinking now known to us, under so many different names and forms of disease, did not present themselves with any frequency; and it is equally certain that just in proportion to the universality of adulteration has been the commonness and virulence of mania and delirium resulting from drink. We have said that stringent measures should be taken to guard the interests of the comparatively helpless consumers, so that they may have some reasonable ground for believing that in taking a glass of ale or beer they have not imbibed a dose of cocculus indicus, that a drink of whiskey does not of necessity imply an undefined amount of nux vomica, or that the symptoms resultant from a mixture of brandy and water at dinner are not due to strychnia or creosote. We found it much easier during the war to raise prices on account of the enhanced value of gold than it has since proved to diminish them in accordance with the approximation of greenbacks to coin. So, too, in this matter of suppressing adulteration of drink (which is the remedy we propose, and which will be just so far valuable as it is thorough and uncompromising, while comparatively useless unless rigidly and strenuously carried out), we have called into play a practice, we have evoked a demon, which is not to be abolished or banished by feeble instrumentality. We shall illustrate what may be done here in our own country by what has been successfully accomplished in Sweden (a country in which drunkenness and its attendant evils had attained a magnitude beyond, perhaps, any other of Europe); nor can we do it better than by the following account taken from Dr. Carnegie’s late book, entitled The License Laws of Sweden:
“In the town of Gothenburg, however, these measures (prohibitory laws), partly from local reasons, were not found sufficiently restrictive; and a committee, appointed in 1865, readily traced a concurrent progress between the increasing pauperism and the increasing drink. The laws were evaded, the police set at naught, and nothing remained but to inaugurate a radically new system. This consisted of various measures, all subordinate to one great principle—viz., that no individual, either as proprietor or manager, under a public-house license, should derive any gain from the sale of liquor. To carry out this principle in its integrity the whole liquor-traffic of the town was gradually transferred to a company, limited, consisting of the most highly respected gentlemen of the town, who undertook, by their charter, to carry on the business in the interests of temperance and morality, and neither to derive any profit from it themselves nor to allow any person acting under them to do so. The company now rent all the houses and licenses from the town, paying a moderate interest on the capital invested, and making over the entire profits of the trade to the town treasury. The places for drink—the number of which was immediately curtailed—are of two classes, public-houses and retail shops, both bound to purchase their wine and spirits (analyzed and authoritatively pronounced pure) from the company, to sell them without any profit, to supply good food and hot meals on the premises, and not to sell Swedish brandy except at meals. The public-houses are managed by carefully-chosen men, who derive their profits from the sale of malt liquors (also analyzed before being put on sale), coffee, tea, soda and seltzer water, cigars, etc., and from the food and lodgings. The retail shops are managed entirely by women, who have a fixed salary but no share in the profits. This system began to work in October, 1865. Its effects have been at once perceptible. In 1864 the number of fines paid in Gothenburg for drunkenness was 2,164; in 1870, with a largely increased population, 1,416. Cases of delirium tremens in 1864 were 118; in 1868 but 54. Nor are the financial effects less encouraging. In 1872 the company realized in net profits no less than £15,846, which, being paid over to the town, far more than covers the entire poor-rate. Another pleasant fact is that this large amount of trade is virtually carried on without any paid-up capital, the whole outlay of the company having only amounted to £454.”
It is interesting to learn from the same authority whence the above extract is taken that whilst the consumption of liquor in Sweden is still enormous, it has been reduced (mainly owing to the care exercised in testing its purity, and partially, also, to well-regulated restriction) from ten gallons per head throughout the kingdom in 1860 to about two gallons in 1870, which is about the same proportion as in Scotland at present; and that the universal testimony of the Swedish philanthropists, far from favoring absolute prohibition, looks rather to purity of liquor, conjoined with moderate restriction, and finds the results eminently satisfactory. But while we point to their experience, as well as to common sense, right reason, the practice both of the ancient and modern world till the beginning of this agitation of a factitious temperance; while we invoke the teachings of Scripture for those who profess to be guided in matters of morals and doctrine by that, and by that alone, and appeal to the constant practice and to the authority of the church, which should, with Catholics, be paramount to all other considerations, yet we are painfully aware that to produce conviction in the minds of extremists is a task that no logic can accomplish. It is, like the cure of the vice itself which gives occasion for this article, only to be accomplished by the grace of God. The English-speaking world—the most enterprising and energetic portion of the human race—occupying, for the most part, regions which suggest toiling and striving physically and mentally so as, in the opinion of many of them, to necessitate an occasional resort to alcoholic stimulants, have used these liquors largely, we will say too largely, if you please. Other shrewd and unscrupulous Anglo-Saxons have stepped in and poisoned, for gain, the cup which they thought one of refreshment. Death and disease, drunkenness and dipsomania, have been so long and so frequently the result that the attention of the public is imperatively called to it. “Take the pledge,” says one; “that will settle the matter”—forgetting that without the help of God no pledge is of any account, and that with his grace no pledge is needed. “Join the order,” bawls another; “here you find the sovereign panacea for drink”—oblivious of the fact that these secret institutions are never permanent, rarely at peace within themselves, constantly shifting in views and practice, and that in joining them the neophyte simply takes as many masters as there are members, exchanging the slavery to drink for one still more galling and quite as sinful. “No license to sell less than a quart,” says yet another. The quart is soon disposed of, and many another quart and gallon go the same road. “Sell no liquor, open no drinking-house on Sunday,” screams a full-throated chorus of religionists. This, too, is tried, and the poor man, obliged to choose between entire dulness and intoxication, prepares himself on Saturday night for a Sunday’s drinking bout. “No license less than three hundred dollars,” suggest the cannie property-holders; and, presto! higher adulteration; more poison in the drink; a higher rate per glass, it may be, but not a tippling-shop less in country or city. “No license at all,” is the next cry. It is tried; adulteration becomes still more barefaced, but the same amount of drinking is done, it can hardly be said clandestinely, for it is done in the face of day, and everybody knows or may know of it. Macrae’s America tells us that when an investigation was instituted into the workings of the prohibitory or no-license system in Boston, there were found to be in that city over two thousand places where liquor was vended by the glass, and that the average annual amount spent per head (men, women, and children included) for liquor in the entire State was a little over ten dollars. “We’re all for the Maine Law here,” said a man to Mr. Macrae, “but we’re agin its enforcement.” It may here be stated once for all, without possibility of successful contradiction, that not one of these laws, whether for Sunday-closing, higher license, no license, partial license, or entire prohibition, ever was carried out, or ever had any other effect than possibly to add to the cost, and certainly to enlarge illicit distillation and set an enhanced premium on the adulteration of liquors.
Quicquid delirant reges, plectuntur Achivi!
Maine was obliged, after a few years’ trial, to abrogate her prohibitory law; and the most ardent favorers of local option, which has now had a full and fair trial in many States, confess it a failure. Our own experience of it is that drunkenness is nowhere so rife as in the midst of those very regions where no license is granted and entirely prohibitory laws are supposed to prevail; and there is surplusage of testimony to the facts.
Strange, certainly, it seems to us, that among the various modes, some plausible and some supremely silly, that have been proposed and acted upon with a view of checking the ravages of intemperance, so few should have suggested, and none should have acted upon the idea of trying, what might be the possible effect of pure liquor. Common sense should have at once suggested it, and a portion of the redundant and exuberant philanthropy of the age might have been well, at least harmlessly, employed in making an experiment which could in no case have worked disastrously, as all those plans have done which familiarize the people with systematized violation of law, to gratify the morbid craving for those poisons the use of which, growing with every indulgence, soon leaves the victim incapable of resisting the craving that never abandons him but with life. Most people, however, once fairly inoculated with the views of the temperance societies (we refer to the secret institutions under that name), see everything but from one point of view; the vision becomes jaundiced, prejudice carries the day, argument is of no avail, moderate measures are futile, liquor in any shape, alcohol in any quantity, are the accursed thing, and those who deal in them, nay, those who see no objection to their use, are Amalekites. What to them are the vested interests of the eight hundred thousand persons engaged in the manufacture and sale of liquor in the United States alone? What the employment of hundreds of thousands engaged in its transportation? What care they about the wives and families of either? It is of no sort of consequence to them that over sixty million dollars accrue to the federal treasury, even under the present extremely defective system of collection, from the tax on domestic liquors; half as much more from the tariff on foreign wines and spirits; and that the amounts paid for municipal, county, State, and federal purposes, by license on liquor-selling and drinking-houses, are simply incalculable. As well plant and try to cultivate the sands from high-water mark to ebb-tide as attempt to reason with such people! They are the communists of our country, the impracticables, the men of one idea, and that idea a wrong one. We would much like to be able to reach them, to be able to make them hear the words of genuine truth and soberness; but they are “joined to their idols,” as Ephraim of old; the doctrines of the “lodge,” the rulings of the W. Patriarch, W. Chief Templar (or whatever else may be the name of the presiding Grand Mogul), are of more avail to them than all the philosophy and all the logic of ancient and modern times. What are the Fathers of the church to the Rev. Boanerges Blunderbuss, at Brimstone Corner, who explains to the satisfaction of his hearers that wine, “which cheers the heart of God and of man,” is but the unfermented juice of the grape, and that our Saviour, at his last supper, squeezed out some three or four clusters of grapes into the goblet whence he and his disciples drank? Talk to one of these people about the desirableness of some regard for the habits and customs of the multitudes in this wide world who use wine and spirits without abusing them; he regards you with a withering contempt for your ignorance, and informs you that they are all drunkards and must be reformed; that if five glasses of wine make a man drunk, one-half of a glass must make him one-tenth part drunk; that liquor is never necessary, even in disease as a remedy; that the Good Samaritan was really poisoning the poor fellow to whom he gave the wine; and he leaves on your mind the general impression that Solomon had yet a great deal to learn from Sons of Temperance and prohibitory-law men when he over-hastily recommended in his Proverbs to “give drink to the sorrowful.” Just as impracticable, though in a different way and for a different reason, is the man who has no sympathy for habits and needs which he never knew; who never had a generous impulse in his life; whose every act is based on cold reason and personal interest; who seldom or never took, and who never longed for, a glass of wine since his wedding-day; who has no sympathy for those differently situated in life or of different physiological diathesis. He has neither genuine sympathy for the unfortunate drunkard nor fellow-feeling for those who use liquor. Mistaking oftentimes his own plentiful surroundings for honesty, the want of temptation for temperance, and his own success in life for virtue, we need expect from him no other cry than “do away with the whole thing.”
Those poor degraded wretches at the other extreme of society who, from congenital inclination, bad surroundings, evil training, folly, disease, or the gnawing remorse engendered by failure in life, have fallen a prey to the accursed poisons sold as drink, their intellect shattered and their physical constitution prostrate, do not, we confess, deserve a very ardent sympathy from a community for which they have done little but harm. Still, that community was to blame that received money for licensing the houses that sold them narcotics instead of beer, henbane instead of wine, and liquid damnation for strong drink. It is, at least, a duty which we owe in future to all who can control themselves that, when they ask for bread, they shall not be furnished with a stone.
We are very anxious not to be misunderstood. This article is not intended to be either a recommendation of, or an excuse for, tippling habits, still less as an argument in favor of the drinking usages of the last century or of any other period distinguished for copious drinking. The personal habits and practice of the writer are opposed entirely to the use of wine, beer, or spirits. His profession does not render them necessary nor his taste crave them, and he would that in this one respect the world “were altogether such as” he is; but he cannot ignore the fact that all men are not so constituted physically, so situated in a worldly point of view, or mentally disposed in the same way. What all can clearly see is that a cry is being raised, an attempt being made, to add in a clandestine and illegitimate way something that shall in effect be tantamount to a precept, and that this something so foisted upon us is opposed to the practice of the church, consequently to the Scriptures. We see that this cry has become fashionable, a fear of being reckoned with the “vulgar herd” (for drunkenness is a vice of the vulgar) or a fear of giving offence causing many to be silent who should “cry aloud and not spare,” lest haply the harm may be done and it be too late for the remedy. Now, the whole clamor, save in so far as it inveighs against drunkenness, “the disgrace of man and the mother of misery,” proceeds on the false hypotheses, 1, that the Holy Scripture discountenances the moderate use of liquor; 2, that the church opposes it; 3, that the ancient philosophers condemned it; 4, that it is injurious in health; 5, that it is valueless as a remedy in sickness; and, 6, that prohibitory laws should be passed forthwith forbidding under penalty the manufacture, purchase, sale, or importation of wine, beer, or spirits. Not a single one of these assertions is true, or has about it the semblance of verisimilitude to any but the average brain of the secret-society affilié, or the fungus that stands in the place of a heart for the bigoted sectary. Were they every one true, we should still be opposed to the manner in which it is attempted to carry them into effect; fully believing, as we do, that the whole matter of personal reform lies within the domain of the church, upon which region the civil power has no right to trench. Of course the state has a perfect and undisputed right to tax wines, liquors, etc., like all other articles of luxury, to any extent she may deem advisable, either for revenue or repression of habits of expense among her citizens. But, inseparably bound up with this right, and as a corollary from it, it is the duty of the state to see that the article or articles for allowing the sale of which she receives revenue shall not injure, much less ruin, her citizens; and it is in the performance of this duty that we affirm government to have been totally remiss and delinquent. Had it been otherwise, and had the state been half as anxious to perform her duty as she has been always eager to claim her right, there never would have been the faintest plausibility in the cry raised; no agitation could have resulted; with her performance of the duty the clamor must, of necessity, cease, and with it those secret societies, so powerless for good, so potential for evil, that have been evoked by it.
There is, however, no limit in our age to the power of clap-trap, of a cry well started and persistently kept up. Back such a cry by the unremitting efforts of a few secret organizations, which demagogues well know how to use as a means of climbing into power, and superadd the influence of some of the sects, it deepens to a howl, and a careless or lethargic community is easily induced to believe that there must be some reason for the clamor; that what so many people say must be true; that where so much smoke exists there must have been a fire at some time; and, finally, that the object on which so many persons seem to have set their minds, to carry which so many are combined, must be a good one. From this point to supporting it with vote and influence the step is an easy one. Hence it is that, absurd as is the proposal of those who favor Congressional prohibitory laws touching liquor, we feel no certainty that its unreasonableness will prove a barrier to its being at some time put into effect. We have indicated previously that there exists, even among Catholics, who should know better, a lurking notion that in joining the T. B. A. or any of its congeners, they take a step forward in holiness, approach nearer to the imitation of the Saviour, and outstrip in piety those who remain outside the institution using (and able to enjoy without abusing) “the liberty wherewith Christ has made them free.” Now, this is false, and consequently is not Catholic doctrine or feeling. It is according to the doctrine of the church, with which the practice of Catholics must agree, that should the experience of any individual prove to him that total abstinence from drink is in his special case easier than moderation in its use, and that he ought, consequently, not to use liquor at all; and if, in addition, he is clearly of opinion that this, his proper course, is much facilitated by joining a Catholic temperance association, he has a clear right, nay, it is his duty, to attach himself to it. Further, should a Catholic have a friend, whom he can largely influence, who is becoming over-fond of drink, and whom he judges in conscience he can reclaim by taking with him the pledge of total abstinence, or by accompanying him into any of the Catholic associations got up and recommended for such purposes, the Catholic so doing acts nobly and performs a meritorious work, greater and more laudable just in proportion as he himself was further removed from temptation or danger of fall in the matter of drink. But it is not a bounden duty enjoined on every Catholic Christian to abstain entirely from liquor, much less to join a temperance society; and, except where it is done to save another, as in the case just presented, the Catholic so joining it is no more laudable, certainly, than he who stands aloof, using his God-given liberty in the matter.
While the church, like her divine Lord and Founder, has never forcibly interfered with man’s free-will, yet her entire history proves that her salutary influence has been exerted, and that, too, with the highest success, against every shape in which the sin of luxury has appeared. The Catholic countries of the world are not now, and they never have been, the drunken countries. Drunkards are not found to-day among those who frequent the tribunal of penance; and, with that consistency of action and oneness of doctrine which is found in no other existent institution, the church maintains that against the sin of drunkenness, as against all other forms of sin, there is no thoroughly effectual remedy but the frequentation of her sacraments. Pledges and associations, while sanctioned by her, are regarded as mere adminicula, tending to bring the sinner to the use of confession, the performance of enjoined penance, and the worthy reception of the Blessed Sacrament. Abstinence, whether for a time or for life, she looks upon as a work of perfection, of remedy, or of penance for the individual. The pledge, as administered by her, is neither oath nor vow, but either a resolution taken by one’s self in the presence of another, or at the utmost a solemn promise made to man. While more than fifteen hundred years ago the church anathematized the heresy of the Manicheans, who taught that spirituous liquors are not creatures of God, and that, as they are intrinsically evil, he who uses them is thereby guilty of sin, yet both before and after the rise of that detestable sect all the writings of her fathers and doctors, all the decrees of her synods and councils, all the decisions of her Supreme Pontiffs, and all the labor of her priests have been persistently directed towards teaching her members to “subdue the flesh with its affections and lusts.” How well she succeeded let her conquest to Christianity of the conquering northern barbarian hordes testify. Of these, whose temperament rendered them peculiarly inclined to debauch, whose habits by no means belied their inclinations, and whose besetting sin was drunkenness even after their conversion to the faith, she made sober nations. Acts of Parliament, municipal and other local measures, show us the huge strides toward unbounded intemperance in drink taken by the English people from the time when, in giving up the true church, they abandoned the sacrament of penance; while the same acts, and what we have had of so-called repressive law-tinkering on the same subject in our own country, show us the utter futility of any and every attempt by the civil law to render men moral by statute—to do God’s work without the help of the Omnipotent. Were it even possible for the state to succeed in carrying out the most stringent prohibitory or repressive laws that it ever entered the brain of the wildest or most narrow-minded fanatic to conceive, what would be the result? Simply that people would, like inmates of the work-house or penitentiary, endure privation without practising abstinence. The church of God takes no such ground; and the state can no more succeed in carrying out such measures than did Domitian with his sumptuary decree. Legislators forget what the church always bears carefully in mind and has always inculcated—viz., that drunkenness is the sin not of the drink but of the drunkard. The assertion that alcohol in any form is an emanation of the evil spirit, or the denial of the lawfulness of the use of liquor, is in itself just as much a heresy today as it was in the days of the Egkratites. But, that we may not overrun our limits in pursuing this branch of the subject, we refer such readers as may be anxious to see it fully and ably treated to the valuable little work entitled The Discipline of Drink, by Rev. T. E. Bridgett, C.SS.R.
It is not, however, from Catholic sources that the proposal emanates to cut off by legal enactment the supply of beer, wine, and spirits, which many people—indeed, the vast majority of the civilized inhabitants of the earth—deem necessary for their health, conducive to their comfort, or desirable for their enjoyment. Such schemes come from the Radicaux enragés; from those who addle their intellects by striving to decipher the mystic number of the Apocalyptic beast; from the men of the George Fox stripe, to whom a steeple-house is the unclean thing; always from men on whom the name of the Church of Rome operates as does the flaunting of a red rag by the picador on the bull in the amphitheatre of Seville; and, finally, from those who believe neither in this nor in anything else that man should hold sacred, but who see and seek in the secret societies, and in the agitation of this and similar questions, a stepping-stone to power and a means of gaining influence.
Were one to judge by the pamphlets and tracts written on the side of the prohibitionists, he would readily suppose that it is admitted on all hands by physicians and chemists that alcohol is of no use as a remedial or curative agent; that it is not food, is not life-sustaining; that no possible good can come out of Nazareth; that the unclean thing is altogether accursed, and should be relegated to the bottomless pit whence it sprang. And, that we may not overburden this article, we shall simply give the conclusion arrived at by a writer in the Edinburgh Review for July, 1875, entitled “The Physiological Influence of Alcohol,” in which the writer (himself a physician, whose yearning to find against us is evident throughout), after an able comparison and summing up of the cases, experiments, and arguments of Doctors Richardson, Thudichum, Dupré, Anstie, and other celebrated authorities, thus perorates:
“The inference is plain. The nutritious capability of alcohol, when used in appropriate circumstances and in reasonable quantity, is yet a matter of controversy, and a question which has yet to be further investigated and weighed by competent scientific authorities before any absolute judgment regarding it can be pronounced that shall be worthy of general acceptance.”
Those who feel any interest in this part of the subject would do well to read the entire article referred to, and we feel convinced that nine out of ten who do so will come to the conclusion, from the data given, that the able writer’s patent bias is what caused the very non-committal wording of his final dictum; while the same number will decide the large preponderance of proof to be in favor of the nutritive qualities of alcohol. We have failed to see in any of the “temperance” documents the remotest hint that there was anything at all to be said in favor of alcohol as an article of nutriment. Is this honest? These people must calculate largely on the gullibility of the public; but they should recollect, too, that the same public, when it once discovers their prevarication, is very ready to apply the proverb, Falsus in uno, etc.
The great Swedish chancellor, Oxenstierna, said to his son: “You do not yet know, my son, with how little wisdom the world is governed.” We are in this respect neither better nor worse off than other countries, with perhaps this exception: that our best citizens, those of largest experience and soundest judgment, are too self-respecting, too proud, to descend into the dirty arena of politics, a vast majority of such never having attended a primary meeting in their lives, and many, very many, rarely casting a vote. True, when corruption has run its course, when ring-rule becomes unendurable, this class will sometimes, as lately in New York, arouse itself. Now, the men of one idea, the canters (honest and dishonest), and the knaves are not so. They never miss an opportunity of propagating their views, and it would seem almost as though there were an intimate and necessary connection between the falsity or illiberality of the view and the pertinacity of its upholders in spreading it. Besides, they are not indifferent to, but they hate, broad and liberal views on any subject; they must gauge all humanity by their own instrument, which, while it suits the pint-pot, is but ill adapted to the hogshead. “Les idées générales sont toujours haïes par les idées partielles,” says a French writer to whom (while we by no means agree with him in everything) ability must be conceded. Should people ever have the power to do it—a contingency by no means unlikely in this century, in which the secret societies seem to hold “high carnival” (May a subsequent Lenten time purge the world of such foul humors!)—they will infallibly enact a penal prohibitory law. This will be accomplished by means of the already-organized associations, the oath-bound classes, the pledged abstainers, some of the sects, largely aided by the lethargy and carelessness of people who hold clearer and more correct views. It will be worse than useless to pass such laws, unless provision be made for stringently carrying into effect their details. Suppose that the prohibitory law proposed has been enacted and is vigorously enforced, and let us cursorily examine what is this Golden Age, this antedated millennium promised us so confidently by our over-temperate friends.
A blockade of coast will be necessary, to which the blockade of the Confederate territory during the late war will be as nothing, either for extent of coast to be guarded or for the numbers, ingenuity, and means at the command of the blockade-runners. The Canadian and Mexican borders will require cordons of sentries day and night, to furnish which one hundred armies such as we possess would be ridiculously inadequate. A government detective force of at least one-fourth our adult male population will have to be employed, organized, and paid; and not less than one-half of the remainder will soon be in prison for infraction or evasion of the law. Meanwhile, the revenues will have diminished by fully one-third, while the governmental expenses will have been tenfold increased. The hundreds of thousands who now make a livelihood for themselves and families by the manufacture, transport, and sale of beer, wines, or spirits must find other employment or join the already too numerous army of tramps; and in this case what becomes of the unfortunate families? If the laboring man finds it difficult to procure work now, what will it be then? Taxation must, of necessity, be decoupled; and meantime a large proportion of the population will have come to the conclusion that they are suffering under the most odious of all tyrannies, and will be ripe for revolution. The pretext will not be wanting in the details of carrying out the provisions of the law. This state of things might last, at the utmost, a year, during which insurrections would be of constant occurrence in every part of the country; outbreaks in the cities would take place day after day; and, finally, the minority, in revolution against what they considered an unjust and tyrannical edict, would carry the day either peacefully at the polls (by aggregating to themselves such of the majority as had become convinced of the absurdity of the law) or, sword in hand and at the mouth of the cannon, would revindicate to themselves the rights so wantonly trampled upon. The results of such a victory may be better imagined than described. History, fortunately, has but few examples of such revolutions against the extravagance of over-zealous reform, but those few are terrifically replete with warning.
We wish, then, to insist that no law at all is better by far than a law which, in its nature, cannot be carried into effect. That this is such a law we think manifest on the above showing; and did we wish further proof, it is readily found in the fact that all those communities, great or small, towns, counties, or states, that have tested this, or even much milder doses of similarly-intended laws, have been obliged either to abandon them after a longer or shorter trial, or to acknowledge their impotence to execute them, and to own that under such régime the evils deprecated become more virulent and drunkenness more rampant. Contempt, too, for the law, in one instance, has the inevitable tendency to sap the foundations of respect for all law, not merely in the mind of the drunkard but in that of the moderate drinker, as well as of those who abet them both in their violation of legal enactment. Meanwhile, the sensible man, the practical but unpledged total abstainer, cannot be expected to feel strongly interested in the success of a law which his judgment tells him to be merely an arbitrary enforcement, by a majority, of their views of morality on a minority entitled to their own ideas and practices in this matter alike by natural reason, Scriptural teaching, and church commands. “A nation is near destruction when regard for law has disappeared.”
Fully aware, as we are, that the arguments and deductions, the statements and quotations, contained in this paper are far from being in accord with the oral and printed teachings most in vogue and most palatable to the reading public, and much as we might desire to be on the popular side, still we are not prepared, for the attainment of this end, to sacrifice our convictions of right, to ignore the experience of the past, to turn a deaf ear to the teachings of the church, or to superadd to her commands practices in morals that she knows not. We cannot undertake to find in Scripture injunctions that do not exist; still less are we willing to lie supine when erroneous views are stealthily creeping in (even amongst ourselves), are sedulously promulgated over the length and breadth of the non-Catholic world, and when the attempt is making to enforce even desirable practices in morals and personal discipline by false arguments and means that will not stand the test of right reason. Let us review the ground and gather together the results.
The use of intoxicating liquor or strong drink has been known in all countries and from the earliest times; drunkenness must have been and was equally well known. In no system, even of heathenism, has intoxication been recommended; and in none, save that of Mohammed, has abstinence from liquor been enjoined. The Old and New Testaments, while teeming with allusions to the use of wine and strong drink, nowhere lay down any precept forbidding their use, but frequently by the clearest implication, and in a few instances by express injunction, command the use of both; and the manufacture of wine must, by the institution of our Blessed Saviour, be kept up so long as the world shall exist. There is no proof for the assertion, that alcohol is not food, and less for the averment that it has no efficacy as a remedial agent. The taste for liquor is a natural one and inherent to all men, but probably stronger and more necessary of gratification among hard-working men, and in damp or cold climates, than in the case of sedentary persons or in mild and hot countries. It is not the province of civil government to remove temptation to the infraction of the moral law; its province is to keep order and to punish infractions of law. To pass a series of totally prohibitory laws would be to attempt the legal suppression of human nature; which being impossible, such legislation must be absurd. There are great evils in the present management of the liquor-traffic, chiefly arising from the wholesale adulterations with poisonous drugs everywhere largely practised, but most ruinously in the northern countries of Europe, in Canada, and in the United States. Were the traffic so taken in charge by governments or carefully-appointed companies that pure liquors only should be furnished for consumption, all profits from the sale accruing to government, the great mass of the evils (now justly complained of) in connection with the liquor trade would disappear, while at the same time an immense revenue would accrue to the federal or State treasury, as the case might be. If these prohibitory laws were passed, and carried out in their spirit, dreadful evils would be the result; and, finally, such laws never can be carried out at all, and, by consequence, it is not competent for government to enact them. The whole matter of intemperance comes purely within the domain of morals; religion alone can deal with it radically; and while the civil law should and must punish drunkenness, with the crimes resulting therefrom, it is to Christianity alone that we must look for the effectual reformation of the drunkard and prevention of his sin.
These are the arguments that present themselves to us against the enactment of what are called “prohibitory laws”; and we believe the suggestions above given, regarding the evils of the present liquor trade and the mode of ridding the world of those evils, to be in full consonance both with the facts and with common sense.
“Si quid novisti rectius istis. Candidus imperti; si non, his utere mecum.”
FRENCH PROVERBIAL SAYINGS.[48]
There is, in the French language, one peculiarity amongst others which only becomes perceptible to foreigners after a somewhat lengthened residence in France—namely, the frequent use of proverbial expressions of which the original meaning, as far as the speaker is concerned, is utterly lost.
For instance, a person grandly dressed out is said to be sur son trente et un; an old piece of furniture or of attire is vieux comme Hérode; again, il ne se foule pas la ratte means “he takes things easily”; prendre les jambes au cou is to go as fast as possible; and a person who speaks French badly is said to parler Français comme une vache Espagnole.
When the English-speaking races use expressions of this kind, there is in them almost always some recognized allusion, quotation, or, it may be, a quaint adaptation of the words of some well-known author, ancient or modern, or they point to some fact or tradition or popular notion. In French familiar conversation, however, there are numberless proverbial and popular sayings still in common use the sense of which has been lost for centuries. Comparatively few amongst those who use them know that they are expressions borrowed, it may be, from certain customs or from history or from literature; but usually the trace is lost, the connection broken, and the reason of their existence forgotten.
These proverbial expressions have, for the most part, been recently collected, and as far as possible accounted for, and their source and history, where not discovered, at least suggested, in an ingenious volume by M. Charles Rozan, in which he gives also certain popular words usually qualified as vulgar, but “whose fundamental meaning it is all the more acceptable to learn, from the fact of their not being yet admitted into the official dictionaries; since,” he adds, “it is intruders more especially whom we would question as to who they are, whence they come, and what they have done.”
In the present notice we have chiefly selected examples having a local, historical, or in some way characteristic interest, and, with one or two exceptions, we have left aside those taken from the drama, besides the numerous sayings, not by any means peculiar to France alone, which relate to classical antiquity, and which any one possessing a very moderate knowledge of ancient history and literature would at once understand.
Je m’en moque comme de l’an quarante is a saying which dates from the beginning of the eleventh century. There was at that period an extensive belief that the end of the world was at hand, and that the thousand years and more supposed to have been assigned by our Lord as the duration of his church on earth, and of society in general, were to expire in the year 40 of that century. Sinners were converted in crowds; many talked of turning hermit; but, once this redoubtable epoch was over, men changed their tone, and from that time to this the expression used in speaking of a thing which need inspire no alarm is: “I care no more for it than for the year forty!”
La beauté du Diable we should naturally suppose meant an appalling ugliness. It means nothing of the kind, but, on the contrary, that exceeding prettiness frequently noticeable in young girls between the ages of fourteen and nineteen, or thereabouts, which then passes away. This, the freshness of youthful beauty, seems to derive its name from the old proverb, The devil was handsome when he was young—namely, while he was yet an unfallen angel.
Ladies somewhat advanced in the debatable ground of life’s pilgrimage, when youth has made way for the nameless years of “a certain age,” are said to coiffer Sainte Catherine.
It was formerly the custom in France, as it still is in Spain and some parts of Italy, on particular festivals, to array in festal garments and headgear the statues of the saints. St. Catherine being the patroness of virgins, the care of her adornment was always entrusted to young girls. This charge, however agreeable and honorable at sixteen, might, nevertheless, not be desirable in perpetuity, and thus it came to be said of any middle-aged maiden: “She stays to coiffer St. Catherine.”
To speak French very badly, or with a bad accent, is called parler Français comme une vache Espagnole. The people inhabiting the Basque provinces obtain their name from the indigenous word vaso—mountain—which, when taken adjectively, is augmented by the final co, and thus becomes vasoco, and, by contraction, vasco—mountaineer. The French, knowing little enough of Spanish, said at first vacco, and then vacce. Thus, parler comme un vacce Espagnol meant at first to allude to the inhabitants of the Basque provinces of Spain, whose language still bears all the characteristics of a primitive tongue, and who have great difficulty in expressing themselves in French; but vacce, at a time when the Latin had left its traces everywhere, was said for vache, the peasants in many of the French provinces retaining it still. Thence arose the confusion which produced the senseless comparison, “to speak French like a Spanish cow.”
Attendez-moi sous l’orme (wait for me under the elm) implies that “the rendezvous you ask is disagreeable to me, and I will not keep it.” The type of an unpleasant rendezvous is that which compels an appearance before the judge, and it is to this that the expression here quoted originally referred. Formerly the judges administered justice under a tree planted in the open space before the church or the entrance of a seignorial mansion; hence the phrase of juges de dessous l’orme, and also that of danser sous l’orme. Attendez-moi sous l’orme means, Find me there if you can (ironically), and to name a rendezvous which one has no intention of keeping.[49]
Faire Charlemagne is to retire from the game after winning it, without giving the adversary a chance of revenge. This expression evidently alludes to the death of the great Charles, who, when he had become the monarch of the West, quitted this life without having lost any of his conquests.
To make unlawful profits by deceiving as to the price of any articles a person has been charged to buy is called “shoeing the mule” (Ferrer la mule). The expression dates from the time when the counsellors of the Parliament repaired to the Palais de Justice mounted on mules, and the lackeys who remained outside during the sittings of the Assembly spent their time in gambling, extorting from their masters the money they wanted for their amusement by pretending that they had had to pay for shoeing the mules. Others carry the origin of the saying back to the time of Vespasian; the muleteer of that emperor, when on a journey, having been bribed to do so, suddenly stopped the mules under pretext of having them shod, so as to give time to a person whom they had met on the way to speak to the emperor of his affairs.
Faire danser l’anse du panier is said of a cook who fraudulently obtains from her mistress more money for her purchases at market than they have really cost. The idea is that of shaking the basket so as to make its contents take up as much room as possible, and thus look worth their alleged price.
Connaître les êtres de la maison is to know the doors, staircases, passages, rooms, outlets, etc.—in a word, the internal arrangements—of the house. Êtres, which for a long time was written aîtres, has for its origin the Latin atria, in the sense of dwelling.
Je l’ai connu poirier is said of a parvenu whose sudden rise from a mean condition has not earned him much consideration. There was in a village near Brussels an image of St. John, black and worm-eaten with age, and held in great veneration by the people. M. le Curé, thinking it time to replace it by a new one, sacrificed his best pear-tree for that purpose. One of his parishioners, who had shown great veneration for the ancient statue, took no notice whatever of the new one. “Have you lost your devotion to St. John?” the curé one day asked him. “No, M. le Curé; but the new St. John is not the real one—I knew him when he was a pear-tree.”
The expression of Cordon Bleu is a singular example of the degradation of an aristocratic word, and we discover its ancestry with the same feeling that we once received the answer of a poor mason’s apprentice, who, on being asked his name, gave as his Christian and surname those of two of the oldest and noblest families in the county of Devon.
To the Order of the Holy Ghost, instituted in 1578 by Henri III., not every one could aspire. It consisted of only one hundred members, at the head of whom, as grand master, was the king.[50] The Dauphin, the sons and grandsons of the monarch, knights by right, were, as well as the princes of the blood, received at the time of their First Communion. Foreign princes were not admitted before the age of twenty-five; dukes and other nobles of high rank not until thirty-five; and in all cases none was allowed to enter who could not trace back at least three generations of nobility on the father’s side. The cord to which the symbol of the order was attached was blue, and the knights themselves were commonly designated Cordons Bleus.
The distinction being reserved to only a small number of persons of the highest rank, it gradually became customary to give the name of cordon bleu to persons of superior merit. The Order of the Holy Ghost was abolished at the Revolution. All the dignities as well as all the ideas which had grouped themselves around this noble order have disappeared with it. Its name is no longer used in the figurative language of France to recall great merit or a distinguished name; the last memory of the order lingers in the kitchen, and the only cordon bleu of the nineteenth century is a good cook!
Those who have hard work and scant pay are wont to observe that they might just as well travailler pour le roi de Prusse. The kingdom of Prussia not having been a century and a half in existence, this expression cannot have an earlier origin. M. Rozan asks, therefore, which is it of the five Fredericks who thus puts in doubt the royal generosity? Some persons say that it is Frederick William I., constantly anxious to show himself economical of the property of his subjects, unlike his father, who was, according to the expression of Frederick the Great, “great in little things and little in great.” Either from what the one did not spend at all, or from what the other spent amiss, a conclusion might be drawn in the sense of the proverb. We incline, however, rather to charge upon the Great Frederick himself all the responsibility of the French reproach.
Frederick II. was fond of employing French workmen, but not quite so fond of paying them; and as no people know better than the French that noblesse oblige, it is no matter of surprise that he should have furnished them with a proverb. We also find an example of his sparing management in the conflict which arose between him and Voltaire (who was very economical also) about lumps of sugar and candle-ends. In the agreement he had made with the poet Frederick had promised him, besides the key of chamberlain and the Cross of Merit, the ordinary appointments of a minister of state—i.e., an apartment at the château, board, firing, two candles a day, and so many pounds of tea, sugar, coffee, and chocolate every month. These articles, though duly provided, were of such bad quality that Voltaire complained to the king. Frederick professed to be infinitely pained, and promised to give fresh orders. Were the orders given? In any case the provisions were as bad as ever, and Voltaire again remonstrated. The king got out of the affair with equal economy and cunning. “It is frightful,” he exclaimed, “to think how badly I am obeyed! I cannot hang those rascals for a lump of sugar or an ounce of tea; they know it, and laugh at my orders. But what most pains me is to see M. de Voltaire disturbed in his sublime ideas by small miseries like these. Ah! let us not waste upon mere trifles the moments that we can devote to friendship and the muses. Come, my dear friend, you can do without these little provisions. They occasion you cares unworthy of you; we will speak of them no more. I will command that for the future they shall be stopped.”
On another occasion Frederick was having a new front put to a Lutheran place of worship in Berlin. The ministers complained to the king that they had not light enough to carry on the service. The building, however, being too far advanced for his majesty to wish to incur the cost of alteration, he sent back their address, after writing upon it: “Blessed are they who see not, and yet believe.”
As a last proof of the just implication of the proverb, an English traveller, who does full justice to the eminent qualities of the monarch, says: “Never was there a fat soldier in any country; but the King of Prussia has not even a fat sergeant. A profound knowledge of financial economy is a point on which this sovereign excels. It is also a reason why his troops should never be otherwise than lean.”
This observer might have added that Frederick made it a rule never to allow his soldiers any pay on the 31st day of the month. There were thus seven days in the year on which the whole Prussian army travaillait pour le roi de Prusse.
Manger de la vache enragée is to suffer great privations, to procure with difficulty the merest necessaries of life, and so to be reduced, as it were, to “eat the flesh of a mad cow.” The expression has also come to mean the trials of every kind which, in the course of life, ought to strengthen the body to endure hardness and the mind to a habit of fortitude.
On entering upon a house or appartement in Paris it is customary to make a present of a few francs to the concierge, which present is called le dernier adieu. The newcomer, if a foreigner, wonders why the first dealings he has with the concierge of his new abode should be so singularly misnamed as “the last farewell.” The words are a corruption of the Denier à Dieu—God’s penny—the piece of money given to the person with whom a bargain was concluded, with the intention of taking God to witness that the engagement had been made, and of offering him a pledge that it should be faithfully kept. The sums thus given were bestowed by the receiver in alms to the poor, and were not appropriated, like the arrhes, a part payment of what was due to the person with whom an agreement had been made.
The lugubrious associations connected with the name of the melancholy building at the back of Notre Dame de Paris encourage the idea that the word morgue must relate to corpses, or in any case to death. M. Rozan disabuses us of the mistake.
There was formerly at the entrance of prisons a room where new arrivals were detained for a few days after committal, in order that the keepers might learn to know their faces and appearance sufficiently well to preclude any chance of their escape. Later on the corpses found in the Seine or elsewhere were exposed in this same room, the public being admitted to see them through a small aperture made in the door.
Until 1804 the corpses were exposed in the lower jail dependent on the prison of the Grand Châtelet, when they were transferred to the quay of the Marché Neuf in a small building which received the name of morgue, an old French word for face or visage, and used also to express a fixed or scrutinizing look. It is doubtless in the latter sense that we find the true meaning of the term.
Now that we have given a greatly abridged version of portions of M. Rozan’s work, we refer the reader for the remaining curious fragments of information scattered throughout its pages to the book itself. At the same time we venture a suggestion that in future editions it might be well if the author were, as far as practicable, to classify its contents under certain heads—such, for instance, as are dramatic, historic, local, or classic, etc., in their origin or allusion—so as to allow some continuity of ideas in its perusal, and to gather its at present scattered stones into a collection of mosaics.
Footnote 48:
Petites Ignorances de la Conversation. Par. Charles Rozan. Paris: Hetzler. 1877.
Footnote 49:
We may here mention that the finest elm in France is probably that in the court of the Deaf and Dumb Institution in the Rue St. Jacques in Paris. It is 50 metres in height and 5 in circumference, the last remaining of the 6,000 feet of trees planted under Henri IV. We mention this merely for the sake of our European readers, not for those accustomed to the sylvan giants of the Western world.
Footnote 50:
Henri III. instituted this order in memory of the three great events of his life which had happened on the Feast of Pentecost—namely, his birth, his election to the crown of Poland, and his accession to the throne of France.
THE HOME-RULE CANDIDATE. A STORY OF “NEW IRELAND.” CHAPTER IV. THE ELECTION.
BY THE AUTHOR OF “THE LITTLE CHAPEL AT MONAMULLIN,” “THE ROMANCE OF A PORTMANTEAU,” ETC., ETC.
I was received at Clonacooney with an enthusiasm that sent the hot blood surging through my veins in prideful throbs. At the entrance to the village I was presented with an address by a splendid specimen of the Irish race in the person of Myles Moriarty, a man who had been “out” in forty-eight, who, on the part of the tenant-farmers of Clonacooney, tendered me welcome and assurances of both moral and physical support.
“The dark hour is passin’ from the ould country, sir, and yours be the hand to wipe the tear from the cheek of Erin,” were his concluding words.
I must have spoken to the point, for I was cheered to the echo, and my right hand almost wrung from the arm by repeated shakings.
In Father O’Dowd’s garden a small platform had been raised, composed of the kitchen table, the safety of which Biddy Finnegan watched over with tender regard.
Around the little grass-plat some hundred of the “boys” were gathered, who bared their heads in respectful reverence when the good priest ascended the dais.
It is chiefly in Ireland that one sees the visible link that binds priests and people. The Irish peasant never forgets that he is in the presence of the Lord’s anointed, and the respect for the clergyman upon the hillside or wayside is the same as though he were clad in his vestments and upon the altar.
Father O’Dowd introduced me in a speech that burned into the minds of his auditory. It was full of fiery eloquence, full of patriotism, full of Catholicity. In dealing with the question of Home Rule he said: “Over a country agitated by dissension and weakened by mistrust we have raised the banner of Home Rule. We raised it hesitatingly, unfurling it tremblingly to the breeze; but the hearts of the people have been moved by the two small words, and the soul of the nation has felt their power and their spell. These words have passed from man to man along the valley and along the hillside. Everywhere our despairing sons have turned to that banner with confidence and hope. Thus far we have borne it. Upon these young and stalwart shoulders,” placing his arm affectionately around me, “we shall now place it, to be borne unto victory. It is meet that the representative of a stainless race, of a race that upheld their creed when its avowal led to the scaffold and gibbet, should go forth from among us young in years, high in hope, ardent in the cause of creed and country. We shall hand our banner into his youthful hands, and with him this trust shall be considered sacred. He will defend it, if necessary, with his life. The cause of the church will be his; the cause of the country will be his.”
When it came to my turn to speak a mist seemed to gather before my eyes and my head began to swim.
“Courage!” whispered Father O’Dowd. “Nos hæc novimus esse nihil.”
I plunged in medias res, floundering on, stumbling, staggering, repeating myself, till I felt all aflame, and as if my head were red-hot. Suddenly the idea smote me that I had Wynwood Melton to beat, and I became cool as ice. Yes, the transition was simply instantaneous, and with it came a flow of words such as have never welled from me since, save, perhaps, upon the day of the election.
I spoke for nearly an hour, and I subsequently recollected that I had discussed the entire political situation of Ireland, as I had done some years before in a debate at the Catholic University. Memory came gallantly to the rescue, and when I concluded Father O’Dowd cried enthusiastically:
“A born orator—nascitur, non fit. Now, boys,” addressing the tumultuous assemblage, “haven’t we got the right man, and won’t we put him in the right place?”
When I returned to Kilkenley I found that Mr. Melton had taken his departure.
“He is alive to the importance of an active canvass,” said Mr. Hawthorne, “and has repaired to the tents of his people. I am very sorry that the warning should come from me—a warning that may be of singular disservice to you.”
“I feel that I shall win.”
“My dear young friend, I felt that I would win, and discredited the returns that threw me overboard when I contested Fromsey. Do not let your feelings mislead you. Work as if expecting defeat, and as if endeavoring to reduce the majority against you. I’m an old campaigner and know the ropes.”
My mother was all eagerness to know how I had progressed. When I told her that I had made two speeches, one of them of an hour’s duration, her delight was boundless.
“You were lost, dear child,” she cried. “Your talents are of a high order, and you have at last found a field for them.”
Harry Welstone had attended a meeting at Ballynashaughragawn, and had held forth in my behalf, like a regular brick that he was. All my jealousy disappeared upon the mention of Melton, and Harry was again my confidant in everything.
“I don’t think she cares much for that fellow, Fred.”
“I tell you that they understand each other.” And I writhed in the agony of the thought.
“I think her governor is nibbling for Melton as a son-in-law, but there is no ring of the true metal about the girl’s feelings—nothing that I can detect; and I’m not utterly unobservant.”
I never felt that the gash in my heart was so deep until Miss Hawthorne referred to their leaving.
“Our time is up. We have overstayed our limit.”
“Surely you will not desert us until after the election,” said my mother. “You must celebrate his success, if success it is to be.”
“Oh! Miss Hawthorne is not interested in my success, mother,” I interposed.
She turned her violet eyes full upon me.
“Much more so than you give me credit for.”
“My non-success, you mean.”
“I do not mean it.”
“It is quite right that you should,” I said bitterly. “I have no claim upon your interest.”
“A very strong one, I assure you.”
“Melton’s the man,” assuming a savage gayety. “How jolly he will feel if he wins! how delighted to bear the news to his lady-love!”
“Does it not strike you, Mr. Ormonde, that your last observation is upon the borderland of—what shall I call it?”
“Truth,” I suggested.
She did not deign to reply to me, but, turning to my mother, expressed a fear that she should leave Kilkenley upon the following day.
“I will not hear of it,” said my mother stoutly.
There was one chance left, and that lay in inducing Mr. Hawthorne to stump the county with me. This scheme I confided to Harry, who highly approved of it. After dinner, when the ladies had returned to the drawing-room, Harry opened fire.
“Mr. Hawthorne, the people about here are exceedingly anxious to hear you speak. They have heard a good deal of your eloquence in Parliament, and have read some of your speeches.”
“I am not reported, sir. Those scoundrels in the press gallery ignore me because I defy them. Would you believe it, gentlemen, my speech upon the removal of a custom-house officer upon a charge of disloyalty to the throne and constitution, and which occupied two hours and a half in its delivery—I went into the question of customs generally, into those of foreign countries, into the national debt, into our relations with Japan, into the contracts for constructing ironclads—in fact, I grasped a series of subjects of the highest importance to the country; and would you believe it, Mr. Speaker—I mean gentlemen—the Times, although I saw that the reporter—yes, gentlemen, I watched him with an eagle eye—was present and apparently engaged in reporting me—the Times, I say, had the audacity to publish that the honorable member for Doodleshire uttered some irrelevant observations which were inaudible in the reporters’ gallery; and yet this unprincipled scoundrel pockets his pay, and reports the flimsy orations of other honorable members not one tithe of so much national importance as mine.” And trembling with anger, Mr. Hawthorne gulped down three glasses of claret in rapid succession.
“The Irish people,” continued Harry, “are the most rhetorical and oratorical in the world, and prefer a good speech to any known amusement except a wake. News of your presence here has gone far and wide, and I may tell you fairly that it is incumbent upon you to let them hear you.”
“I—ahem!—would be very pleased to do so, did a suitable opportunity present itself,” said the M.P. with a pleased smile.
“The opportunity luckily does present itself. On Thursday next our host here must attend a meeting of his constituents at Bohernacallan, and, if you were to accompany him and address the people, I assure you it will be regarded as a very considerable favor by the hundreds who will be assembled.”
“On Thursday next I shall be on my way to London.”
“Not a bit of it,” I chimed in.
“There is nothing to be done in London now, Mr. Hawthorne,” said Harry.
“My arrangements are all made, and nothing, sir, nothing could induce me to break them. I am a man of iron, adamant in such matters.”
I looked blankly at Harry, but Master Harry was still hopeful, as indicated by a dexterous half-wink while the M.P. was tossing off another glass of claret.
“I may tell you as a matter of fact, Mr. Hawthorne, that you are expected at this meeting.”
“It is very flattering, Mr. Welstone, but the meeting must stand disappointed in so far as I am concerned. No, gentlemen; in the House or outside of it, once I lay down a plan of operations, I never diverge from it by the distance of a single hair.”
Again I looked blankly at Harry, and again I met with a half-wink.
“That’s very unfortunate, Mr. Hawthorne, but I suppose it cannot be helped.”
“It cannot indeed, sir.”
“And reporters coming down from Dublin, too,” said Harry, addressing me.
“What is that you say, Mr. Welstone?” demanded the member of Doodleshire with considerable earnestness.
“Oh! it’s not worth repeating.”
“I think I heard you mention something about reporters?”
“Oh! yes; the Dublin newspapers are sending down special reporters, and the London Times’ correspondent is a reporter on the Daily Express.”
“Ahem!” And Mr. Hawthorne gravely produced a memorandum-book, which he proceeded to scan with apparent interest.
Harry gave me the full wink now.
“Oh dear me—ahem!” exclaimed the M.P. “I find that I need not be in London quite so soon, and if it obliges you, my dear Ormonde, I shall be glad to strike a blow in your aid. Did you say the Times’ correspondent will be there? Not that it makes the slightest difference to me; yet, belonging as I do to the great liberal party, and belonging as this election does to the great liberal party, I deem it a sacred duty to aid the great liberal party in so far as it lies in my power. Mr. Ormonde, rely upon me, sir.”
When later on I spoke with Harry on the question of deceiving my guest, especially as no reporters would be within fifty miles of us, “Don’t bother your head about it, Fred. Leave it all to me. I’ll get Tom Rafferty and the two O’Briens to come with big pencils and lots of paper, and tell them to write for their lives the whole time old Hawthorne is speaking. Everything is fair in love, war, and an election.”
* * * * *
The excitement in the county was intense as soon as the fact of my being in the field became known across its length and breadth. The De Ruthvens were furious, the head of the family, Mr. Beresford de Ruthven, honoring me with a personal visit, in order to ascertain whether I was in my senses or out of them.
“Am I to understand, Mr. Ormonde, that you are a candidate for the representation of this county?” he asked, after the usual ceremonial questions had been pushed aside.
“You are, Mr. De Ruthven.”
“That you have consented to be nominated by a rabble—to be—”
“I have been nominated by no rabble, Mr. De Ruthven.”
“You are the nominee of the priests.”
“I am, sir; but have a care how you speak of a Catholic clergyman in this house. You are not now at Ruthventown.” I was hot with anger.
“Do you want to break up the harmony that has existed for centuries in the county, Mr. Ormonde?”
“I want to see a liberal represent the county, and I am willing to give way to a better man.”
“Liberal! What liberality do you require? Do not the liberals have their share in everything?”
I had him now.
“How many liberals are there on the grand panel, Mr. De Ruthven?”
“Oh! I grant you that there has been mismanagement,” he hastily replied, “but we’ll see to that.”
“What liberality is it that leaves the roads approaching every Catholic church in a condition that would shame a backwoods clearing, while those near the meanest Protestant place of worship are cared for like the avenues in your own domain?”
“That shall be looked to.”
“Where is the liberality at the union boards, in the magistracy, in the county offices? Is there a single Catholic in any office whatever?”
“O Mr. Ormonde! I see you are primed and loaded, and must go off like a fifth-of-November cracker. Now, all I can say to you is this: that if you persist in this audacious attempt in breaking up the harmony of this great county, on your own head be the penalty; and let me add, sir, that when next you attend the assizes, do not be surprised if you are openly insulted.”
“And do not be surprised, Mr. De Ruthven, if the man who dares insult me is openly horse-whipped.”
Mr. De Ruthven, very much disgusted at my papistical audacity, took his leave, warning me, even when in his carriage, that I was certain of defeat, and equally certain of being put in Coventry.
My attempt to wrest the seat from the conservative party was regarded with the same interest as Mr. A. M. Sullivan’s daring effort to snatch Louth from the Right Honorable Chichester Fortescue—an effort that was crowned with such signal success. The cabinet minister and ex-Irish secretary, who was regarded as Mr. Gladstone’s official representative in Ireland, was deemed invulnerable in Louth, having sat for it for twenty-seven years. The government laughed to scorn the idea of disturbing him, but Mr. Sullivan polled two to one, and was carried in by such a weighty majority as virtually to close the county for ever and a day, as the children’s story-books say.
In my county the conservatives laughed my attempt to scorn, pooh-poohing my pretensions and ridiculing my supporters. My opponent made Ruthventown his headquarters, and from Ruthventown came forth his address. From Ruthventown also was issued a manifesto, or imperial ukase rather, commanding the tenants to vote for the De Ruthven candidate, while from every conservative landlord appeared a notice couched in similar dictatorial terms. To these counter-proclamations were scattered broadcast by my various committees throughout the country, calling upon Catholics to support a Catholic, upon Irishmen to support Home Rule.
Father O’Dowd was indefatigable, leaving Sir Boyle Roche’s bird simply nowhere, as he would appear to be in half a dozen different places at one and the same time. He lived upon his little outside-car, and the dead hours of the night saw him dashing through lonely glens, winding up steep mountain-sides, speeding through sleeping villages, all for the purpose of bringing the old faith to the front, and of rescuing representation from the clutches of the Orange clique, who had held it so long, to the prejudice of Catholicity and the shame of Catholics.
“We’ll shake off the yoke now or never!” was his constant cry. “Down with the De Ruthven ascendency! We’ll take their heels off our necks. We have suffered and endured too long and too patiently. We have allowed a little clique to govern a nation at their own sweet will. It is time for the people to assert themselves, to come to the front, to share in their own government. The hour is at hand, and the men.”
The county was ablaze. Meetings were held in every village, and my name was handed from townland to townland as a talisman. The most despicable coercive measures were adopted by the conservative landlords toward their tenants with reference to their votes, threats of eviction, of rent-raising, of persecution being openly resorted to.
“Make no promises, boys. Keep yourselves unpledged,” was the constant cry of Father O’Dowd. “Recollect that you have consciences and a country.”
At one meeting, whilst I was engaged in speaking—even now I feel astonished at my eloquence of that time—I was interrupted by some of the De Ruthven faction, who endeavored to hiss and hoot me down.
“Boys,” yelled a voice in the crowd, “there’s iligant bathing in Missis Moriarty’s pond below; they say it’s Boyne wather.” And ere I could interpose or take any step towards cooling the feverish excitement of my supporters, the luckless Ruthvenites were ruthlessly swept towards the dam in question, where in all human probability they would have been half-drowned had not Father O’Dowd rushed to the rescue.
“Are you mad, boys? Don’t touch a hair of their heads.”
“We want for to larn them manners, yer riverince; shure there’s no great harm in that.”
“If one of these vagabonds is ill-treated by you, they’ll unseat Mr. Ormonde on petition. You will not suffer, but Mr. Ormonde will. For Heaven’s sake, boys, don’t lay a finger on them.”
The announcement caused a general gloom.
“Never mind, boys,” shouted one of the crowd. “Shure if we can’t bate thim afore the election, we can knock sawdust out av thim whin it’s all over, an’ that’s a comfort anyhow.”
From every side promises of support came pouring in. The priests and people were working as one man, silently, swiftly, surely. The “hard word” had gone forth, and every parish was preparing its contingent. The hints and cajoleries of the other side were received in dignified silence—a silence which the ascendency party construed into assent. It was deemed utterly impossible that the tenantry could vote against the nominee of their landlords; and although these “slave-owners” received very significant warnings from their bailiffs, they could not and would not give heed to them.
My address was drawn up in a solemn committee composed of Father O’Dowd, Mr. Hawthorne, Mabel, my mother, and myself. I need not reproduce it here. It was Catholic and national, and when it went forth to the county it was received with universal enthusiasm. The opposite party stigmatized it as an “audacious document,” a “firebrand.” “Yes,” said the parish priest of Derrymaleena, “it is a firebrand, and one that lights the funeral pyre of the Orange party.”
I found Miss Hawthorne rewriting a copy of my address.
“I will save you the trouble, Miss Hawthorne,” I said bitterly, and Heaven knows my heart was at a dead ache, “and I will send a copy to Mr. Melton.”
She flushed, the hot blood mounting over her little ears. “You do me a cruel injustice, Mr. Ormonde,” she replied. “Read that!” contemptuously flinging me an open letter across the table.
“I do not wish to pry into Mr. Melton’s secrets.”
“That letter is not from Mr. Melton. I never received one from him in my life, nor do I care to receive one; but since you will not read this letter, you shall hear its contents.”
She read as follows in a pained voice:
MY DEAR MRS. ORMONDE:
As the coming man is so busy, and is probably at the other side of the county, I write to you to ask you to send me a copy of his address as soon as ever you can. We are all alive here, and Victory is within our grasp. Always yours,
PETER HEFFERNAN.
“Now, Mr. Ormonde, may I ask you if it was generous of you to—”
“Forgive me, Miss Hawthorne,” I exclaimed. “I—I do not know what I am doing, what I am saying. I am distracted—wretched.” I was silent. I dared go no further. The vision of Wynwood Melton cried check to the bounding thoughts that came surging from my heart.
“The evening of the 20th will find you in better form.”
I shook my head. The future was utterly dreary—one blank, sunless waste.
“You will win this election, Mr. Ormonde.”
I sighed deeply.
“A barren victory.”
“A barren victory!” she exclaimed with considerable animation. “Do you consider it a barren victory to beat the Carlton Club, the great conservative stronghold of England, whose every ukase is law—to beat the De Ruthven faction, who have held your beautiful county in subjection since the Pale?”
“A Dead-Sea apple. In winning this election I win your hatred.”
“My hatred?” opening her lovely violet eyes in delicious wonder.
“Yes, Miss Hawthorne; if I am elected I shall have beaten the man you love.”
She flushed again—a shower of rose-petals.
“There is not a more miserable being on the face of this earth than I am this moment, Miss Hawthorne. Were I not pledged in honor to this election, I would stand aside and let Mr. Melton win this stake, as he has won the higher stake—your heart.”
She was about to interrupt me, her lips tremulous, her hands in strong action.
“Hear me for one moment,” I cried, carried away in a rush of tumultuous feeling, every sense in a mad whirl. “I love you, Mabel—love you with a love that is more than love. I tried to hate you. In that vain attempt I resolved to bring sorrow to your heart, to glut my own desire for vengeance. It was jealous despair that led me into this conflict. It is possible I may not see you until the fight is over, perhaps never again; but, Mabel Hawthorne, my first, my last love, it may be sweet to you to know why this victory will be a barren one, why the hand that grasps the laurel will seize but dead ashes.” And without trusting myself even to glance at her, I rushed from the room, from the house, and was many miles on the road to Derrymaclury ere thoroughly aware of the fact.
* * * * *
I did not return to Kilkenley. I dreaded the fearful fascination of Mabel’s presence, and, now that I had declared my hopeless love, I did not care to meet her. It would be mean and shabby to hang about her, knowing she was never to be mine. It would be despicable, under the peculiar circumstances of the case, were I again to refer to Melton or the election. There was nothing for it but to remain at a distance. I recall the agonies of those few days with a shiver. The powerful excitement of the approaching contest was over-weighted by the dull gnawing at my heart. I was as one walking in a painful dream. In vain I plunged into the whirl of speech-making, canvassing, and all the absorbing surroundings of the election—truly in vain, for the one idea ever grimly tortured me, and the one hopeless thought ever perched raven-like in my gloom-laden mind.
“Take heart of grace, man,” Father O’Dowd would say. “We’ll beat them three to one.”
Could he minister to the disease that was eating away my very heart?
Harry Welstone came over.
“Why, there has been a sort of panic at Kilkenley on account of your abrupt departure, Fred. The last person who saw you in the flesh was Miss Hawthorne, and she is very reticent in the matter. I tried to pump her, and got quietly sat upon for my pains. She has disappeared, too.”
“What do you mean?”
“She has been playing the invisible princess. Your opponent called twice, and she refused to see him.”
“Is it Melton?” I cried, a wild joy surging around my heart.
“Yes; the great M.P. in embryo.”
“Wouldn’t see him?”
“Said she had a headache.”
“You jest, Harry.”
“Not a bit of it. Old Blunderbuss was as mad as a hatter, but missy stuck fast to her colors.”
“I wish to heaven you hadn’t told me this, Harry.”
“Why?”
“I do not know.”
And I did not know, but so it was. There lay a disturbing element in this news that completely set me astray. Hope, that springs eternal in the human breast; hope, that seemed shut out from mine for ever, was timidly knocking at the portals demanding admittance; but I resolutely barred the portals, raising the drawbridge, and dropping the portcullis. And yet—
No. I would not admit the impossible.
The nomination took place in the court-house at Ballyraken, the county town, which was literally packed with the country people, who had come in from the great harvest districts to hear the “speechifyin’.” The De Ruthven faction mustered very strongly, all the Protestant gentry arriving in their equipages, making “a brave and goodly show.” Mr. Wynwood Melton—who appeared in a faultlessly-fitting black frock-coat, with the last rose of summer in his button-hole, a hat that literally shone like jet, and pale lavender gloves—was proposed by Sir Robert Slugby de Ruthven, D.L., and seconded by Mr. Beresford de Ruthven, D.L.
Sir Robert, an aged, aristocratic-looking man, with a lordly voice and royal mien, after dilating, amidst fearful interruption, upon the misfortune that had fallen on the county in the ill-considered enterprise of this rash young man—meaning me—in his hopeless endeavor to disturb the harmony which had so long existed in the county, proceeded to say:
“I have a gentleman to propose to your consideration—a gentleman of birth, a gentleman of education, a gentleman of position, a gentleman of means, a gentleman—”
Here a voice, which I immediately recognized as that of Peter O’Brien, cried out in the crowd:
“Arrah, blur an’ ages, we’re tired av gintlemin; can’t ye stand yerself?”
This sally, which was greeted with a roar of laughter, completely upset the little speech which Sir Robert had prepared, and in a few mumbled words he proposed Mr. Wynwood Melton as a fit and proper person to represent the county in the Imperial Parliament.
Mr. Beresford de Ruthven was an able and popular speaker. He knew how, when, and where to touch the heart of the Irish peasant. His tact was admirable, while he possessed the rare qualification of being enabled to keep his audience in his hands as a juggler his golden balls.
We feared his speech. It was a rock ahead, and every word that fell from his lips was to be caught up and treasured, in order that our best men should reply to him. We knew it was nearly impossible to catch him tripping, and that he was one of those agile performers who spring smilingly to their feet even after an ugly fall.
“I wish this was over,” whispered Father O’Dowd. “Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes. He’ll butter the boys like parsnips, and promise them the moon.”
Mr. De Ruthven commenced his speech in a breathless silence. Oratory is always respected in Ireland, even in an opponent, although that opponent be a Protestant and an Orangeman. The speaker labored under the disadvantage of possessing but one hand, the other having been accidentally shot off by the bursting of a fowling-piece while Mr. De Ruthven was grouse-shooting in Scotland.
His speech was, unhappily for us, most felicitous. He seemed to suit himself to the occasion, and to make the occasion suit him. A faint murmur followed one or two of his well-directed points, which gradually swelled into open applause, until, to our dismay, we found he was carrying the audience with him.
Our party gazed significantly one at the other. We all perceived that the danger we had already anticipated was upon us in real earnest. At this moment I perceived Peter O’Brien elbowing himself to the front. A dead silence had fallen, one of those unaccountable stillnesses that occasionally come upon all assemblages, however large. Mr. De Ruthven was about to recommence, when Peter, putting his hands to his mouth, and in a voice that could be heard in the adjacent barony, shouted at the top of his lungs:
“Where’s the hand that sthruck the priest?”
To describe the effect of this query would be impossible. It was simply electrical. In one second the current, which had been flowing smoothly, became dammed, and instantly turned into another channel. In vain did Mr. De Ruthven endeavor to gain a hearing; in vain to disclaim the odious charge that had been indirectly preferred against him. It was useless. Every effort was met by a thousand cries of “Where’s the hand that sthruck the priest?” And in these few words the sun of his eloquence had set for ever. The high-sheriff almost burst a blood-vessel in his endeavor to obtain silence, until, finding the task a hopeless one, he advised Mr. De Ruthven to formally second the nomination and retire, which was accordingly done, and in dumb show.
When Melton presented himself he was received with laughter and jeers. The people had just warmed into that facetious good-humor that is so dangerous to a candidate for their suffrages. Opposition makes a martyr. Laughter causes a man to appear ridiculous.
“What’ll ye take for the posy?”
“Off wud yer gloves.”
“Will ye give us a pup out o’ that hat?”
“Is that coat ped for?”
“The raison it’s so new is that he wants to be able for to turn it, boys.”
“Spake up.”
“Give us a little Irish.”
“Sing the ‘Wearin’ av the Green.’”
“We’ll return ye—to England.”
“Go home to yer mother.”
“Cud ye say boo to a goose?”
“Och! we’ll vote for ye all together like Brown’s cows, an’ he had only wan.”
“Yer a fine man to send—out o’ the counthry.”
“Arrah, what brought ye here at all?”
“Ax for the price o’ the thrain for to take ye home, an’ mebbe ould Beresford wud give it to ye.”
Such were the greetings that interrupted Mr. Wynwood Melton during the delivery of a very brief speech, not one word of which even reached the reporters’ table. He seemed, however, perfectly unruffled, and continued bowing for a considerable time in response to the derisive cheering that followed upon his silence.
Father O’Dowd was received with a whirlwind of cheers, yells, and other manifestations of enthusiastic delight.
In proposing me he was very brief, alluding to the degrading position held by Catholics in a county where the large majority of the people were Catholics, and where everything that could be denied a Catholic was denied him. He was good enough to refer to the intrepidity with which my poor father had upheld the ancient faith, to his true-hearted patriotism, and wound up by declaring that this was the hour for the county to assert itself, both for conscience and country.
I read my speech in the Weekly Courier on the following Saturday, and I suppose I must have uttered it, but I have not the remotest conception of what I said. It read wonderfully well; and as Father O’Dowd told me I surpassed myself, I felt more or less elated at my success.
“If she had been there to hear it!” was my sad, sickening thought.
Læta dies aderat. The eventful day arrived big with my fate and that of the county. I felt that I was but the mere instrument, and, if victory were to crown the effort, it would be due to the principle and not the man. We knew that in some districts we would be badly beaten, while in others the issue was somewhat doubtful; but as to the ultimate outcome we entertained not a shadow of a doubt. The people were panting for a chance, and they had got it now.
When I showed the voting-papers to Peter, telling him that a cross marked in pencil should go opposite the name of the candidate for whom the voter wished to vote, he anxiously demanded:
“An’ must the min that votes for the Englishman put in a crass, too?”
“Every man of them.”
“Och, thin, glory be to God! shure it’s a judgmint on thim Protestants for to have to make the sign av the blessed an’ holy crass at all, at all—curse of Crummle on thim!”
Fearing a disturbance, as party spirit ran so high and as my supporters were so excited, a strong detachment of the Sixtieth Rifles was marched into Ballyraken on the eve of the polling. The Protestant landlords had secured free quarters in the town for such of their tenantry as chose to inhabit them, while they themselves occupied the Club House and De Ruthven Arms in a most imposing and demonstrative manner.
I was walking down the main street, all alone, thinking not of the forthcoming ballot, but of Mabel, when I perceived my opponent lounging on the steps of the Club House. I should be compelled to pass the Club House or cross the street, and as I was a member of the club, although I never frequented it, I now resolved upon boldly entering the enemy’s camp.
I was passing Melton with a nod when he stepped forward and in a singularly insolent tone demanded a word with me. He was very white.
“I was at Kilkenley yesterday.”
“Indeed!” I said. His tone was too uncertain to admit of my making any comment upon his visit.
“I suppose Miss Hawthorne is acting under your orders?” he hissed.
“I am at a loss to understand your meaning, sir,” I hotly replied.
“Not at home save to those whom you may be pleased to admit to your palatial residence,” he sneered.
“My residence is a very humble one, Mr. Melton, and when you honored it with your person I hope you found it a hospitable one. Miss Hawthorne is mistress of her own movements, but let me tell you, sir, that she is my mother’s guest, and the guest of an Ormonde is sacred.”
“Very dramatic, but scarcely to the point.”
“I’ll come to any point you please.”
“When this election business is over I may have something to say to you,” his tone fairly exasperating.
I could stand it no longer.
“You white-livered cub, whatever you have to say, say it now!” I shouted, the blood rushing like molten lava through my veins.
“I don’t row in public.”
“Do you wish me to tell you what I think of you, in public, Mr. Melton?”
He smiled.
“Pah! you are not worth this stick, or I’d break it across your shoulders.” And I marched into the club, my heart bumping against my ribs from sheer excitement.
What could he mean? Miss Hawthorne refuse to see him at my request? It was too absurd. Some lover’s quarrel. Was this cad her lover? Had her heart gone forth to such a man as this?
It was torture to think it.
Contrary to all expectations, the conduct of the people was orderly and peaceable. The dread of a petition had been seared into their very souls by Father O’Dowd and by the admirable organization that had charge of my interests. They came up to the booths silent, almost sullen. The landlords and bailiffs were all at their posts, uttering a last warning word as the tenants filed into the booths, addressing them cheerily as they emerged therefrom, in the hope of gleaning the much-coveted information as to the direction of the vote; but the responsibility of that day’s work appeared upon every face, and they entered the voting-places as though stepping into a church. Telegrams came pouring in all day from the outlying districts.
“Ballymaclish is all right—a majority of sixty; Derrymaclooney accounts for every man,” cried Father O’Dowd. “Bravo, my dear old parish! I knew I could trust my good, brave, pious children.”
Later on: “The De Ruthvens have carried Tubbercurry.”
“That’s because Father Nolan is on the broad of his back.”
“Ay, and because the Beresfords have stopped at nothing,” observed one of my committee. “If we want a petition we can pick it up in Tubbercurry. A telegram this morning says that there were money and whiskey going all the week.”
“How about Dharnadhulagh?”
“No returns yet.”
“Or Derrycunnihy?”
“Derrycunnihy is doubtful.”
“Not a bit of it.”
“I say it is.”
“I say it isn’t. Sure, Father James O’Neil has it in hands.”
“Oh! that will do. Put us down at forty at the very least.”
This sort of thing went on all day; but as the day wore on and the returns came in, we found at four o’clock that I had a majority, and at five that I had beaten Melton like a hack.
A wild flash of joy quivered through me. Frederic Fitzgerald Ormonde, M.P.! Visions of St. Stephen’s, of fierce debates over the crushing wrongs of expectant Erin, of glorious oratory, of splendid, supreme efforts, of magnificent rewards, honors—Cui bono?
She would hate me for having beaten her lover in the race. But was he her lover? Had not her tell-tale blushes told me all? And yet I had given her no chance of reply. Perhaps—
As this idea smote me a nameless ecstasy vibrated through every fibre of my being, and I longed to get to Kilkenley, I knew not why.
It was excruciating to be compelled to wait and receive the congratulations of my friends and supporters. It was simply fearful to have to sit out a dinner which had been prepared in my honor, and to listen to the leaden speeches all harping upon the one theme.
Somehow or other the night passed onwards, and at about eleven o’clock I found myself free. I rode over to Kilkenley; it was a mad race, and how I contrived to avoid riding down some of my constituents is still a matter of mystery to me. It relieved my feverish spirits to give the reins to my horse, and we flew homewards, past villages, past homesteads, past inebriated revellers on low-backed cars, past bonfires which were lighted for miles along the route, past hedges, ditches—everything; nor did I draw rein until I drew up at the lodge, shouting the word “Gate!”
“Lord be merciful to us! but it’s the masther,” cried Mrs. O’Rourke, the lodge-keeper, as she tremblingly threw open the gate. “May I make so bould as to ax ye if ye bet the Englishman, sir?”
“Beat him to smithereens.”
“Glory be to God! I knew Father O’Dowd would settle it.”
There were lights all through the house. The great event had kept the household out of their beds. My mother fell upon my neck in a paroxysm of joy when I told her the news.
“Where is Mabel—I mean Miss Hawthorne, mother?” I stammered.
“She was here a moment ago. Is Mr. Hawthorne at Ballyraken?”
“Yes; I left him making a third speech.”
“You must be worn out, my child. I’ll make you some mulled port.”
Something told me that I should find Mabel in the adjoining room; and my instincts had not deceived me. She stood in the centre of the apartment, one hand resting upon a small table. When I found myself standing opposite to her I felt utterly, totally dumbfounded. I could only stare at her.
“I heard the news,” she said, casting down her violet eyes. Ah! that was all she had to say.
“Will you forgive me?” I cried.
“Mr. Ormonde,” her hands working nervously, her glorious eyes still bent upon the table, her exquisitely-shaped head half averted, “I—I—that is—you have been under a most extraordinary misconception with reference to Mr. Melton. That gentleman is only a friend. As a matter of fact, I—I was so—so distressed at your ideas about him in connection with myself”—here she blushed red as a rose—“that I refused to see him when he came to visit here yesterday.”
“Then you are not in love with him?”
She raised her violet eyes, and her glance met mine as she uttered the, to me, ecstatic word, “No.”
“And not engaged to him?”
“No.”
I do not know what I said or what I did; but this I do know: that when my mother entered the room with a tumbler of mulled port, she dropped the tumbler, uttering an exclamation of delight, and fell to kissing Mabel, exclaiming: “This is the one thing wanted to make me perfectly happy. My poor boy was breaking his heart about you.”
* * * * *
I was declared duly elected to serve the county in the United Parliament of Great Britain and Ireland.
Mr. Hawthorne duly presented me to Mr. Speaker upon the occasion of my taking the oaths and my seat. My first nap in the House was during a speech from the member for Doodleshire, which was not treating the ethereal thunder of his mind with becoming respect, especially as he had just been good enough to give me his daughter in marriage. We were married at the pro-cathedral at Kensington, by Father O’Dowd.
Melton I never met.
Harry Welstone and I are closer friends than ever, as he is in the House, representing the borough of Bohernabury, and we are always “agin the government.”
We reside at Kilkenley, and Peter O’Brien is teaching my eldest boy to handle the ribbons.
“Musha, thin, whin I rowled out forninst ye in the dirt beyant at the railway station, it’s little I ever thought I’d see ye misthress av the ould anshint property, ma’am,” is his constant remark to the lady of the manor, while he is perpetually urging upon me the crying necessity for “takin’ a heat out av Drizzlyeye.”
“Bloody wars, Masther Fred, but you an’ ould Butt is too aisy wud him. Give him plinty av impudince, an’ as shure’s me name’s Pether O’Brien ye’ll have Home Rule while ye’d be axin’ the lind av a sack.”
THE END.
A SECTARIAN DIPLOMATIC SERVICE.
Our federal government, as a government, is absolutely forbidden by the Constitution to have anything whatever to do with religion; but the State Department has been for years and is now conducted as if it were an agency for a religious sectarian propaganda. The gentlemen whom it has sent to represent us at foreign courts have acted, in numberless instances and with few exceptions, as if they were the emissaries of Protestant or infidel missionary societies rather than as the ambassadors, ministers, and chargés d’affaires of a government which professes no religion, but which nevertheless has among its citizens eight millions of Roman Catholics, more or less, whose rights and opinions it is bound at least to respect. Many of these gentlemen have seemed to believe that one of their principal duties, especially if accredited to a Catholic country, was to form intimate associations with conspirators and agitators; to espouse their cause; and to fill their despatches to Mr. Seward, Mr. Fish, and Mr. Evarts with absurd but pernicious misrepresentations concerning the relations of the church towards education, civil freedom, and material progress. It may be admitted that many of these agents have erred rather through ignorance than malice; not a few of them have received but a limited education; it is only lately that a knowledge of the French language has been deemed requisite for even an ambassador. Scores of our ministers and chargés d’affaires have been sent abroad, remained for a few years, and returned, without acquiring more than a mere smattering of the language of the country to which they were accredited. Too frequently these misrepresentatives of ours fall into the hands of the agents of the secret sects which are plotting all over the world for the destruction of the church and the overthrow of Christian society, and receive from these sources the erroneous and pernicious views of affairs which they transmit to Washington. One of our diplomatists, returning from a long residence in the capital of a Catholic country, had for a fellow-traveller on the steamship an American Catholic.
“I envy you your residence in ——,” said this gentleman; “the intellectual society there is agreeable. Were you not well acquainted with Father —— and Mgr. ——?” naming two individuals of wide-spread celebrity.
“Oh! no,” replied the astute statesman, “not at all; I never met them. They are Papists, you know, and I never cared to waste my time with men who pray to idols, and pretend to believe that a piece of bread is God. Besides,” he added, with ingenuous simplicity, “my interpreter, a very shrewd fellow, told me all the priests in —— were bitter foes of our free republican institutions, and I thought it my duty to keep aloof from them.”
A perusal of the Red Books for the last two years inclines one to believe that many of our ministers to foreign countries derive their opinions and their information chiefly from their “interpreters.” The Hon. Mr. Scadder, rewarded for his eminent services to his party by being torn from his sorrowing constituents at Watertoast, and sent to represent us at the proud court of a papistical sovereign, may be at the mercy of any wag who chooses to humbug him with fantastical lies, or of any emissary from a Masonic sect who is instructed to fill his mind with misrepresentations; but Mr. Fish and Mr. Evarts are men of culture, and are supposed, at least, to be able to distinguish a hawk from a handsaw. It is of them that we chiefly complain. If the exigencies of party have made it impossible for them to select the best men for our diplomatic service, and if they have been obliged to put up with Mr. Scadder and his kind, it has at least been always in their power to cause our foreign agents to understand that it is no part of their duty to write despatches calumniating the Catholic Church, or to employ themselves in promoting the missionary enterprises of Protestant sects in Catholic countries. Had Mr. Fish and Mr. Evarts possessed a true idea of their own official duties, they never could have permitted one of their agents to write a second time such despatches as some of those contained in the Red Books before us. They would have administered to their Scadders, and Marshes, and Beales, and Partridges, and Bassetts a rebuke that would have opened the eyes of these public servants and taught them a useful lesson. Mr. Fish, we know, is a prominent and zealous member of the Protestant Episcopal Church; Mr. Evarts, we believe, is an adherent of the same sect. In their private capacity they have at least a legal right to do what they can to advance the interests of their own communion, and to expose and check the diabolical designs of the Man of Sin. But as Secretary of State at Washington Mr. Fish had not, and Mr. Evarts has not, any right to instruct, encourage, or even permit our agents abroad to calumniate the Catholic Church, to encourage conspiracies against her, or to spend their time, which belongs to the country, and the money with which the country supplies them, in promoting Anti-Catholic propagandism. Such a course is as bad a policy as it is un-American. We trust that the present Secretary of State will give this matter his immediate and careful attention; and the Senate and the House of Representatives would do well to look into it. Let him, as becomes his duty, inform the diplomatic agents of this republic that they are sent and paid to attend to the material and political interests of our country, and are expected to keep to themselves their religious opinions, whatever those opinions may be, in their correspondence with the Department of State. A proper sense of dignity on the part of the American who holds the office of the Secretary of State, and a decent respect for others, would not suffer that a diplomatic agent under his control should use his political position to insult the religious convictions of so large, important, and patriotic a portion of his fellow-citizens. Catholic citizens ask no favors as Catholics, and the time has gone by for them to accept silently from the hired agents of our common country insults to their religious faith. No one deprecates more than we do to see the tendency of the Catholic vote in this country given almost exclusively to one of its political parties. The only way in which to prevent this is by the opposite party putting an end to the display of bigotry and fanaticism against the Catholic Church.
The Department of the Interior, in its Indian Bureau, has repeatedly been guilty of gross violations of good faith and fair dealing towards the Catholic Church; but this has been due, probably, to the direct pressure put upon it by the various sects, whose cupidity was excited by the hope of reaping where Catholic priests had sown. But the foreign agents of the State Department often appear to have gone out of their way, in mere wantonness, to insult, irritate, and injure Catholic interests and feeling. Imagine the collector of the port of New York writing official despatches to the Secretary of the Treasury, informing him that, in the absence of anything better to do, he had been giving his mind to an investigation of Catholicism in this metropolis, and that he had arrived at the conclusion that much of the pauperism of the city was due to the facts that the entire Catholic population were in the habit of refusing to work on eight days of the year—days known in the superstitious jargon of the Papists as “days of obligation”—and that vast sums of money were exacted by the priests from their ignorant and degraded dupes, and sent over to Rome to support in idle luxury the pampered pope! It is probable that Secretary Sherman would administer to the collector a severe reprimand, and that this particular letter would not form part of the annual treasury report. But this is precisely the sort of news with which our minister to Hayti—Mr. Ebenezer Bassett—regales Mr. Evarts, so much to the apparent satisfaction of the latter that Mr. Bassett again and again returns to the subject and dwells upon it with unction. Or fancy Postmaster James sending a despatch to Mr. Key to cheer him with the happy intelligence that an unfrocked and disgraced Catholic priest had started a brand-new sect of his own in New York, and predicting that in a short time a majority of the Papists would desert their pastors and joyfully embrace the new gospel. But this is in substance the intelligence that such a man as Mr. Bancroft most delighted to send from Berlin. The collector of the port and the postmaster would be as much out of the line of their duty in the cases we have mentioned as Mr. Bassett and Mr. Bancroft have been. The duty of our foreign representatives is to promote the commercial, financial, and political interests of this republic at the courts to which they are accredited, and not to make themselves channels for the conveyance of idle, false, and scandalous gossip, much less to interfere in the domestic affairs of the countries to which they are sent, or allow themselves to be used as the tools of secret societies or of Methodist or any other missionary boards.
We have at present thirteen envoys extraordinary and ministers plenipotentiary—in Austria, Brazil, Chili, China, France, Germany, Great Britain, Italy, Japan, Mexico, Peru, Russia, and Spain; eight ministers resident—in the Argentine Republic, Belgium, Central American States, Hawaiian Islands, Netherlands, Sweden and Norway, Turkey, and Venezuela; and two ministers resident and consuls-general, in Hayti and Liberia. There are also five chargés d’affaires—in Denmark, Greece, Portugal, Switzerland, and Uruguay and Paraguay. We have no representative in Bolivia, Ecuador, or the United States of Colombia. The great majority of the inhabitants of nineteen of the above-named thirty-one countries are Roman Catholics; yet not one of our foreign representatives is a Catholic. We ask not is this fair, but is it good policy? The population of these nineteen Roman Catholic nations is in round numbers, and according to the latest enumerations, about 170,000,000 souls; but we now are, and so far as we know almost always have been, represented at their capitals by Protestants. Of this, in itself, we do not complain. Wisdom—nay, even common sense—would indeed seem to dictate that the best results would be attained, other things being equal, by sending Catholics as envoys to Catholic countries. An American Catholic in a Catholic country finds himself in sympathy with, and not in antagonism to, the religious habits and modes of thought of the people; and his path towards the accomplishment of any good and worthy object is greatly smoothed by this fact. We believe that intelligent, clever, patriotic, Catholic envoys at Vienna, Rio Janeiro, Santiago, Paris, Rome, Mexico, Lima, Madrid, Buenos Ayres, Brussels, Guatemala, Caracas, Port au Prince, Lisbon, Montevideo, Asuncion, Quito, Bogota, and La Paz would have been more successful in accomplishing the best and highest duties of diplomatic representatives of this republic than Messrs. Beale, Partridge, Logan, Washburne, Marsh, Foster, Gibbs, Cushing, Osborne, Merrill, Williamson, Russell, Bassett, Moran, and Caldwell have been. We are certain that they would not have committed the sins against good taste and propriety which must be laid at the door of nearly all these gentlemen; they surely would not have committed the still graver offences of which we shall have to give some instances. We wish to except from this remark, however, Mr. Moran, long our faithful and exemplary secretary of legation at London, and for the last two or three years our chief representative at Lisbon. Although not a Catholic, Mr. Moran is a gentleman of excellent culture, of correct opinions concerning his official duties, and a very skilful diplomatist. One may look in vain through his despatches for anything that should not be there. We wish we could say half as much for some of his confrères.
Let us take, as an instance, our misrepresentative at Rome, Mr. George P. Marsh, of Vermont. Mr. Marsh leaves us in no doubt whether or not he is in full sympathy with the worst political elements in Italy, and inspired by a lively hatred of the church. He deems it one of his most pressing duties to assail and calumniate the Pope; he seems never so happy as when he can give a false and malicious interpretation to the acts of the Papal See; he appears never so miserable as when he finds himself disappointed in his fond anticipation of seeing the Italian government invade the Vatican, drive out the Pope, and finish up what is left of the church in Italy. In what Mr. Marsh is pleased to call his mind, the church in Italy is a ravening wolf, wounded, sick, and in a trap, but still with life enough in her to make her dangerous, and to render it necessary that she should be knocked on the head as soon as possible. Whenever Mr. Marsh observes indications of a willingness on the part of the government to let the wolf live a little longer, or even to make terms with her, he scolds and laments at a fearful rate. He writes as if he were a member of the Extreme Left, and evidently draws his inspiration from the most advanced radical sources. “I see no reason to expect,” says he, “any more vigorous resistance to the encroachments of the church from this administration”—the administration that was in power in November, 1876. What is it that Mr. Marsh would wish? What can be “the encroachments of the church” in Italy—the “encroachments” of men disarmed, despoiled, captive, and helpless as far as human agency is concerned? The elections for members of the Chamber of Deputies in November, 1876, were regarded by Mr. Marsh as evidence that the electors were greatly dissatisfied with the government as it had been administered. Doubtless they were. Mr. Marsh speaks of “the heavy burdens of taxation imposed by it upon the people”; of its “financial difficulties that prevent the execution of important works of public improvement”; of its failure even to attempt “the abolition of the macinto tax, or of any of the financial abuses which weigh so heavily on the poor.” But his remedy for this is simply “a more vigorous resistance to the encroachments of the church”—a little more plundering, a little more confiscation; the seizure of the Vatican, for instance, and the sale of its treasures at public auction, would no doubt put a few million lire in the public treasury. That would suit the amiable Mr. Marsh exactly. But the Italians hesitate, and Mr. Marsh is disgusted with them. At times he informs Mr. Evarts of terrible secrets—confidential information which could only have been communicated to him under the pledge of solemn secrecy by one of those practical jokers who lounge about the cafés in Rome and exercise their ingenuity in beguiling simple foreigners with incredible canards. In a despatch dated April 23, 1877, Mr. Marsh gives an account of a seditious outbreak that had occurred in Central and Southern Italy, instigated by people who were well dressed and who had plenty of money, but whose purpose, as explained by themselves, was “not only the overthrow of the existing government, but the destruction of all established civil, social, and religious institutions, and the triumph of universal anarchy.” These, in fact, were members of Mr. Marsh’s own party; but his secret informant in Rome made him believe that they were in the pay of the Pope, and probably Jesuits in disguise! “Long live Pius IX.! was shouted by the Internationalists at Benevento in the same breath with their cries of sedition,” writes Mr. Marsh; and he goes on to warn Mr. Evarts that “the number of persons prepared to lend a ready ear to the promptings of International emissaries”—videlicet the Jesuits in disguise aforesaid—“already large, is increasing; and that Italy may be the theatre of convulsions, to resist which will demand the most strenuous efforts of wise rulers and the most self-sacrificing patriotism on the part of the governing classes,” but always in the direction of resisting “the further encroachments of the church.” Mr. Marsh indulged in glowing hopes when the so-called Clerical Abuses Bill passed the Chamber of Deputies. He described the measure as “a bill for repressing the license of the clergy in public attacks upon the ecclesiastical policy of the government,” and looked for the happiest results to follow its enforcement. Mr. Marsh is an American citizen; he is the representative of a government which plumes itself upon the almost unchecked freedom of its citizens; he is paid by a people whose political shibboleth is “free speech.” If Mr. Marsh were running for Congress in Vermont instead of exercising his powerful intellect as minister at Rome, what would he say concerning an attempt by Congress to enact that the penalty of fine and imprisonment should be inflicted upon every clergyman or minister who should “attack the policy,” for instance, of the government seizing all the Methodist and Baptist meeting-houses throughout the country, and converting them into barracks? The Italian bill was worse than this, for it inflicted these penalties upon every priest who, even in the discharge of his duties as a director, might “disturb the peace of families” by advising a mother to teach her children that it was a sin to steal. But the Italian senate was less brave than Mr. Marsh, and his heart was almost broken by its final rejection of the bill. “This rejection,” he moans, in his despatch of April 23, “will encourage the clergy to measures of more active hostility against the state.” He feels so cut up about it that he returns to the subject in his despatch of May 10, and is so far carried away by his feelings as to write that
“The violence of the clergy and of their lay supporters in Italy and France is almost beyond description, and any one living among them has abundant opportunities of being convinced that they are prepared to resort to arms in support of the pretensions of the Papacy and of the principles of the Syllabus of 1864!”
A viler calumny, a more wicked falsehood against the French and Italian clergy has seldom been written. We are amazed, not that Mr. Marsh should have written it, but that Mr. Evarts should have allowed such balderdash to be printed. But Mr. Marsh grows worse as he goes on. In his despatch of May 26 he almost excels himself. He takes it as a personal grievance that the Pope has compared Prince Bismarck to Attila; he is impatient for the abrogation of the Law of Guarantees; he is certain that sooner or later “a violent conflict between the government and the church is inevitable,” and he wishes it to come rather sooner than later. Apparently he is anxious to assist at the final sacrifice, and he is tormented with the fear that the crafty Papists may cheat him out of that gratification.
“The Roman Curia,” he writes, “is at all times shrouded in such mystery that the purposes of those who administer it (sic) are very rarely foreshadowed, and no positive predictions can ever be hazarded concerning it beyond the general presumption that its future will be like its past.” In all soberness and earnestness we ask Mr. Evarts whether Mr. Marsh is kept in Rome for the purpose of writing nonsense about the “mystery” of the “Roman Curia”? What has he to do with the affairs of the Holy See? He is not accredited to the Vatican; he has no more to do with the Pope than our minister at London has to do with the Archbishop of Canterbury. True, the Pope is a far more important personage than is Mr. Tait; but Mr. Marsh, as we understand it, was not sent to Rome to occupy himself about the Pope. Instead of attending to his own business he goes out of his way to insult the Holy Father, and through him the entire Catholic population of the United States. If everything were as it should be, we should have as our representative at Rome, the capital of Christendom and the seat of the head of the universal church, a Catholic statesman. We do not insist upon this; but we do insist that our representative at Rome should be at least a fair-minded, candid, well-educated, and discreet gentleman, and not an ignorant, rude, prejudiced, and foolish dupe like Mr. Marsh. That we may not be accused of doing him injustice, let us give here the exact text of the essential portions of his despatch of May 26 last, to which we have already referred:
“The excesses of the clericals,” he writes, “are producing their natural and legitimate effect in a feeling of dissatisfaction with the position in which Italy has placed herself toward the Papacy by the Law of Guarantees. A recent allocution by the Pope, in which, for acts of the German government, Count Bismarck is likened to Attila, is much commented upon, and it is seriously asked whether Italy can protect herself against all responsibility for tolerating the use of such language in public discourses by the Pope, and its circulation through the press, under the plea that, by the seventh article of the law referred to, she has enacted that the Pope ‘is free to perform all the functions of his spiritual ministry, and to affix to the doors of the basilicas and churches of Rome all acts of that ministry.’ Such questions are bringing more clearly into view the incongruities and inconveniences of the anomalous position in which the general sovereignty of the state and the still higher virtual sovereignty of the Papacy, admitted by the terms of the Law of Guarantees, are placed toward each other. The Syllabus of 1864, having been promulgated before the enactment of that law, was notice to all the world of the extent of the inalienable rights claimed by the Papacy, and it is not a violent stretch of Vatican logic to maintain that, in spite of its protests, the law in question is legally a recognition of those claims. In fact, there are many occasions of collision between the two jurisdictions, such, for example, as the right of asylum implied in the extraterritoriality of the Vatican, which can never be avoided or reconciled without such an abandonment of the claims of one of the parties as will be yielded only to superior force; and hence a violent conflict between them is at any time probable, and at no distant day certainly inevitable. Such occasions were expected by many to arise from the pilgrimages to Rome on the fiftieth episcopal anniversary of the present Pope. But the number of pilgrims thus far has not reached the tithe of that predicted, probably not amounting in all to ten thousand, while the garrison and municipal police have been quietly strengthened to a force abundantly able to repress any disturbance. The death of Pius IX. and the election of his successor, events almost hourly expected, are looked to as probably fraught with important changes in the attitude of the Papacy toward Italy, and in the general policy of the church. For this expectation I see no ground, though the Roman Curia is at all times shrouded in such mystery that the purposes of those who administer it are very rarely foreshadowed, and no positive predictions can ever be hazarded concerning it beyond the general presumption that its future will be like its past.”
Mr. Edward F. Beale, of Pennsylvania, was our representative at Vienna, having been sent there to succeed that ardent anti-Catholic, Mr. John Jay, and being now in his turn superseded by Mr. Kasson, of Iowa. Mr. Beale’s career at the Austrian capital was brief but not brilliant. In August, 1876, he undertook to instruct Mr. Fish concerning the drift of public opinion, not only in Austria but in France and England, upon the Eastern question. He had ascertained that the prevailing sentiment in these countries was “religious fervor”; the people were so much in love with Christianity and so full of hatred of Moslemism in that they desired nothing more than to see Russia enter Constantinople, and to drive the Turks out of Europe “bag and baggage.” “It is a question of faith which will govern Europe,” writes the astute Mr. Beale, “and a crusade is quite as possible now as when Peter the Hermit preached.” The European congress which is about to assemble as we are writing will not disturb itself about any “question of faith”; its members will concern themselves only with questions of boundaries, fleets, and money. But not content with forecasting the future, Mr. Beale reverts to the past, and kindly undertakes to furnish the State Department with easy lessons in European history. Thus, in a despatch dated September 27, 1876, and apropos des bottes, he bids Mr. Fish to remember that
“It is interesting to recall that in Bosnia originated the first Protestant movement of Western Europe, and that even before the heresies (as the Catholic Church calls them) of John Huss in Bohemia she had sent out her missionaries to preach the Gospel as she read it, and to disseminate her religious views over the rest of the world. When the persecutions of the Church of Rome were at their worst she offered a generous asylum to her co-religionists, many of whom found here what had been denied them at home—the right to worship God after their own forms and belief.”
In point of fact, the heretics of Bosnia, at the time referred to by our erudite minister at Vienna, were advocating principles utterly subversive of order and tending directly to anarchy. They taught that a subject was released from all allegiance to a ruler if that ruler were in a state of mortal sin, and each subject was to judge for himself as to the spiritual condition of his ruler. The Church of Rome had no hesitation in setting the seal of her condemnation upon this vagary of Protestantism, and even Mr. Beale would probably admit that she was right in so doing. But he evidently was ignorant of the facts, and was anxious only to air his newly-acquired learning and to have a fling at the church. Is there among the secret instructions of our State Department to its agents a rule to this effect: “When you have nothing else to write about, pitch into the Pope”?
It is a far cry from Vienna to Port au Prince; but our misrepresentative in Hayti next demands our attention. He, of all his brethren, is perhaps the most vulgar, insolent, and ignorant; but he is one of the most outspoken. The United States pay him $7,500 a year, and have done so since 1869. How much the Protestant Episcopal Church pays him, if anything, we do not know; but he seems to have given much of his time and influence to the advancement of the interests of that body, and to the abuse of the Roman Catholic clergy of the island. Several of Mr. Bassett’s despatches contain eulogiums upon a “Rev. Dr. Holly,” who, he says, was “at Grace Church, New York, in 1874, ordained bishop of Hayti,” and whom Mr. Bassett appears to have taken under his special protection and care. Now, there is no “bishop of Hayti”; there is an archbishop of Port au Prince, the Most Rev. Alexius Guilloux; and he has four suffragans, the bishops of Cap-Haitien, Les Cayes, Gonayves, and Port Paix. “The Rev. Dr. Holly” has no more right to call himself bishop of Hayti than he has to call himself the Pope of Rome; but Mr. Bassett deems it very hard indeed that the archbishop, the bishops, and the clergy of Hayti have taken the liberty of warning their people that “the Rev. Dr. Holly” is not bishop, and that his teachings that marriage is not a sacrament, and that the first duty of a Christian is to revolt against the church, are not to be accepted. In May Mr. Bassett writes to Mr. Evarts that “the Roman Catholic archbishop and his clergy have assumed a pretension to supremacy over the civil code, notably in the matter of marriage”; and in July he writes again a long letter upon “the introduction and growth of Protestantism in Hayti and its influence upon the government.” He admits that in 1804 “Romanism,” which was “then, as now, the faith professed by a great majority of the Haytian people,” “was declared to be the religion of the state and placed under the state’s special protection and support,” and that “it still continues to enjoy that protection and support.” But he complains that “the Roman priesthood have made many strongly-directed and persistent but truly uncommendable efforts to cause to be suppressed, or effectively placed under ban, every other form of worship and belief than their own.” Mr. Bassett is not the only Protestant who cannot or will not understand the difference between the duty of Catholic prelates in a country where heresy does not exist and where it is sought to be introduced from outside, and their duty in countries like our own, where theoretically all religions are placed on the same footing, and the government is absolutely forbidden by its organic law to interfere in any way for the propagation of religious truth or the suppression of religious error. The first ruler of Hayti who endeavored to introduce Protestantism into the island was, according to Mr. Bassett, “Henri Christophe, the autocratic king of the north of Hayti,” who in 1815, although “himself a Roman Catholic,” engaged a clergyman of the Church of England to propagate heresy in his dominions. But King Henri, five years afterwards, “died by his own hand,” and Protestantism made no further progress “until, in 1861, the Protestant Episcopal Church of the United States was pleased to establish a mission with the Rev. J. T. Holly as its pastor.”
He hit upon the idea “of raising up a national clergy in Hayti—a policy which seems never to have been thought of by any other religious denomination in this country, and which opened a new road and gave a new impetus to Protestantism here. The mission continued to grow. It was encouraged and visited in 1863 by Bishop Lee, of Delaware; in 1866 by Bishop Burgess, of Maine; and in 1872 by Bishop Coxe, of Western New York; and finally the Rev. Dr. Holly was, at Grace Church, New York City, in 1874, ordained bishop of Hayti. So that since 1874 there has been established in Hayti an independent Protestant Church, with the distinguishing feature that all its clergy are citizens of the country, several of them educated in the United States under the vigilance of Bishop Holly.”
There are ninety-three Catholic priests in Hayti, and of these nearly all are educated and cultured French gentlemen, who are undoubtedly far better able to discharge the duties of the priestly office than the native apostates who have been “educated in the United States under the vigilance of Bishop Holly.” But Mr. Bassett has the ignorant malice to vilify them and to display his own foolishness in this happy style:
“The French Roman Catholic priest, in coming to Hayti, leaves behind him all his social ties, in the hope of returning to them within eight or ten years, the average period of his labors here. All that he receives while in the country, over and above his scanty personal wants, goes abroad to enrich France at the expense of the Haytian people, and he even bends his energies to accumulate. In addition to his salary from the government, which ranges from 20,000 francs to the archbishop to 1,200 francs to the country curate, he is allowed a tariff of prices for all public religious services performed by him. Baptisms, marriages, funerals, dispensations, indulgences, Masses for the dead—services for each of these yield him by law a revenue ranging from 50 cents up to $50. Not only this, but he can collect offerings from the faithful, and it is even affirmed that many such offerings are made to him under the dread secrecy inspired by the confessional.
“It is true that France lost open political control over this island in 1804, but by means of the Roman Catholic clergy she has maintained almost exclusive control over the religious affairs of these people. Indeed, the domination which she once held over their bodies was hardly more complete than that which she still holds over their consciences and spiritual susceptibilities. The priests, in their present controversy with the government, which is outlined in my No. 501 already referred to, do not fail to rely upon the spiritual subjugation of the Haytian to the papal system of Rome, in connection with their own supposed power over him as citizens of a country which once held him in physical bondage, and to whose interests they themselves are devoted.
“In the light of these facts it is no cause for astonishment that the Haytian government, aroused and inspired by the policy and success of the Protestant Bishop Holly in raising up and establishing a national clergy for the Protestant Episcopal denomination, should seek to conserve its own integrity and the resources of its people, as well as to avoid continual misunderstandings with a class of foreigners resident here and shielded by the dignity of sacerdotal robes, by stimulating and encouraging the young men of the country to enter the ecclesiastical vocation.
“Meanwhile, it ought not to be unknown to those who feel bound by the holy injunction to have the Gospel preached to all the world that in Hayti the door stands wide open for every kind of Christian missionary work.”
And it is for writing such stuff as this that we pay Mr. Ebenezer Bassett $7,500 a year—that is to say, as much as is received by thirty of the “country curates” whom he reviles.
Our space is limited, and we have but skimmed through our two Red Books. We should have been glad to have followed the erratic flight of Mr. Partridge, our late minister to Brazil, who fills quires of paper with ridiculous nonsense about “the exactions of Rome,” the wickedness of “the ultramontane party,” and the awful danger that the Brazilian ministry “will yield to the demands of the Roman Curia.” Nothing escapes the birds-eye view of this Partridge; he unconsciously explains much that would otherwise be mysterious by stating that the prime minister of the cabinet is “a member of the Masonic fraternity”; but the scope of his intellect is best shown by his remark that “the throwing of stones at the bishop of Rio, as he ascended the pulpit to preach,” was “a trick of the Jesuits.” It would have been pleasant to congratulate Mr. Orth, who was our representative at Vienna in 1876, upon his sagacity in advocating, with hysterical warmth, the law for the virtual confiscation and destruction of the houses of the religious orders in Austria—a measure denounced by Cardinal Schwarzenberg and thirty-one archbishops and bishops as “a law which equally violates the equality and personal freedom of the citizen, the dignity of religion, the honor of the Catholic Church, and the members of religious orders,” but which, in Mr. Orth’s opinion, was “sound and salutary, and demanded by the progressive spirit of the age.” A page or two is deserved by Mr. Williamson, who gives us a history of a presidential campaign in Chili, in which all the virtues are attributed to the Masonic candidate, and all that is devilish is ascribed to “the church party,” “the ultramontanes,” and “the church.” Delightful would it be to tarry with Mr. Scruggs, our talented and courteous minister at Bogota, who commences one of his despatches thus: “In April last one Bermudez, a bishop of the Roman Catholic Church, proclaimed against the public-school system of this republic,” and who gives an account of the events which followed, closing his glowing periods with the cheerful assurance that “the church property will probably be appropriated to pay the war debt.” The letters of our Mr. Rublee, at Berne, apropos of the Old-Catholic schism in Switzerland; of our Mr. Nicholas Fish, who during a brief interregnum represented us at Berlin; and of several of our other agents, furnish equally tempting matter for comment. But we must pass by them with the remark that none of them are quite so outrageous as those of Mr. Bassett, Mr. Beale, and Mr. Marsh.
The present administration has made changes in six of our most important embassies. Mr. Kasson has been appointed to Vienna, Mr. Stoughton to St. Petersburg, Mr. Hilliard to Brazil, Mr. Lowell to Madrid, Mr. Welsh to London, and Mr. Bayard Taylor to Berlin. It goes without saying that none of these gentlemen have received any diplomatic training. Mr. Kasson is a respectable provincial lawyer, who has sat in Congress, and who rendered important services to his party by going to Florida and taking care that the electoral vote of that State was properly counted. What he knows about Austria, and how he may deport himself there, remains to be seen. Without being extravagant, one may indulge the hope that he may prove to be an improvement upon Mr. Beale. Mr. Welsh is an old and worthy merchant of Philadelphia, a prominent member of the Protestant Episcopal Church, and an extensive dealer in sugars: but we have yet to learn what are his qualifications for the weighty duties of minister to the court of St. James. Mr. Lowell is a poet, a man of letters, and a scholar who has done honor to his country; but we should be inclined to doubt his fitness for managing our commercial and political affairs at the court of King Alfonso. Mr. Taylor is a good journalist, in a certain way; he has been a traveller of some experience, and he is an ardent admirer and a close student of Schiller and of Goethe; but he has himself been swift to disclaim the idea that these things made him fit for the post to which he has been appointed, and he rather ridiculed the notion that he had been appointed minister to Berlin in order that he might there finish his great work—a new biography of Goethe. There is much to be said on both sides of the question, “Is it worth while to keep up our diplomatic service at all?” We should be inclined to take the affirmative; but we are not disposed to enter into the discussion at present. One thing, however, is certain, and that is the necessity of freeing the service from the weight of men like Marsh, Beale, Partridge, Orth, Williamson, and Scruggs. There are others as bad, but these will serve as types of the worst. In no sense can they be said to rightly represent this great, free, and noble people; in every sense they may be said to misrepresent the Catholic population of the republic, whose interests, rights, and feelings can no longer be, as they never ought to have been, safely trampled upon by any administration or by any party. Whatever party does this betrays an un-American spirit; its policy is a bad one both for the country and itself, and unless it changes for the better its reign will be short.
THE ARCHIEPISCOPAL PALACE AT BENEVENTUM.[51]
Beneventum is a small town of about fifteen thousand inhabitants, situated geographically in the kingdom of Naples. It formerly depended, spiritually and temporally, on the Holy See, which also held jurisdiction over part of the territory of the ancient duchy; the other part being subject to the king of Naples as to temporal affairs, and to the archbishop of Beneventum as to those of a spiritual nature.
The archiepiscopal palace, or the episcopio, to use the old term, stands in its proper place, next the cathedral, flanking the apsis. One of the wings faces the market square, where public gratitude has erected a marble statue to Pope Benedict XIII., the immortal benefactor of the city, of which he had been archbishop under the title of Cardinal Orsini. The entrance is to the south. At the west, from the garden terrace, or the windows of the conventino, is a superb view over a fertile valley, the verdure of which extends up the very sides of the mountains that fade away in bluish tints on the horizon. It is at once in the city from the proximity of the inhabitants, and in the country as to its pure air, calm solitude, and the enchanting aspect of a landscape that always commands attention and admiration.
The building is not, strictly speaking, a palace.[52] It is large and spacious, but not lofty or elegant. Nothing in its exterior bespeaks its occupant. It might be taken for a theological seminary or a convent, wrapped as it is in gloomy silence, and surrounded by thick walls. Its general appearance is dismal and unattractive. Only an archæologist would take any pleasure in examining the huge stones of which the walls are built. These stones were hewn out in the time of the Romans, and more than one have the characteristic trou de louve by which they were raised and put in place. They were probably taken from the amphitheatre, for the misfortune that made the Coliseum at Rome an inexhaustible quarry for the construction of so many palaces, like the Farnese, Barberini, etc., also befell the theatre of Beneventum, of which but a bare outline remains, though great blocks from it are to be found at every step in the private dwellings and the walls that surround the city. After the earthquakes of June 5, 1688, and March 4, 1702, the exterior of the palace was greatly modified by Cardinal Orsini, but the building, as a whole, is ancient, and many features of the walls, like the belfry of the cathedral, carry us back to the middle ages. Let us study it in detail, for in more than one respect it presents a model worthy of imitation.[53]
The portal of the palace is monumental. It has a semi-circular arch, which is more graceful than a square entrance, and more conformable to ecclesiastical traditions. And the tympanum which fits into the arch or ogive offers ample space to the sculptor or painter for decoration. Against the lintel rest the folding doors. These are open all day, however, for the house of a bishop is like that of a father who cannot shut out his children. Above are the arms of Cardinal Orsini, carven in stone. Two other scutcheons once hung beside them: one of Pius IX., destroyed when his temporal power was suppressed in the duchy of Beneventum—that is, in 1860, when the kingdom of Naples was overrun by the Garibaldian hordes; the other that of Cardinal Carafa, the actual archbishop, who was driven into exile, and whose palace was devastated.
Two enormous lions, taken from the front of the Duomo, stand at the sides of the entrance. They have come down from Roman times. They are not of remarkable workmanship, but the outlines are good. There is life in their partly stretched-out forms, and pride in the pose of their heads. The paws are pressed resolutely together. One of them grasps a head covered with a helmet, and the other the remains, probably, of one of those nude children to be seen in the mouths of the crouching lions watching at the doors of the churches at Rome, symbolic of helplessness and innocence that need aid and protection from the strong. When the lion is represented crushing a beast or holding a warrior’s head, it signifies the vice to be overcome, the enemy to be annihilated.
Some look upon the lion as the emblem of justice. This queen of the cardinal virtues is generally represented as a woman with various attributes, such as the book of the law, the balance wherein actions are weighed, the sword to smite the guilty, the eagle to show her imperial nature, and the globe indicating the extent of her empire. On the public square at Bari is to be seen a lion of the twelfth century, with the brief but significant inscription, CVSTOS IVSTICIE, on its collar. The lion, then, does not represent justice itself. That virtue is only exercised in the temple, either by God or by his representative. But the lion stands, like the guardian of Justice, watching at the door of the Holy Place in which she has taken up her abode. Nothing, then, could be more suitable for the door of a bishop, the unflinching enemy of vice as well as the sure protector of virtue, than these two lions, type of the power conferred by the church on her ministers. And they are specially emblematic of the firmness and energy of Cardinal Orsini, who had them placed here.
The wall through which the gateway is cut is bordered by a line of merlons, the peculiar form of which reminds one of Cordova and the Alhambra. They produce a picturesque effect, but are not of the slightest utility. They are the relics of feudal authority and power, the last vestige of which is the annual payment of the cathédratique, identical with the nominal tribute some lords required of their vassals, of no importance in itself, but typical of the honor due from the inferior to the pre-eminence of his lawful chief—in signum præeminentiæ et honoris, to quote the holy canons revived by Cardinal Orsini, and maintained to our day, particularly in this point, by the collateral descendant of Pope Paul IV., who for more than thirty years has occupied the see of Beneventum.
From the top of the wall rises one of those small open belfries called bell-gables. It is of the most primitive construction, being a mere extension of a part of the wall through which an opening for a bell has been made. It terminates in a gable like a mitre, on which are an iron cross fleurdelisée and a small vane to mark the direction of the wind. The cross is always appropriate for a belfry, large or small, if not obligatory, as Anastasius the Bibliothecarius insists in his works. The vane is no less traditional at Rome, where it is generally in the shape of a little banner (the origin of which is quite feudal), wherein the armorial ensigns are so cut as to be emblazoned against the azure sky. Here the vane is shaped like a flame. It once bore the arms of the resident archbishop, but the rain has washed off the color, and the surface is now corroded by rust.
The small bell is of the kind called nola. In ancient times it was rung whenever the archbishop left his palace or re-entered it, as the bells of St. Peter’s at Rome announce the visit and departure of the pope. Later it only rang when he set out on a journey and at his coming back. Now it is mute, and no longer announces his appearance in public or his return to the palace.
Passing through the gateway, we come to the court. On the left are the carriage and store houses, and, beyond, the saddle-room, which was quite brilliant in former times when the cardinals went forth in gala array. At the right is an arched passage leading to the interior of the palace, and further on is the porter’s lodge, formerly the guard-house of the curia armata.
Around the court are many ancient monuments and inscriptions, which constitute a small museum, begun long since by the archbishops. There is an Egyptian obelisk of red granite, broken in two, which once stood in the cathedral court. It is covered from top to bottom with hieroglyphics relating to the deeds of some old king. Domitian consecrated it to Isis. On another side are three fragments of fine marble columns: one of cipollino, so called on account of its greenish veins, which resemble those of an onion, in Italian cipolla; the second, of what is called porta santa, because the casing of the door in the Vatican basilica, opened only at the Jubilee, is of this marble, which is of a pale violet color, or a purple that has lost its freshness; and the third is of breccia corallina, the white ground of which is relieved by reddish veins.
The ancient inscriptions collected here, whether sepulchral, votive, or commemorative, are not rare. But they are noteworthy for their clearness and brevity. How expressive, for instance, are these four lines consecrated to the manes of Vibbius Optatus, who died in the flower of youth:
D. M. A. Vibbio . Opta To. Vix. An. XI. M. XI. D. XIX. Parent. Infelicissimi Fecer.
The unfortunate parents had no illustrious name to bequeath to posterity. The discreet marble only echoes a profound grief.
Here is a landmark, rounded at the top, and hewn to a point at the bottom, the better to insert it in the ground, that once stood on the Appian Way, which passes triumphantly through the arch raised to the glory of Trajan at one end of Beneventum.
Beneventum, which copied Rome, even in the device of its senate: S. P. Q. B.—Senatus populusque Beneventanus—had a magistrature of ediles at its head, who made generous provision for the embellishment of the city. Here is a pedestal on which this municipal corps pompously proclaimed itself:
Splendidissimus ordo Beneventanorum.
One cannot help exclaiming, in view of the present order of things:
“Comment en un plomb vil l’or pur s’est-il changé!”
How into vile dross hath the pure gold changed!
The Romans loved statuary, and were lavish of it in all their public as well as private dwellings. Above all, their sculptors produced divinities and illustrious men, but sometimes the principal members of a household, if not the whole family, to adorn the atrium. Who does not remember the Balbus family in the Museum at Naples, the father and son on horseback, and the rest gathered around them? Here we find several statues, both nude and draped. Nudity was chiefly confined to heroes and the gods. It signified apotheosis—the ascension to a higher world. The terrestrial garb was laid aside; only a glorified body remained. Pagan art showed itself incapable of fully expressing a state indicated in the middle ages by a radiance surrounding the transfigured body. We have an admirable example of the immediate change to the glorified state in Perugino’s immortal production in the Sala del Cambio at Perugia. There the bankers and money-changers have constantly before their eyes a symbol of the change wrought by divine power on a body in the state of celestial beatitude. Paganism divested the body of its garments, but did not render it luminous. It only invented a symbol which the church has retained to designate the saints—the nimbus around the head, as the most noble part of man because the seat of the intelligence. But it could go no further. From Apollo, who alone had the nimbus in the beginning to express in a measure the luminous atmosphere of the sun, personified in him, it passed to other divinities, and finally even to those to whom the senate accorded the title of divine, thus becoming the equivalent of divus. It is really amusing to see, on the Arch of Constantine at Rome, the Emperor Trajan so divinized that his bare head is surrounded by a nimbus, though he is engaged in the chase. The nude among the Romans was, therefore, a conventional way of expressing what was right in substance, the immutation wrought by glory, and was not intended to excite ignoble passion. In other cases their statues were modestly draped, though sometimes a little too much of the form was revealed by the clinging folds of the garments.
There are several sarcophagi in the court, with nothing extraordinary about them, but even in the most unpretending affording proof of artistic taste. They are adorned with scenic masques, vases of fruit, the genii of the seasons, etc., which have their significance and are not without poetry. Here is one with a medallion of its former occupant in the centre—a portrait full of life and animation, as if he still were under illusion as to his nothingness. It is supported by two genii, winged and nude, as if bearing him to the celestial regions—winged, because they are fulfilling a mission; nude, to indicate their celestial origin. This emblem was common in ancient times. The middle ages did nothing but Christianize it by substituting angels for genii, and placing in their hands, not the body, but the soul, of the deceased, about to receive the reward of his sanctity and good works. We see them on the tomb of King Dagobert, in the abbatial church of St. Denis, snatching the soul of the king from the demon who was endeavoring to bear it away.
But we have lingered too long in the precincts. Let us enter the palace, and first visit the prisons—for prisons there are, the archbishop of Beneventum, as we have said, having formerly a twofold jurisdiction, temporal as well as spiritual. His tribunal of justice imposed the canonical penalties. Fines seem to have been specially employed, for among the officials of the Curia there was one to receive and apply them to some religious object. At the same time there was a register in which they were faithfully recorded. There were, too, different degrees of imprisonment. In the carcere alla larga there was comparative liberty. The purgatorio indicates a temporary expiation. The inferno was perhaps the prison from which death alone could be looked forward to as a release. The two latter correspond to the carcere duro of the Venetians. There are similar ones, but not so spacious, in the governor’s castle overlooking Beneventum, which also bore the terrible names of purgatorio and inferno.[54] Cardinal Orsini, who, though severe, was of a humane disposition, visited these prisons in 1704, at which time there were only three prisoners, it appears, from the report of his visit. After assuring himself that the vaults were in a good condition, capable of resisting all efforts at escape, confornicatæ et proinde tutæ, he saw the necessity of obviating the dampness of the ground by a brick pavement, ut humiditas arceatur, and ordered the inferno to be closed for ever, because, as he said, it was a very damp and atrocious place. A thoughtfulness so full of humanity is something to dwell on. The very text should be cited: “Eminentissimus archiepiscopus utpote humidissimam et immanissimam claudi demandavit et quod sub pœna excommunicationis nemo ibi detendatur.” The prisoners must have been delighted at a threat so much to their advantage.
The cardinal, preoccupied also with their spiritual condition, found means of providing them with a chapel where they could attend Mass and on festivals hear a sermon. Their cells were sprinkled with holy water to drive away the malign spirit, and ornamented with pictures of devotion. They were forbidden to play cards or read bad books, and were to go to confession six times a year—at Christmas, Easter, Whitsunday, St. Peter’s day, Assumption, and All Saints. Every month the vicar-general visited them to listen to their grievances, remove all grounds of complaint, and assure himself that all orders had been executed. And the cardinal, who always kept an eye on everything himself, went to see them twice a year.
One item in the register of accounts is particularly touching. Cardinal Orsini increased the ration of bread from time to time at his own expense, and had a fire made in the winter, that the prisoners might not suffer from the cold.
The three soldiers employed to make the necessary arrests were under the command of a baricello, or corporal, all of whom, with the jailer, were lodged in the guardiola beside the arched passage which connects the two interior courts.
The second court is bounded on one side by the sacristy of the cathedral, and on the other by the stables and the jubilee hospice. The stables, built by Mgr. Pacca (of the same family from which the cardinal of that name descended), are large enough for about twenty horses—none too many for the archbishop and his suite, for his visits could not always be made in a carriage. Even in our day a cross-bearer precedes his eminence on horseback, clothed in a violet cassock and mantellone, and in former times the cortége must have been much more imposing.
The hospice affords a proof of Cardinal Orsini’s inexhaustible charity. He had before built a special asylum for pilgrims, not far from the palace, under the title of St. Bartholomew, patron of the city. There is nothing left now to remind one of it, except a narrow street still called the Via dei pellegrini. But on extraordinary occasions, as at the time of a jubilee, this asylum was insufficient, and the cardinal accordingly set apart a whole wing of his palace to lodge those who came to Beneventum or were on their way to Rome to gain the indulgence of the Holy Year. This hospice had two entrances to admit the sexes separately: one opening into the first court, the other into the second. The latter has on its lintel this inscription, which gives the precise date and object of the foundation:
Xenodochivm Archiepiscopale Vrsinvm pro An. Ivbilæi MDCC.
Nor was the cardinal content to give them benches and tables in such numbers as still to be spoken of. He had the bare walls relieved by paintings of some religious subject. In the room where public prayers were offered and the rosary sung, as it still is daily in the cathedral to a peculiar air handed down by tradition, was painted Our Lady of the Rosary, with St. Dominic and St. Catharine of Siena at her feet. In the refectory was depicted a scene from the life of the Blessed Ambrogio Sansedoni, a Dominican friar. He was in the habit of serving five pilgrims in honor of the five wounds of our Lord. One day, while waiting on his guests, his eyes being opened by the Holy Spirit, denoted by the white dove on his shoulder, he saw with astonishment that they were five angels sent by God to reward his charity. In the room where the pilgrims’ feet were washed is to be seen the Blessed Andrea de Franchi, also a Dominican, humbly prostrate before a pilgrim who afterwards reveals himself to be the Saviour.
In the arched passage we find a staircase, leading on the one hand to the hall of state, and on the other to the curia. Taking the latter direction, we pass beneath a statue of St. Philip Neri, larger than life, for which reason it is called St. Filippone. Before it burns a votive lamp, a tribute of gratitude from Cardinal Orsini. Higher up are two medallions of the fifteenth century: one of the Blessed Virgin modestly veiled, her hands folded, borne to heaven by two angels; the other represents St. Mark with his usual attribute, the winged lion. The walls of the court-room are enlivened by a series of landscapes, alternating with the Orsini arms, but the most appropriate decoration is the sentence from the writings of St. Jerome:
Privsqvam avdias Ne Ivdicaveris Qvemqvam D. Hieron: De Sept: eccl. Gradibvs.
To judge no one without first hearing him is one of those axioms it seems useless to repeat, and yet how many precipitate judgments, how many sentences that would not be rendered, were so obvious a duty heeded!
The metropolitan archives are between the chancery and the office of the vicar-general, which pour into it every week a mass of official documents for preservation. On the ceiling are emblazoned the arms of Cardinal Banditi, who fitted up the room with conveniences for the registers and papers, distributing them, according to their contents, among the large pigeon-holes which extend from the floor to the very ceiling, and are literally crammed with documents. To find one’s way through such an accumulation requires the sagacity and good memory of an archivist like the present one, whose patience is only equalled by his wish to oblige. Beneventum is full of such excellent priests, who are ready to spend their leisure moments in aiding you in your researches.
It is here Cardinal Orsini may best be studied, and that we can learn to what an extent he sacrificed himself for his flock, thereby meriting to become, by the unanimous suffrage of the Sacred College, the successor of Pope Innocent XIII. His incessant activity is shown by the Diario of six volumes in folio in which, till his elevation to the Papacy, his secretary, day by day, noted down the most minute details of his official life. It begins December 1, 1685, the date of his preconization as archbishop of Beneventum by Pope Innocent XI.
The contents refer chiefly to his pastoral visits, ordinations, both regular and extraordinary; assisting at the offices of the cathedral, preaching in pontificals with seven deacons around him; confirmation, with examination of the children on the eve; general communions, baptisms, visits to the dying, visits of devotion to churches; consecration of bishops, churches, altars, and chalices; blessings of all kinds, including vestments; religious professions; processions wearing the red hat; attending lectures on the Holy Scriptures by a theologian; exposition of the Blessed Sacrament, absolution of the excommunicated, synods, provincial councils, consultations in cases of conscience, instructions to the people after the Gospel, saying the rosary with the faithful, teaching children the catechism, journeys, etc., etc.
At the end of the year a summary was made of his principal labors. We give that of the year 1694: Cardinal Orsini baptized 67 children and confirmed 13,851; conferred orders on 841 clerks, 503 porters, 450 lectors, 449 exorcists, 435 acolytes, 436 subdeacons, 434 deacons, and 457 priests; consecrated 12 bishops, 100 churches, 100 stationary altars, 500 portable altars, 176 patens, and 188 chalices; blessed 5 abbots and 4 abbesses; received the profession of 88 nuns; performed 6 marriages; administered extreme unction 8 times; placed 13 corner-stones, and blessed 14 cemeteries and 234 bells.
What a proof of his activity, combined with a very complicated administration! But let us cite a few items from this unpretending diary:
“In the evening I kept vigil before the relics exposed in the church to be consecrated on the morrow.
“In the morning I solemnly consecrated the church of the Most Holy Annunciation at Jelsi, preached to the congregation, and then said Low Mass. This church is the CXXXV.
“I solemnly administered the sacrament of confirmation in the church to 34 boys and 24 girls, in all 58.
“Assisted in cappa at a sermon on the Blessed Sacrament by one of the students of my seminary.
“Assisted in cappa at the Mass of the feria, chanted (it was in Lent), and at the sermon.
“At Fragnitello I was received with the usual ceremonies, but, what was unusual (and this greatly affected me), all the men, women, and children came out to meet me a mile distant, with olive branches in their hands, showing by this manifestation the joy in their hearts. God be for ever blessed!”
At the end of the year the cardinal signed the register to guarantee the authenticity of the contents. He adopted this formula:
“Annus 1695, Deo propitio, hic terminatur.
“Ita est. Ego fr. Vin. Mar. card. archiepiscopus m(anu) p(ropria).”
The old palaces had a hall of state for exceptional occasions, when the bishop had to appear in all his dignity. There is such an apartment here, and it is of grand proportions. It is adorned with the portraits and arms of the prelates who have occupied the see, with a concise notice of each. Among them are fourteen saints and two beati: viz., SS. Photinus, Januarius, Dorus, Apollonius, Cassian, Januarius II., Emilius, John, Tamarus, Sophus, Marcian, Zeno, Barbato, and Milon. The latter belongs to the eleventh century, St. Photinus to the first, and the remainder range between the fourth and seventh. The Blessed Giacomo Capocci and Blessed Monaldi lived in the fourteenth century. Let us hope, as the cause has been introduced, we may soon add the Venerable Orsini.
From St. Photinus to his Eminence Cardinal Carafa di Traeto there are fifty-one bishops and seventy-one archbishops. The see was not made archiepiscopal till the year 969, during the pontificate of Pope John XIII. Of the twenty-three cardinal archbishops two became popes: Alexander Farnese, under the name of Paul III.; and Cardinal Orsini, under that of Benedict XIII. Three other popes were likewise from Beneventum—St. Felix (526), Victor III. (1086), and Gregory VIII. (1187).
As an example of the concise and elegant manner in which these prelates’ lives are noticed, we give that of St. Milon, a native of Auvergne:
“LIX. Archiep. VIII. S. Milo ex Arvernia in Gallia oriundus, VIII. Beneventanus archiepiscopus, ille idem qui pietate et literis Stephanum Grandimontensis familiæ fundatorem erudivit. Provincialem synodum consummavit A.D. MLXXV. Obiit die XXIII. Februarii A.D. MLXXVI. cum sedisset paucis supra annum mensibus.”
Above these records of the bishops is a long array of armorial ensigns, in which, unfortunately, the arms and seal are often confounded, though essentially different. The archbishops of Beneventum have used for ages a seal of lead on their diplomas and licenses, similar to the bulla of the popes. On one side, separated by a cross, are the heads of the Blessed Virgin, titular of the cathedral, and of St. Bartholomew, the patron of the city and diocese. On the other side are the name and title of the actual archbishop. This seal, in spite of the principles of archæology and heraldry, is given as a coat of arms to the bishops who had none, beginning with St. Photinus, and continuing to the seventh century. From the time of St. Barbato, who died in 682, another seal is added in parti to the bulla, representing a bishop on horseback crossing a bridge and precipitating a dragon into the water. This is doubtless St. Barbato himself, and perhaps refers to the golden viper which he abolished the worship of at Beneventum, transforming it into a chalice, on which, says tradition, was graven the Lord’s Supper.[55] This counter-seal is maintained from the seventh to the eleventh century, when the bulla is resumed under Amelius (1072).
The first arms really heraldic make their appearance under Cardinal Roger, the sixteenth archbishop, who died in 1221. The red hat is found on the escutcheons of the twelfth century, though not conceded to cardinals till about a hundred years later (at the Council of Lyons), and not to be seen on their arms before the fourteenth century. But this may be on the same principle that St. Jerome is usually represented with a cardinal’s hat at his side.
The bulla, seal, and arms, from the first, bear the tiara and crosier. The latter adds nothing to the significance, and does not imply any special privilege, being common to bishops and abbots. As to the tiara, even with a single crown at the base, it is a manifest usurpation. The archbishops of Beneventum, it is true, wore it in the middle ages, as is shown by a document of the fourteenth century and the reliefs on the bronze doors of the cathedral. But Paul II., and later St. Pius V., by a motu proprio, the original of which is to be seen in the archives of the chapter, condemned the practice in formal terms. If the tiara is no longer admissible on ceremonial occasions, why retain it on the arms? And this tiara is boldly surrounded by a nimbus when placed over the arms of the canonized bishops, though none of them ever wore it, with the exception, perhaps, of St. Milon. The nimbus is suitable for the head, which represents the whole body, whereas the covering of the head, however sonorous its name or rich its make, should not have an emblem which denotes elevation on our altars and a claim to public veneration. This would be a grave error, infringing on the liturgy as well as iconography.
The archbishops of Beneventum had a mania for imitating the pope. Thus, they wore the tiara, had the Blessed Sacrament borne before them in their visits, styled themselves Servus servorum Dei, issued diplomas in solemn form after the style of the Cancellaria, sealed them sub plumbo, and imposed on the bishops of the province the annual visit ad limina B. Bartholomæi apostoli. Of all these usurpations, only the tiara remains on the arms, and the bulla on the licenses; but even these are too much, for the tiara and bulla are essentially papal, and rightfully belong to the Sovereign Pontiff alone.
On the walls of the apartment are painted en camaïeu all the sainted bishops of Beneventum in simulated niches, clothed pontifically, with the tiara on their heads. One alone has a distinguishing attribute—St. Barbato, who has in his hand the viper of gold. St. Photinus, according to the Diptychon of Beneventum, was ordained and sent here by St. Peter in the year 40. He is believed to be of Greek origin. From him to St. Januarius, who was martyred in 305, is a long interval with no names, though tradition tells us the see had eleven occupants in the time. This loss of names is said to be owing to Diocletian, who ordered the writings of Christians to be destroyed. There is a similar vacancy in all the sees in France, but this is no argument against their apostolic origin. The first founders might receive their mission from St. Peter or his immediate successors, and the difficulties of the times might prevent their being at once replaced. The churches had to exist as best they could for a long period, and were perhaps governed by bishops with no fixed residence or distinct territory.
To complete the parallel with Rome, Beneventum is said to have had a woman for one of its bishops, as the papal see, according to its enemies, was fraudulently occupied by Pope Joan. Cardinal Orsini spiritedly replies to this calumny in the noble words inscribed next the name of Bishop Enrico, who died in 1170: “Ex errore in necrologio monialium S. Petri orta fuit fabula de Sebastiana moniali pro archiepiscopo habita ne fabula sua vacaret Beneventana Sedes in hac Sebastiana ut Romana de sua Johanna.” This calumny sprang from a false interpretation of the record in the necrology of the abbey of San Pietro for November 29: “Obiit archiepiscopus et Sebastian. mon.” The archbishop and the nun might certainly die on the same day, without being, on that account, one and the same person.
On the east wall of the hall is painted the city of Beneventum, surrounded by the principal towns of the diocese and the sees of the suffragans. As their number is considerable, the frescos are continued in the passage leading to the sacristy. They are not without interest, though perhaps maps would be preferable, after the manner of those, so striking and complete, which adorn the gallery of Gregory XIII. at the Vatican.
As conferences and ecclesiastical assemblies, as well as the Mandatum on Holy Thursday, were held in this hall, there is a permanent throne of carved wood, but it stands between the windows on one side, instead of being at the end in capite aulæ, the proper place, where the entrance now is from the private apartments.
One of the doors in the hall opens into the Monte di Pietà, founded by Cardinal Orsini to relieve the poor of his diocese, where money was lent on articles pledged and without the least interest, conformably to the bulls of Leo X. and Paul V., which definitely regulated such institutions. He established, moreover, a Mons Frumentarius, or wheat fund, to furnish grain to the poor in want of bread, or to sow, at the mere recommendation of their curate, and inscribed over the door appropriate texts from Holy Writ, showing him to be the comforter of the poor:
Mons frumentarius Beneventanus erectus anno Domini 1694.
Factus es fortitudo pauperi, fortitudo egeno[56] (Isaias xxv.)
Eripiet de angustia[57] pauperem (Job xxxvi.)
Revolutions have naturally put an end to these charitable institutions, without substituting anything more to the advantage of the people, but they cannot efface the memory of the incomparable prelate who founded them. Canonico Feuli has reason to say in his Bulletino Ecclesiastico that “others may equal Orsini, but can never surpass him.”
At the top of the staircase is a kind of marquise, supported by elegant columns, before the door leading to the private apartments. Above are the Orsini arms of inlaid marbles, the colors conformed to the rules of heraldry, and the inscription:
Fr. Vinc. Maria. Ord. Præd. Card. Ursino. Archiep. An. MDCCVIII.
which reminds us that Cardinal Orsini belonged to the Dominican Order. Even when pope he continued to be a frate. From him emanated the celebrated constitution which admonished bishops chosen from the regular orders to remember, by the color of their costume, the solemn profession they had once made.
The most striking thing in the antechamber is a double band of emblematic medallions on the walls, with explanatory mottoes, such as were popular in the sixteenth century. They all refer to the obligations of a bishop, and evidently allude to Cardinal Orsini as the model of one. They begin with the holy name of God in Greek, with the Sanctus, Sanctus, Sanctus, the angels’ eternal song of praise. We will rapidly review the other emblems here employed to raise the mind from the visible to the invisible, the material to the spiritual.
The telescope, which enables the human eye to penetrate the profound mysteries of the heavens. So the spiritual world is opened by prayer and meditation. Alta a longe cognoscit (Ps. cxxxvii. 6).
A dog, guarding the fold: emblem of pastoral vigilance. Vt vitam habeant (St. John x. 10).
The mitre, supported by a column: episcopal firmness. Firmalitvr et non flectetvr (Ecclus. xv. 3).
The wine-press overflowing with the juice of the grape: emblem of the spiritual harvest. Vt fructvm plvs afferat (St. John xv. 2).
A clock, which tells the hours and minutes: the value of time. Particvla non te prætereat (Ecclus. xiv. 14).
The crane, emblem of vigilance, because it was formerly believed to sleep on one foot; the other holding a stone, which, when it fell, awoke it. Excvbat in custodiis (Num. xviii. 4).
The horse, held in check by a vigorous hand: self-government. Ne declines in ira (Ps. xxvi. 9).
The elephant, believed every morning to adore the sun at its rising: humility before God. Hvmiliat semetipsvm (Philipp. ii. 8).
The lamp which burns and gives light: figure of the bishop consuming himself for others. Vt ardeat et lvceat (St. John v. 35).[58]
The pelican, nourishing its young with the blood from its own breast: a lively expression of extreme devotedness. Reficiam vos (St. Matt. xi. 28).
The crosier is the shepherd’s crook. It terminates with a graceful hook for the purpose of drawing the lambs more gently. It was once a saying: “It is good to live under the crosier!” Svm pastor bonvs (St. John x. 2).
The sun, shedding its rays on a balance: equity under the inflexible eye of God. Æqvitatem vidit vvltvs eivs (Ps. x. 8).
The honeycomb, in which the bee deposits its honey gathered from the flowers: activity and sweetness. Mansvetvm exaltant (Ps. cxlix. 4).
The stag, which, according to an old notion, attracted serpents by its breath in order to exterminate them: the might of the Holy Spirit, of which a bishop is the organ. Flavit Spiritvs eivs (Ps. cxlvii. 18).
The trumpet, which, though sonorous, can give forth sweet notes. In spiritv lenitatis (Gal. vi. 1).
The mill, turned by the water, grinds wheat to feed the hungry. A bishop, above all, should be the father of the poor and needy. Frangit esvrienti (Isai. lviii. 7).
A painting representing the sun: the divine attributes should be reproduced in a bishop. In eandem imaginem (2 Cor. iii. 18).
The fox, emblem of the transgressor, flies before the dog, symbol of episcopal vigilance. A facie tva fvgiam (Ps. cxxxviii. 7).
The dolphin, by the odor it exhales, draws to it the fish of the sea: the influence of virtue. In odorem cvrrimvs (Cant. i. 3).
An anvil, struck by two hammers at once, without being moved: strength to resist exterior assaults. Fortitvdinem meam cvstodiam (Ps. lviii. 10).
The phœnix, which springs to new life on the pile where it is consumed: the power of multiplying time. Mvltiplicabo dies (Prov. ix. 2).
The bear, taking its young in its paws, to teach them to stand and walk: paternal direction of souls. Donec formetvr (Gal. iv. 19).
The compass, turning its needle to the polar star. A bishop should not be guided by human influences. Hanc reqviram (Ps. xxvi. 4).
The rain, watering the garden: going about doing good. Pertransiit benefaciendo (Acts x. 38).
The pomegranate contains a great number of seeds: a bishop shelters the multitude. Coperit mvltitvdinem (St. James v. 20).
The mitre, surrounded by an aureola: the splendor sanctity adds to the episcopal dignity. Contvlit et splendorem (Judith x. 4).
The eagle, trying its eaglets by making them look at the sun: God alone should be looked to in trial. Cvm probatvs fverit (St. James i. 12).
A tree, the vigor of which is only increased by age: experience increases one’s efficiency. Fortior cvm senverit (Prov. xxii. 6).
At one end of the antechamber is the library, formerly containing a fine collection of books, mostly belonging to Cardinal Orsini, but now unfortunately scattered. He also established a printing-press in the palace for the purpose of publishing his own edicts, licenses, and pamphlets for the direction of his clergy. A small oratory opens into the library with its marble altar turned towards the East and its walls covered with paintings. One of these is a votive picture from Cardinal Orsini after his miraculous preservation in the earthquake of 1688 by the special intervention of St. Philip Neri, representing him buried among the ruins of his palace, his head alone visible, resting on a picture of the saint, who, in consequence of this memorable circumstance, has ever since been regarded as one of the patrons of Beneventum.
It is said that when Cardinal Orsini was leaving Beneventum for Rome, he turned towards the weeping inhabitants, and, after praying silently for an instant, promised them his protection henceforth against earthquakes, and, in fact, not only has the city been spared when serious disasters have occurred in the country around, but no citizen of Beneventum has received any injury, even when exposed elsewhere to terrible danger. Many families keep with veneration a bust of the holy cardinal in their houses, or some object once belonging to him, and attribute to this devotion a special protection.
There is nothing of interest in the private rooms once occupied by Cardinal Orsini. One would like to see his unpretending furniture, his pictures of devotion, the kneeling-stool where he so often prayed for his flock, and the books he daily used, but they are all gone. There is not even an authentic likeness of him,[59] though he resided here thirty-eight years, and expended in the restoration and embellishment of the palace 64,589 ducats of his personal fortune.
We have already alluded to the quarter of the palace called il conventino, because it has the aspect of a monastery. It is divided by a corridor, with cells on both sides that communicate with each other, or can be made private at pleasure. Here, without any luxury or display, Cardinal Orsini lodged the bishops convoked for the provincial councils, and generously provided for every expense these assemblies involved. The priests who accompanied them were lodged in the convent of San Modesto, where nothing was wanting to their comfort. The register of accounts gives some curious details as to the supplies. Macaroni necessarily played an important rôle. Snow was furnished for refreshing drinks. And as the wine called Lachryma would doubtless have been too heavy, it was previously tempered by a strong addition of the ordinary red wine!
But the patience of the reader is already exhausted with these details. As we have implied, the archiepiscopal palace of Beneventum is not precisely artistic, and yet it is interesting and curious. If the account has been unreasonably prolonged, the memory of Cardinal Orsini is a sufficient justification. We cannot make too prominent the name and labors of those who lived only for the church, and sacrificed themselves for its development and glory. Quam multa, quam opportuna, quam grandia accepta referunt beneficia, let us say, in conclusion, with the inscription on the hospital at Beneventum, graven on marble to the praise of Fra Vincenzo Maria, priest of the title of St. Sixtus, Cardinal Orsini.
Footnote 51:
Le Palais Archiépiscopal de Bénévent. Par Mgr. X. Barbier de Montault, prélat de la maison de Sa Sainteté. Arras: A. Planque et Cie. 1875.
Footnote 52:
The word palace is, by us, reserved for exceptional edifices that are vaster, loftier, and more highly ornamented than the dwelling of a merely private individual. But the Italian, who loves sonorous epithets, is more indiscriminate in its application. His word palazzo is susceptible of two meanings, one referring to the edifice, and the other to the person who inhabits it. In the latter sense it is applied to the residence of any high dignitary or person of office, however little in accordance it may be with his station. It is his rank which gives importance to his dwelling, and a name that sets it apart and prevents it from being confounded with the houses of people merely in easy circumstances.
Footnote 53:
In order to correspond fully to the wish expressed so gracieusement by the Rev. Father Hecker, founder of the Paulists, to have the plan of a building, with its ornamentation, in conformity with Roman traditions, we have taken the principal features of the palace at Beneventum as the model of that which the Catholics of America propose offering the cardinal of New York. The development of this architectonic and iconographic project will be the subject of a special essay.—Note of Mgr. Barbier de Montault.
Footnote 54:
In an official paper at Dijon, dated Sept. 26, 1511, mention is made of an obscure dungeon under the name of cachot d’enfer.
Footnote 55:
St. Barbato’s triumphal entrance into Beneventum was by a gateway that has preserved the name of Porta Gloriosa.
Footnote 56:
In tribulatione sua (Isa. xxv. 4).
Footnote 57:
De angustia sua (Job xxxvi. 15).
Footnote 58:
These quotations are often modified—the idea, rather than the exact words, being aimed at.
Footnote 59:
There are three portraits of Cardinal Orsini in the cathedral, taken at different periods of his life. The forehead is high and well developed. The eye is pleasant and sympathetic, but keen and penetrating. The nose has a bold outline, indicative of his energetic will. The mouth is contracted at the corners, giving it an expression of bitterness and dissatisfaction. The face is full, and tells of life and vigor.
“JUXTA CRUCEM.”
“Dear Lord,” we say, “could we have stood With thy sweet Mother and Saint John Beside thy cross; or knelt and clung— Heedless what ruffian eyes look’d on— With Magdalen’s wild grief, and flung Our arms about th’ ensanguined wood!...”
But have we not the Crucified Among us, “even at the door”? Whom else behold we, day by day, In the sore-laden, patient poor? And where disease makes want its prey, Can we not stand that cross beside?
O blest vocation, theirs who come, At chosen duty’s high behest, To soothe the squalid couch of pain With pledges of a better rest Than all earth’s wealth can give or gain, And whispers of eternal home!
Never so near our Lord as then, We touch His Wounds—more heal’d than healing: Never so close to Mary’s Heart, Hear too for us its throbs appealing: And when for other scenes we part, It is with John and Magdalen.
THE LITERARY EXTRAVAGANCE OF THE DAY.
La Bruyère sees in all extravagance of phrase some symptom of weakness. “To say modestly of anything it is good or it is bad, and to give reasons why it is so, needs good sense and expression. It is much shorter to pronounce in a decisive tone either that it is execrable or admirable.” He himself is a model of clearness and exactness of expression. His English counterpart is Swift, of whom Thackeray said: “He writes as if for the police.” Nothing in literature surpasses the vraisemblance of Gulliver’s Travels, which reads like a book of authentic adventure. Its artlessness is the perfection of art concealing art. La Bruyère also says: “What art is needed to be natural (rentrer dans la nature)! What time, what rules, what attention, what labor to dance with the ease and grace with which we walk, to sing as easily as we talk, to speak and express one’s self as one’s self thinks!” To speak or to write as one thinks seems, in these days of tumid and extravagant expression, to be one of the lost arts. We generally say either more or less than we think, usually more. For this reason we should turn to the older classical writers, because of the importance they attribute to diction, and the sense of duty they attach to it.
The new rhetorical doctrine is, “Let the style take care of itself. Give us thought.” Robert Browning, whose poetry nobody understands, probably not even himself, declares in favor of “burrs of expression that will stick in the attention.” Any one who has scrambled through the labyrinths of some of his poems has had “burrs” enough to suffice him for a lifetime. It is clear that this plea for thought to the neglect of style is an excuse for slovenly composition. There is no reason why thought should not have clear, precise, and beautiful expression. Unless style be made a subject of deep attention, and be brought to the severest test of rhetorical criticism, there is an end of literature. If the barbaric “yawp” of Walt Whitman is to pass for poetry; if the pictorial daubs of J. A. Froude are to be considered historical portraitures; and if extravagant and exaggerated forms of speech are to be ranked as striking beauties, the literary critics and the lovers of literature in general must gird themselves for a tougher battle for letters than they ever did for any attack that threatened them from Philistia. What we call the Extravagant School of Literature numbers eminent names, and is by no means confined to the more obvious and pronounced sensationalism of the daily press. Contemporaneous history, criticism, poetry, sectarian theology, and, wonderful to say, philosophy and science deal largely in exaggerated expression and extravagant theory.
It may be some consolation to the newspapers and to the gentler sex, both charged by the critics with the use of exaggeration and hyperbole, that they but follow the example set them by grave modern historians and scientists. The reckless writing in the journals, like the fluent gossip at Mrs. Grundy’s tea-parties, is ephemeral. But extravagance aspires to immortality in the pages of the historian. The description of Mary Stuart’s beheading in Froude lacks even the historical accuracy of a New York Herald reporter’s account of an “execution.” Macaulay’s fantastic analysis of motives exceeds in boldness of conjecture a journalist’s article on the future policy of the Vatican. In both sets of examples there is the same fault—unlimited speculation and unjustifiable comment. Darwin observes some particular facts in natural history, and, in defiance of a familiar rule in syllogisms, leaps at once to a universal conclusion. Matthew Arnold, fired by his name as a critic, indulges in extravagant speculation upon the relations of literature and dogma. Science loses its cool head, and philosophy its cautious pace, on the presentation of hitherto unexplained phenomena. Protestant theology hears aghast that the Greek of the Epistle to the Hebrews is more classic than that in the other Pauline epistles, and telegraphs the discovery to the Board on the Revision of the Scriptures. The dainty trick of Tennyson’s metre is the despair and admiration of inglorious Miltons, whose hands cannot strike the resounding lyre with like skilfulness, and thereupon jangle it in woful measures. Bret Harte makes a “hit” in the delineation of wild Western life, and he is hailed as a new-born genius. John Hay and Joaquin Miller assume the bays. A crowd of nonentities rush before the public on the lecture platform, and their extravagant nonsense brings them fame and fortune. The two classes react upon each other for the worse. The extravagant never corrects his faults, and the public never perceive them, so used have they become to this baneful influence of sensationalism. It permeates popular religion. A Protestant Life of Christ by a prominent preacher reads like a dime novel.
We readily pardon the extravagance of fiction; and catechresis in poetry does not call forth the severest censure of the critic. Any one familiar with the hard conditions of modern newspaper writing will not be disposed to judge harshly if both editor and reporter combine to make their journal “spicy.” It may be that the high-pressure system on which newspapers are conducted has exercised a marked influence upon all classes of readers and writers. The New York dailies have a rather questionable élan, which provincial journals follow from afar off. The stupendous enterprise of sending expeditions to South Africa and to the North Pole, the insatiable quest for news, the undisguised love of the sensational characteristic of foremost journalism, have, in our opinion, a debilitating and disastrous effect upon the scholarship and the intellectual life of America. The showy story, the painfully epigrammatic drama, and the pyrotechnical poetry of the land are newspapery to the last degree. Journalists do not even seem to know or realize the influence which they exert. What is a pointed and brilliant editorial compared to the honest endeavor of a journalist to inculcate sound ethical and social views in the minds of his readers? Who cares about Jones’ slashing attack upon Smith? Why, in the name of common decency, are columns opened to the discussion of Robinson’s domestic infelicities? We do not wish to make up our minds every morning upon the state and prospects of the universe. We are firmly convinced that the world will go on, without being daily buttonholed by talented editors to acquaint us with the fact. The sensational newspaper has spoiled some of the best traits in the American, and it has given abnormal development to his worst tendency—his curiosity. A newspaper would have scattered all the happiness of Rasselas’ valley. It is happy for Americans that they have a weakness for print, and seem rather to enjoy a figure therein. If the Bungtown Bugle did not notice the arrival in town of Mr. Porkpacker, let the editor tremble.
But the extravagance of journalism is mainly confined to words. It is not altogether true that the guiding spirit of the newspaper is sensation. This charge, which can readily be sustained against the contemporary historian, does not hold of the journalist. He makes the most of news, but he rarely invents. He is sensitive on this point. Accuracy is a prime requisite in a reporter. His is the hyperbole of words. This comes generally from a limited education and inexact habits of thought. When we reflect that the first and last lesson of rhetoric is simplicity, we should not expect too much from men who are trained to think and believe that no idea is acceptable unless arrayed in gorgeous imagery and blazing with tawdry rhetoric. A fire with loss of life is a terribly startling thing, and the reporter imagines that he is really describing its horror when, with apt alliteration’s artful aid, he heads his account with “The Fire-fiend Furious—Flaunting Flames Frantically Flashing—Fainting Firemen Fused by the Fierce Fire,” etc. Richard Grant White has wearied his readers for a decade and more on the theme of newspaper English and cognate subjects. The fact is, no man can be an etymologist without a fair knowledge of the languages from which the English is derived, and it is simply wasted labor to counsel the attainment of a classic style from a mere acquaintance with one language, and that the vernacular. The wonder is that so much really good writing is done under such limitations.
It takes some self-denial in a newspaper man to say a thing simply. We understand that Western newspapers have made a new departure in announcing deaths, and that a rather coarse, if not ribald, humor is tolerated. This is an evidence of a lower sensationalism. The West has exercised a rough and energetic influence upon the laughable dilettanteism of the Eastern press, but we must confess our inability to relish its humor. Its humor is extravaganza, and thus would work out the very reform and improvement which it is the design of this article to advocate. The pompous descriptions ending in anti-climax, the open burlesquing of the style of newspaper novelists, the riotous characterization of oddities, and the hearty dislike of sham and cant that one meets in Western journalism must have a good effect upon the general literature of the country. But one tires of Mark Twain, mayhap for the reason that one grows speedily weary of professedly funny papers. The poor court-jesters of the middle ages got more frowns than smiles. Mark Twain has little of that heartiness and bonhomie that are the characteristic of true humor. Real wit he has none, nor does he pretend to it. His humor is extravagance, which, even in this humble but oh! how genial faculty and expression of the human heart, is seen to be out of place and power.
The more we read and write, the clearer becomes to us the wisdom of the Horatian maxim to keep our lucubrations by us for years. Hasty writing is not only hard reading but often dangerous utterance. An editor told the writer that when the news of the late Pope’s death reached us he had his biography already in type, but without editorial comment. It was necessary to compose some sort of editorial upon an event which for a time suspended the breath of Christendom, and our editor, with the nonchalance and conceit which unfortunately characterize so many of the journalistic guild, sat down to dash off as fast as pen could travel his estimate of that great, long-suffering, and heroic man on whose brow, where gathered the glory of Thabor and the gloom of Calvary, rested the mystic diadem of the Supreme Pontificate. “Of course,” said our editor, “I hadn’t time to get up anything very fine, but my Protestant friends were delighted. I gave the good old man some pretty severe raps—that thing, you know, about his being a Mason, and opposed to progress—and—and—Antonelli, and that little love-affair, you know. Ha! ha! ha!” No wonder Dickens impaled the editor of the New York Rowdy. Now, if this man could have waited, and read and reflected, it would have been morally impossible for him to have composed an obituary which, if it had been written of any other man than the dead Vicar of Jesus Christ, would have exposed its author to the pistol-shot of outraged relatives or to the chastisement of public justice.
So long as ignorant and irresponsible men are suffered to guide and control the expression of a journal, so long will the American newspaper fail of any high mission. It is a good sign of the sturdy independence of the American character that it has shaken off the journalistic yoke and thinks for itself. Formerly the editorial pages were the first to be scrutinized and the mysterious oracle consulted. But
“Apollo from his shrine Can no more divine.”
The garish light of day has been poured in upon the sanctum, and the divinity has fled. The newspaper is not likely soon again to attain to that high dignity and power which it held prior to the last Presidential election, for reasons too obvious to the reader to need mention here. Year by year the strongly-marked individuality of the chief editor, so familiar of old, fades out of sight, either because the race of great editors is run or the conditions of newspaper life have changed. We speak of the newspaper only as it falls within the scope of this article, which regards its literary and not its moral aspect. We do not advert to it at all as a teaching or ethical power, for we look upon the average journal with feelings akin to contempt at its blind or wilful neglect of the highest possibilities of good. No men are better acquainted than are newspaper men with the absurdity of Protestantism, its failure both as a public institution and a private religious life, its petty tyrannies, its squeamishness, its rhodomontade, and its helplessness before any attack of sound and manly logic. They know, too, or ought to know, the real good of the Catholic Church. Yet how rarely one sees in a journal even a feeble recognition of the benefits of Catholicity! Why, in many quarters we do not even get the show and hearing graciously accorded to the Mormons. Who has not felt the covert sneer, the poorly-concealed bigotry, and the ignorant prejudice so thinly disguised? When Doyle, England’s best caricaturist, not even excepting Cruikshank, was required by the proprietors of Punch to draw a caricature of the Pope, he threw his pencil in their faces and told them “be ——,” a word which the recording angel certainly blotted out. What are we to think of a journal that seizes the celebration of the feast of a great national saint as a happy occasion for publishing a series of “jocular” and blasphemous articles on the saint’s memory, twice piercing the sensibilities of Irishmen, once through their faith and next through their nationality? Is that honest, worthy, or dignified journalism?
Enough has been said to place the general newspaper press upon a low form in the school of extravagant expression. Not until editors feel a profound moral responsibility, and enlarge their minds with at least a cursory study of Catholic theology—two things which are least likely to come to pass—will the American journal attain any lasting prestige or power. As it is, its tone becomes less dignified and effective year by year, and we should not be surprised to discover in the newspaper, in time, the most stubborn and powerful opponent of Christianity, and even of general morality. Heaven knows what incalculable harm it now does to immortal souls by its constant vomiting forth of social impurities and criminal details. There are certain papers of large circulation and “respectability” which cannot be read by all without proximate danger of mortal sin. But if a Catholic critic ventures to proclaim these manifest truths, he is answered with a howl about the church’s opposition to progress and enlightenment. The newspapers cannot bear criticism whilst savagely attacking any person or institution to which they take a dislike. This sensitiveness is a symptom of weakness.
We turn to the great masters of extravagant expression. At their head we place Lord Macaulay, who has demonstrated the art of making history romantic, and romance historical. Query: whether Sir Walter Scott was not the founder of the contemporaneous historical school? At any rate the cry is, “Let us have no more dryly accurate histories like Lingard’s or Arnold’s. Relegate to an appendix state papers and statistics. Give us delightful conversations between historical personages, somewhat in the style of Landor’s Imaginary Conversations, only not so heavy.” It is so delightful to enter into the secret motives of men, to interpret their hidden spirit, and clearly understand their whole mental and moral being. This is the new school of historical writing, carried to extravagant lengths by Macaulay, Froude, and Carlyle. The old-fashioned idea of history was the simple and exact statement of events, the ascertained motives of historical personages, and the actual results of their deeds and decrees. This idea the trio before mentioned scout with derisive laughter. Macaulay writes down “the dignity of history”; Froude penetrates into the arcana of royal bosoms; and Carlyle shrilly hoots at the Dryasdusts for their historical investigations, and makes a bonfire of archives and state papers. Of this precious triad Macaulay is the least vehement, but none the less must we dub him an extravagant. He never can say a thing naturally. He cannot rise above an epigram or an antithesis. Nor was there ever any intellectual growth in him. In Trevelyan’s Life and Letters of Macaulay there is a characteristic anecdote of his boyhood. His mother refused him a piece of cake for some misdemeanor—for missing a lesson, we think. “Very well,” antithetically answered the future reviewer (ætat. 9), “hereafter industry shall be my bread and application my butter.” This might have been written in the Edinburgh forty years after. When the famous essay on Milton appeared, sensationalism had not as yet invaded the prosy precincts of the reviews. Jeffrey’s classic but dull reviews were models; nor did the humor of the “joking parson of St. Paul’s” receive much countenance from the Scotch, on whom the parson revenged himself when he said that a surgical operation was necessary to get a joke into a Scotchman’s head. Macaulay’s brilliancy took the town by storm. But what is there in the review of Milton? of Johnson? of Bacon? He began the carnival of the sensational. George Cornewall Lewis said of Macaulay: “The idea of a man of forty writing such flowery and sentimental stuff! Macaulay will never be anything but a rhetorician.” But the reading people had their appetites whetted by Scott and Byron, and there has been little sobriety in literature since. The extravagance of the praise with which Macaulay bedaubed Milton struck the critics at the time; but when they answered, he was famous. The Americans raved over him. It was perhaps as well that his History was never finished, for it is morally certain that his infatuation for saying brilliant things would have led him to hurl Washington and the American patriots of the Revolution from their pedestals. He could not resist the temptation to bid men abate their admiration of any esteemed character. To wind up with a brilliant period was the height of his poor literary ambition. Of course he received his reward; but no man now who values his reputation for scholarship would think of citing him as an historical or, what may seem stranger, a literary authority. That glowing tribute to the Catholic Church in the review on Ranke has always seemed to us one of his rhetorical bursts. There were in the subject light and color, imposing figures, an atmosphere of art and beauty, and innumerable chances for introducing epigrams and startling paradoxes. He wrote an article which flames like one of Rubens’ pictures. The whole argument is false from beginning to end, and its logic would shame the New Zealander himself. The conclusion which any thoughtful man would draw from the powers and attributes therein ascribed to the Catholic Church is that such an institution must be divine—a conclusion furthest from the reviewer’s thought. He has made the dull pages of English political history as interesting as a fairy-tale, under which designation it no doubt will be tabulated by future scholars; for there is not a point d’appui in the entire history, from his glorification of King William to his defamation of Penn, that has not been shattered by some one. But who should seriously attack romance?
James II. was a poltroon, and William III. was a brave man and a great statesman. Macaulay did not attempt all the possibilities of sensationalism. This was left for J. A. Froude, who now reigns in his stead. Casting about for a striking character, Froude lights on Henry VIII. And it is here that that delightful historico-romantic style soars to hitherto unexplored heights of extravagance. The injured monarch is introduced to the sound of mournful music. His tortured mind is apparent in his anguish-riven face. Contemplate at leisure that Achillean form, that massive brow, the melancholy grace of those royal legs. A pensive smile irradiates a countenance on which all the graces play. He is thinking of Katharine. His conscience is smitten. Enter to him Anne Boleyn. What thoughts are hidden beneath that alabaster brow?—and so on for volumes. The forte of the historian of this school is his thorough knowledge of the thoughts and designs of his personages. Nothing escapes his eagle eye. This wondrous faculty, which has hitherto been considered preternatural, enables him to detect deep meanings in the slightest act. The king smiled significantly. Ah-hah! Sergeant Buzfuz’s interpretation of Pickwick’s note about the warming-pan sinks into obscurity alongside of the calm and connected analysis of motive that Mr. Froude can weave out of King Henry’s stockings. It will amuse our readers to take up a few pages of any of Froude’s historical works, and study out illustrations of this criticism. They will soon discover that it is he who does all the thinking, planning, and suffering for his historical automata, that are moved by the chords of his sympathetic heart. No one would call Froude a historian except in burlesque. He is a romancist.
But what shall we say of the Scotch Diogenes, Carlyle, who hurls books instead of tubs, though the latter missile would do less mischief? He is an extravagant. We have hesitated some time about classing him in the school, but we think that we are justified, at least by the wildness, unconnectedness, and rhapsodical fury of his speech. Besides, he frantically hates and denounces America, which fact would set him down at once as a man of unbalanced intellect and malignant humor. He used to know how to write English, as his Life of Schiller and Life of John Sterling abundantly prove. But in an evil hour he learned German, and the next view of him we have discovers him tossing in a maelstrom of German metaphysics. He certainly deserved a better fate. We very much doubt if any sane man can long keep his wits and study German philosophy, especially in the mad outcomes of Fichte’s Absolute Identity and Schelling’s theories of the το εγο. The best minds of Germany, both Catholic and Protestant, Möhler and Neander, have pronounced the judgment of all sensible men upon these absurdities in one word—rubbish. Carlyle patiently worked in this rubbish for years, and his result is not half so good as his brave old words, spoken out of his honest heart: “Do what you are able to do in this world and leave the rest to God.” In the name of common sense, do rational men care anything about the critic of Pure Reason, or the beer and tobacco speculations of conceited egoists? It were well if men, like the parish priest in Don Quixote, burnt all those foolish books of knight-errantry carried on in a world as dreamy and fantastic as that fabled by the old writers on chivalry. Carlyle’s command of language is marvellous, but his style is hybrid, wearisome, and frequently unintelligible. He is sensational, in a bad sense, too. There is not a hero that he has chosen who was not chosen with an eye to effect: Mohammed, a prophet! Luther, the hero-priest! Cromwell, the hero-king! The selection of these worthies enabled him to say something startling. Then the idea of taking Frederick II. of Prussia as a type of the heroic, kingly, religious, literary, and general excellence of the eighteenth century was carrying the extravagant a little too far. The old man now sits like a bear with a sore head. We pardon him much, for we look upon him as an embittered and disappointed man. He seems not to care what he says nor how rudely he says it. His criticism on Swinburne, the erotic poet, whose success is an indication of something rotten in English letters, is so harsh that we hesitate to quote it, though it is richly deserved: “He is a man up to his neck in a cess-pool, and adding to the filth.” We need Diogenes to snub Alexander and to trample on the pride of Plato. Had Carlyle escaped fantastic Germanism and its wretched philosophizing, he would rank with the greatest masters of language in any tongue. The glow and beauty of many of his descriptions are beyond praise, and no more skilful hand has ever drawn the vast and gloomy tableaux of the French Revolution. His historical method has the same vice as Macaulay’s and Froude’s. He is pictorial, imaginative, and given to unwarranted speculation. His style has the worst faults of the sensational school, though it may be alleged in his defence that his vast knowledge of German has unconsciously and radically modified it. Affectation he has none, which cannot be said of his imitators in word-coining.
Literary criticism, which certainly should have advanced somewhat since the days of Dennis, is at present as “slashing” as that old cynic himself could have desired. The great reviews, spoiled by Macaulay’s example, have adopted a supercilious tone that but ill comports with the dignity and functions of true criticism. We recall only one great exception, John Wilson (Christopher North), in recent English literary criticism, that is not open to the charge of querulous fault-finding. The narrowness of the English reviews, and their fatal obtuseness to see beyond the limits they have drawn for themselves, have deprived them of the proper power of literary judgment or suggestive writing such as we associate with a review. The latest of their number, the Nineteenth Century, is not long enough before us to enable us to form a satisfactory judgment. It lacks unity, but, perchance, this is a merit. The reader knows beforehand the judgment of the Edinburgh, the London and British Quarterlies, and the Westminster on any subject. They are a bench of Lord Jeffreys passing sentence before any evidence is presented to them.
There is no writer on whom sensationalism works such quick and fatal destruction as the critic. We look to him to be above the passions of the hour, the rage of the fashion, and the influence of literary and political cliques. Even his admiration must be tempered. He must betray no weaknesses. When we come across a critique which runs over with passion, weak sentiment, petty jealousies, unworthy bickerings, and a subdued but potent sensationalism, we are shocked and disappointed. Most contemporary reviews are pompous exhibitions of the writer’s own learning, which may be in one sense encyclopædic, and which generally throws the author under review quite in the shade. The older reviewers gave some hearing to an author. They quoted him largely, and enabled the reader to judge for himself. They proffered their opinions modestly, and supported their objections with proof drawn from the book itself. But nowadays, if a reviewer condescends to advert to the book which he is supposed to be reviewing, it is in a high and mighty tone of censure or of autocratic approval. This obtrusion of self and opinions smacks much of the sensational. The reviewer wishes to be seen upon the tripod, and he is convinced in his own heart, or at least allows his reader plainly to understand, that he could write a much better book than that which he has deigned to review. Slashing criticisms are in great favor. Oh! for another Macaulay to blast another Montgomery. We say, Oh! for another Pope to place these gentlemen in another Dunciad. There is no merit in cutting a book to pieces. An eye sharpened by malice and on the lookout for faults will detect blunders in a title. Where merited chastisement must be inflicted it should not be spared; but that is a poor idea of literary criticism that views it as a medium of communicating only stinging comment and bitter diatribe. Criticism is essentially calm and judicial. It should sift a book as law does evidence. No stormy passions should be suffered to disturb its equanimity. There is no other department of letters that invites and exacts such rare scholarship and genial wisdom.
The man who can quickly recognize and honestly praise a work of genius, and, through wise commendation, introduce it to a wide circle of readers, merits a crown more precious than the poet’s. In these days of much bad writing and wide reading there is deep need of such exact criticism, such careful watchfulness over literature, and such sure guidance of the public taste. Keep sensationalism at least out of our reviews and our book notices, for if the critic loses the reckoning we are indeed at sea.
We hinted that sectarian theology has its sensational side. If we can dignify with the name of theology that congeries of books, sermons, pamphlets, and tracts that is the literary outcome of Protestantism, then theology, the queen of the sciences, is in the plight of Hecuba as described in Hamlet:
“But who, oh! who had seen the mobled queen Run barefoot up and down, threatening the flames,” etc.
No attempt is made to conceal the sensationalism of the Protestant pulpit. A dull preacher had best betake himself to another occupation; say anything that will be listened to, sooner than behold the agonizing sight of a sleeping congregation. Modern congregations do not enjoy the traditional nap. They are kept awake by the attitudinizer in the pulpit. They are not sure of what he is going to say next. Sir Roger de Coverley made his chaplain preach one of Barrow’s sermons, and, thus being assured of orthodoxy, he slept with a quiet conscience. The quality of the majority of Protestant sermons is as spiced and sensational as the average popular lecture. What motive but that of making a sensation can induce Farrar and Stanley to preach against hell in Westminster Abbey? Their sermons are as high colored as a story in the New York Ledger. The new tack which the Protestant hulk is now painfully taking is the harmonization of science and religion. We verily believe that Darwin, Huxley, and Tyndall take a malicious pleasure in seeing the squirms of Protestant theologians. Those men know themselves the inconclusiveness of their arguments against revelation, but the fatal spell is on science, too—it must be sensational or nothing. The old scientists worked calmly away for years, and set forth the results of their investigations with the modesty of true merit. But Huxley cannot anatomize the leg of a spider without publishing the process in the newspapers, with some reflections upon its bearing and probably fatal effect upon the Mosaic records.
In summing up the conclusions suggested by our reflections upon the extravagant, we must not forget that the ways and habits of modern social life have almost necessitated this species of literature. It is remarkable that the Latin writers under the later emperors have neither the purity of thought nor of style of the old masters. Literature is the reflex of passing life. Our century is the century of startling discovery, of kaleidoscopic changes, of rapid social life and intense intellectual energy. Its expression must be loud and boisterous. But it is the duty of writers to keep the gross sensational elements of life out of letters. Literature should soothe and compose the mind; should be its refuge from turbulence and care; should be a ministry of peace and refreshment to the wearied spirit. The enduring products of human genius are marked by the calmness and serenity of the great souls that conceived them, and they produce in us the like frame of mind. The public should look coldly upon the class of productions we have been examining, and bid
“The extravagant and erring spirit hie To its confine.”
THE BLUE-BIRD’S NOTE.
I.
Not Philomel, ’mid dark of night, unseen, Pipes sweeter notes unto the listening heart Than from the adventurous blue-bird start That sings amid the cedars’ dusky green When March doth fleck the sky with windy clouds, When sodden grass is gray as naked boughs Along whose length no touch of summer glows— Folded the buds within their spicy shrouds, Waiting the coming of their Easter morn, When the up-risen sun their bonds shall break, Earth’s alleluia in the forests wake, Wherein no voice more glad than this is born That fills the farewell hours of winter gloom With skies of blue and fields knee-deep in bloom.
II.
Who hears the music of the blue-bird’s song, And sees not straightway cloudy skies grow fair With softened light pale April kindleth there? Who heareth not the swollen, rippling throng Of loosened streams that trip the roads beside, That wear soft channels in the meadow grass, And peaceful grow to uphold the crisp-leaved cress? Who sees not o’er the marsh-pools, dark and wide, Rise tasselled willow and the later glow Of sturdy marigolds’ broad, golden bloom, Dim light of violets; while fresh perfume From every budding twig doth overflow? Such world a song can build of shivering air— Earth’s miracles unfolding everywhere.
III.
Singeth the dreamy nightingale of love, Unsevered still the thrush from Paradise, The lark’s swift aspiration to the skies Is faith that sees in perfect light above; And type doth seem spring’s blue-winged herald’s song Of that calm faith Eternal Wisdom blessed, Believing things unseen with quiet breast, Not asking first to see the angels throng. Faith meet for earth, filling the storm-rent skies With cheerful song of trust and heavenly grace, Softening with joys to come earth’s rugged face, Tinting life’s gray with heaven’s rainbow dyes— Thy note, O fearless blue-bird! stainless scroll O’er writ with love and hope for earth and soul.
GERMAN GLOSSARIES, HOMILIES, AND COMMENTARIES ON SCRIPTURAL AND LITURGICAL SUBJECTS.[60]
A diligent and impartial German bibliographer, Dr. John Geffcken, Protestant pastor of St. Michael’s, Hamburg, in his learned work on catechetical treatises of the fifteenth century, has pointed out the almost complete forgetfulness of present scholars of a branch of literature important in the theological and controversial history of Germany before the Reformation. He says of his own researches in this field:
“There was a lost, or at any rate a forgotten, literature to be discovered step by step, and its spirit grasped in all the branches thus brought together and compared. The following information will show how little light the fragmentary notices of Langemack in his Historia Catechetica (vol. i.), or of Köcher, in his Catechetical History of the Papal Church, threw upon the times to which I have devoted my attention. The worst, however, was that even these scanty notices were often false or misleading, and that, instead of pointing out the right track, they not seldom led into error. They consist mostly of lists of titles of books, without a hint of the contents of such books, and not seldom an uncertain or fanciful title is interpreted as denoting contents utterly different from the reality. The spirit of controversial prejudice in which these works were written impelled the authors, whenever they had to deal with ante-Reformation times, to paint the historical background in the darkest possible colors, in order to bring out in corresponding relief the brightness of the new dawn of the sixteenth century.”
If this is true of such works as those to which Geffcken refers, it is equally so of the German Plenarii, or glossaries, commentaries, homilies, and various devotional manuals in the vulgar tongue published in the last half of the fifteenth century and the first quarter of the sixteenth. The inquiry into the publication, contents, and diffusion of these books is as interesting from an antiquarian as from a theological point of view. They are little known even to cataloguists of acknowledged merit. Brunet, in his Manuel du Libraire,[61] etc., under the heading Plenarium, vol. iv., mentions only one, as the Plenarium, or Book of the Gospels, printed at Basle by Peter von Langendorff in 1514; while under the heading of Gospels (vol. ii.) he mentions in general terms several “Evangelia.” Hain, in his Repertorium Bibliographicum (Stuttgart and Tübingen, 1826-1828), in which he claims to have collected the names of all the books printed from the time of the discovery of printing to the year 1500, is a little more explicit as to the gospels and epistles under the heading of that name, but has nothing to say of any Plenarium; although the name stands as a separate heading, it is followed by no details or examples. Graesse, in his Trésor de livres rares et précieux, ou nouveau dictionnaire bibliographique (Dresden, 1859-1869), mentions only five of these works, giving the dates and presses but no hint of the contents of the books. Earlier scholars, however, had not so wholly lost the tradition of the existence of these manuals; for instance, Nicholas Weislinger, in his Armamentarium Catholicum Argent., 1749 fol. sub anno 1488 (pp. 412-415), and Panzer, in his Annals of Ancient German Literature; or, notices and descriptions of those books which, since the invention of printing till the year 1520, were printed in the GERMAN tongue (Nuremberg, 1788), mentions a fact which Dr. Alzog says he has not yet found proved by other documents—the existence of similar manuals in other countries than Germany. The French have Les Postilles et Expositions des Epistres et Evangiles Dominicales, etc. (Troyes, 1480 and 1492, and Paris, 1497), and the Italians the same in 1483, press and date not mentioned, and Epistole e Evangeli per tutto l’anno, per Annibale da Parma (Venice, 1487). No doubt research among the libraries of ancient Italian cities, colleges, and monasteries would discover many copies of such manuals, and the same may be said of French glossaries. The fact that they have but recently come to light in Germany argues equally in favor of their being at some future time discovered in other countries, certainly not less enlightened at the time whence date the German manuals.
It seems that hitherto no satisfactory etymology of the name of this class of books has been found; the explanation of Du Cange[62] being rather bald, that the books “wholly contain the four gospels and the canonical epistles.” Whatever the origin of the title, the books themselves multiplied rapidly from 1470 to 1522. They were invariably in the vulgar tongue, often in dialect. They were meant as emphatically popular hand-books, guides to the liturgy, and interpreters of the Latin offices of the church, while they also supplied the place of sermons, homilies, and meditations by their glossaries and explanations of the gospels, lessons, and epistles. Some of these are much in the style of the commentaries of the early Fathers on Scriptural subjects. The translations from the Vulgate are generally original, and do not follow strictly any of the authorized versions of the day. In some of the later Plenarii the Collects and Prefaces are given, in others the Graduals and Communions; in a few the whole liturgy is translated and the ceremonies explained. None of these books was ever published in Latin, and, unlike our modern missals, they very seldom, and then sparingly, included the Latin text with that in the vulgar tongue. Hymns and sequences were also often printed. Dr. Alzog was drawn to the study of this branch of church literature by his researches for a hand-book of universal church history, and by his opportunities in the University Library of Freiburg in Breisgau, which alone contains six editions of Plenarii of 1473, press unknown, five respectively of 1480 (Augsburg), of 1481 (Urach), of 1483 (Strassburg), of 1514 and 1522 (Basle), and several others without authors’ or publishers’ names, as well as the kindred works of a famous preacher of that time, Geiler von Keisersperg, printed at Strassburg. The reproach sometimes made to the fifteenth century, of being destitute of sufficient religious and moral instruction in printed form, is much neutralized by the opposite reproach of a contemporary whose name is famous in literature as that of the author of the Ship of Fools, Sebastian Brant. This powerful satire, the work of a priest, begins with these words in German rhyme:
“All the land is now full of holy writings And of what touches the weal of souls, Bibles, and the lore of holy fathers, And many more such like, In measure such that I much marvel No one grows better on such cheer.”
Alzog names thirty-eight manuals, including five by Keisersperg, with his sermons and expositions of doctrine, and seven in Low Saxon dialect, interesting as showing the peculiarities of spelling in certain districts at that time. The form of the title is almost unvaried in all: “In the name of the Lord. Amen. Here follows a Plenarium according to the order of the holy Christian Church, in which are to be found written all epistles and gospels as they are sung and read in the ceremony of the holy Mass, throughout the whole year, in order as they are written in the following.” The two earliest mentioned by Alzog are of 1470-1473. They are adorned with title-pages or frontispieces, Scriptural or allegorical subjects. In the University Library of Freiburg is a small folio with a wood-cut of our Lord, his right hand uplifted in the act of blessing, and his left carrying an imperial globe, the ball surmounted by a cross, such as may be seen in pictures of the old German emperors. Round the four sides of the print runs the following curious inscription, unfortunately clipped short in part by the binder: “This portrait is made from the human Jesus Christ when he walked upon the earth. And therefore he had hair and a beard, and a pleasant countenance. Also a ... He was also a head taller than any other man on the earth.” The first edition mentioned by Panzer and Hain as containing a glossary on the Sunday gospels is of the year 1481, printed at Augsburg, but the four editions between 1473 and 1483 all had uniform glossaries.
The mention is worded thus: “A glossary will be found of each Sunday gospel—that is, a good and useful teaching, and an exposition of each gospel, very useful for every Christian believer (or believer in Christ) to read.” In 1488 Weislinger and Panzer point to a book printed at Baden by Thomas Ansselm, called Gospels with Glossaries and Epistles in German, for the whole year; also the beginning; the Psalm (the “Judica” and Introit) and the Collect of each Mass according to the order of the Christian Church. Another book of 1516, printed at Dutenstein, has the same title with this addition: “for the whole year, with nothing left out.” A very elaborate manual, of which a copy (1514) is in the University Library of Freiburg and is mentioned in Panzer’s catalogue, is called
“The Plenarium, or gospel book. Summer and Winter parts, through the whole year, for every Sunday, Feria, and Saints’ days. The order of the Mass, with its beginning or Introit. Gloria Patri, Kyrie Eleyson, Gloria in Excelsis, Collect or prayer, Epistle, Gradual or penitential song, Alleluia or Tract, Sequence or Prose. Gospel with a glossary never yet heard by us, and ended by fruitful and beautiful examples.[63] The Patrem or Creed, Offertorium, Secreta, Sanctus, Agnus Dei, Communion, Compleno and Ite Missa est or Benedicamus Domino, etc. And for every separate Sunday gospel a beautiful glossary or Postill, with its example, diligently and orderly preached by a priest of a religious order, to be seriously noticed and fruitfully applied for the greater use of the believer, who in this quickly-passing life can read nothing more useful....” At the end are these words: “To the praise and worth of Almighty God, his highly-praised Mother Mary and all saints, and to the use, bettering, and salvation of men.... Printed by the wise Adam Peter von Langendorff, burgher of Basle. 1514. In folio.”
The book contains four large wood-cuts of some artistic merit, Christ crucified, with a landscape in the background, and two groups, one of four women on one side, the other of four men on the other, and the following legend beneath, taken from Notker’s famous hymn Mediâ Vitæ, which “wonderful anthem or sequence,” says an Anglican writer, is “so often mistaken for a psalm or text”[64]: “In the midst of life we are in death: whom shall we seek to help us, and to show us mercy, but thou alone, O Lord, who by our sins art righteously enwrathed? Holy Lord God, holy strong God, holy, merciful, and eternal God, suffer us not to taste the bitterness of death.” The other wood-cuts, respectively indicating Christmas day, Easter eve, and Whitsunday, represent the Adoration of the Infant Jesus by Mary, Joseph, and the shepherds, with a landscape in the background; the Resurrection; and the Descent of the Holy Ghost in the form of fiery tongues. The book contains many smaller wood-cuts.
Another Plenarium (Strassburg, 1522) boasts of being “translated from the Latin into better German,” and another, of the same year (Basle), announces “several other Masses, never hitherto translated into German,” as well as a register with blank leaves. Keisersperg’s sermons “in the last four years of his life, taken down word for word from his own mouth,” are printed at Strassburg in 1515, and are qualified in the title-page as “useful and good, not only for the laity, and never hitherto printed.” His Postill, or “Commentaries on the Four Gospels,” is printed in four parts in Strassburg in 1522, also his Lenten sermons, and some additional ones on a few saints’ days, “written down from his own mouth by Henry Wessmer”; but the most curious work mentioned is a folio volume of his sermons, without title, and containing other treatises with fanciful titles and bearing on mysterious subjects. “The Book of Ants, which also gives information concerning witches, ghostly appearances, and devilish possession, very wonderful and useful to know, and, further, what it is lawful to hold and believe touching them”; also, “the little book, ‘Lord, whom I would gladly serve,’ in fifteen parts of fine and useful doctrine; finally, the book of ‘Pomegranate,’ in Latin Malogranatus, containing much wholesome and sweet doctrine and advice.” This dates from 1517 (Strassburg, John Greinninger). For the sake of the language the manuals printed in Low Saxon, chiefly in Lübeck, are among the most interesting specimens. The titles are much the same as the German, but generally more concise. Panzer remarks of one of them, printed by Stephen Arndes at Lübeck in 1496, and adorned with several fine wood-cuts, that he has seen three other editions, printed in 1488, 1493, and 1497. A few of the peculiarities of spelling, and of the indifferent use of various forms of one word, will be seen in the following examples: book, in the contemporary High-German, spelt buch or buoch, is here spelt boek, boeck, bok, and boke, this last a form often found in Old English writers; holy, heylig, heilig, or hailig, is here spelt in five different ways: hilgen, hylgen, hylligen, hilligen, and hyllyghen; and birth, geburt, is bort and borth. Das (the) becomes dat; endigt (ends) is turned to ondighet; and the o’s and n’s are in general used the reverse way to that common in High-German.
The contents of the Plenarii show the peculiarities of the liturgy as used at that time. The same epistle and gospel sung or read on Sunday was repeated on Monday, Tuesday (which the oldest manuals call After-Monday), and Thursday. Wednesdays and Fridays throughout the year had separate epistles and gospels, and Saturday is not mentioned, unless it is indicated by the “third day,” which the later editions speak of as “having a separate epistle and gospel throughout the year.” Each day of Lent had a separate one. Some of the books of 1473 contained special Masses—that of the Wisdom of God for Mondays, the Holy Ghost for Tuesdays, the Holy Angels for Wednesdays, the Love of God for Thursdays, the Holy Cross for Fridays, and the Blessed Virgin for Saturdays. There followed Masses for rain, for health, for sinners, for fair weather, and for “all believing souls.” The glosses on the gospels in the earlier editions are interesting from their simplicity and directness. Even the preface of the Basle Plenarium of 1514, though less simple, is a good specimen. It is noteworthy that the Immaculate Conception is implied in the text. The heading is from Luke xi. 28: “Blessed are they who hear the word of God and keep it.” The preface runs thus:
“Jesus Christ is the Word of the Eternal Father; the Word is made flesh (understand by that, man) in the womb of the immaculate, holy, and pure Virgin Mary, that we too may be saved. From this Word, as from Christ the Son of God, flows Holy Scripture, which is the life-giving flow of the blessed paradise of the highest heaven, penetrating and making fruitful on this earth the paradise of the holy church to the use of all believers. And in order that man may better know and acknowledge his Lord, he has at hand the help of Holy Scripture, which is the source of all knowledge and wisdom, of whom all knowledge is the servant and follower, and which teaches and admonishes us, through the wonderful works of God, to worship the Maker of all; for Christ the Son of God is the wisdom of the Eternal Father, and in him and through him are all creatures made, and, indeed, so wonderfully made and hidden that no human wisdom can fully penetrate into these secret recesses. Such is the teaching of Holy Writ.
“To confess God, to avoid sin, to do good, and to show ourselves diligent in the love of God and our neighbor—this is a spiritual pharmacy of all sweet-smelling and precious medicine. Although many prophets and other saints have written Holy Scripture and divine truth, each one according as it was given to him by the Holy Ghost, yet are the strength and truth of the holy gospels above every other Scripture, as says St. Augustine in his Concordance of the Gospels. And Holy Scripture is so fruitful, wise, and unfathomable that we can never fathom it till the end of this passing life on earth, and till we come to the place whence Scripture itself floweth ... and ourselves read in the great Bible—that is, the Book of Life.
“And because many men do not understand Latin, and yet can read German, therefore this book of the gospels, with its belongings, has been translated into German, to the glory of God and the use of such as shall feed their souls on it. For man liveth not on material bread alone, but on the spiritual bread which is the Word of God, as Christ says by the mouth of the evangelist Matthew, in the fourth chapter.”
Much more follows; for instance, an enumeration of the nine graces that a diligent reader of Scripture receives, in which much good but rather trite advice is given, and of the five kinds of men who read Holy Writ, only two of whom do it to advantage. These conceits belonged to the age, and, indeed, survived the age, as we find in the Presbyterian sermons of two centuries later in Scotland and the Puritan sermons of New England. Keisersperg was profuse of them, and some of the quaint and rather strained combinations and coincidences which he imagined are a curious illustration of the sort of pulpit eloquence popular in the fifteenth century. The prominence given among saints to the four evangelists grew naturally out of the reverence paid to the four gospels as the noblest part of Scripture. The Plenarii often contained allegorical representations of them under the conventional figures known to art, and undertook to explain the reason of these figures being applied to them, connecting them with the four living creatures of Ezechiel’s vision and those of the Apocalypse. But, beyond the constantly-received explanations, they sometimes contained details calculated to astonish readers of a later day. Such is the idea of the fitness between St. Mark and the symbolic lion, derived from the belief that lion whelps were awakened the third day, by the roaring of their mother, from the sleep or trance in which they had been born, which was interpreted to refer to the fact that St. Mark chiefly dwells on the resurrection of the Lord on the third day after his death. The Basle manual from which the foregoing preface is quoted has special prayers in honor of the evangelists, chiefly to the end that they would help the faithful to a better understanding of, and acting up to, the principles of the Gospel. The wood-cuts which distinguish these as well as the Latin missals took the place of the illuminations of the older books in manuscript, and, though wanting in the finish and delicacy of the latter, were designed on the same models and in the same spirit. The Latin missals now in the University Library of Freiburg, of 1485 and 1520, are rich in this kind of ornamentation, the latter having as title-page the Crucifixion, with a group of many figures, and around the illustration representations of the seven sacraments, whose grace flows from the atonement of Christ. The same idea is conveyed in the often-repeated allegorical representation in mediæval pictures of two angels collecting in golden cups the blood that flows from the outstretched hands of the Saviour on the cross.
Freiburg has many treasures in the department of illuminated manuscripts, the chief one being a Codex of the tenth century, with the Sacramentarium Gregorianum. It contains two hundred and ten pages of parchment, and begins with a calendar of twelve pages on purple ground with arabesque borders. The Ordinary of the Mass is written on a similarly colored ground, and has three illuminated pictures—a portrait of Pope Gregory the Great, an angel uplifting the Host, and an elaborate Byzantine crucifix. Five thousand francs were offered for it by a French archæological society, and refused by the university. Among the peculiarities set forth by the German manuals is the order of Sundays throughout the year, which, before the Council of Trent, were reckoned from Trinity instead of Whitsunday, and, in the case of Easter falling early, were supplemented by a “twenty-fifth Sunday after Trinity,” as the editions of 1473 to 1483 have it, “if another Sunday is needed.” The later editions and the Latin missals simply call it, without comment, “the twenty-fifth Sunday.” As time went on, the German Plenarii contained more and more, sometimes additional votive Masses, and the Passions and Prophecies of Holy Week, sometimes the whole of the liturgy, including the minor parts, sometimes even more than the Latin books themselves—as, for instance, the thirteenth to the fifteenth chapters of St. John, inclusive, for the edification of their readers on Maundy Thursday. The glossaries or homilies also grew longer and more serious after 1514, and among explanations of undoubted moral worth and pious intent—due, Alzog thinks, greatly to the influence of the Swiss “Friends of God,” a brotherhood devoted to popular teaching and the propagation of practical piety among the masses—we often come upon those naïvely-propounded conceits which were common to earnest and ingenious men of that day. For instance, the word alleluia, whose etymology was probably wholly unknown to the author, is thus dissected and explained in one of the Basle editions of the sixteenth century:
“The word has four syllables—that is, four meanings: the first, al—that is, altissimus, or Most High and Almighty; the second, le, levatus in cruce, or uplifted on the cross; the third, lu, lugentibus apostolis, or the apostles have mourned and all creation bemoaned him; the fourth, ja, or jam surrexit—that is, he is now risen from the dead, wherefore we should rejoice with all our strength and sing alleluja.”
On the other hand, some of the prayers and meditations of these now obscure books of devotion were beautiful, dignified, and worthy of imitation. The language often reminds one of the Following of Christ:
“Consider, O my soul! with thorough devotion, the gifts and benefits of God wherewith he has so abundantly blessed thee. He has created thee out of nothing and in his image. He has given thee wisdom and understanding, that thou mayest distinguish good from evil. He has also given thee reason beyond that of all other creatures, and made them subject unto thee. He has put the sun and the moon in heaven to give light to the world. He causes all green things to grow and ripen on the earth to thy use, that thou mayest be fed and clothed therewith. Consider also, O my soul! with great devotion, how inestimable are the gifts of the holy sacraments, so sweetly prepared for thee. How clean should be thy hands from all evil works, how chaste thy lips, how holy thy body, how spotless thy heart, to which the Lord Almighty, the God of purity, humbles himself so lovingly! How great should be thy thankfulness to God thy Creator, who gives himself to thee so freely, not for any good he derives therefrom, but only that he may cleanse thee, in thy misery and sickness, from sin, and give thee eternal life. Amen.”
The manuals also made typographical progress corresponding to that of their contents, and, after 1483, began to have their pages both numbered and headed, while the spelling became a little more uniform, but the odd comparisons and arbitrary combinations in the text developed themselves as freely as ever. Indeed, they had one merit—that of fixing a thing in the minds of hearers less likely to be impressed by generalities; and, unlike the sensational devices of the present day, they were not resorted to as mechanical means by men to whom they were themselves indifferent, but came from the “abundance of the heart” of authors fully penetrated by their meaning and proud of having originated this particular form of it. For instance, a panegyric on St. Martin, Bishop of Tours, is résumed in the seven letters of the German word Bischof, each standing for the initial of a word describing some quality of the saint; and the same happens with the seven letters of the name of Matthew, Matheus (seven was, from obvious causes, a favorite number in the mystical mind of those ages), which are thus interpreted: Magnificentia in relinquendo (magnanimity in relinquishing), Auscultatio in obediendo (hearing in obeying), Tractabilitas in non resistendo (tractability in not resisting), Humilitas in sequendo (humility in following), Evangelisatio in prædicando (evangelization in preaching), Virtuositas in operando (efficiency in working), Strenuitas in patiendo (fortitude in enduring).
The glossaries on the epistles and gospels contain many passages remarkable as setting forth the reverence for Holy Writ of which those times have been too hastily pronounced deficient. The four oldest editions (from 1473 to 1483) have the same commentary for the first Sunday in Advent, on which the gospel of Palm Sunday, pointing to preparation for the coming of the Lord, was then read. The whole is filled with texts and allusions to the prophets; the preparation is asserted to consist in being “washed clean of evil thoughts,” in laying aside the torn garments of sin, that bind us to the darkness where we have hidden ourselves that we may not be seen, ... in hating the garments of impurity and those of pride.... It is not seemly to stand in the hall of the King clothed in mean garments, as we find in the Book of Esther, cap. iii., and therefore no one should enter the holy time of Advent while yet burdened with sin and so on through a host of Scriptural quotations in which moral virtues only are inculcated, and of ceremonial observances there is no mention. The edition of 1514 (Basle) on the same occasion says that this gospel is read twice in the year, on the anniversary of the day when our Lord entered Jerusalem, and on the first Sunday in Advent, which commemorates his spiritual coming and his assuming human nature. The various kinds of advents or comings are represented by the gospels of the four Sundays, the last being the entry into the heart of every sinner when he repents of his sin and is converted. “As the Jews asked John the Baptist, ‘Who art thou?’ so should every man ask himself, Who am I? If we examine honestly we must needs acknowledge that we are but poor sinners. Of this advent St. John speaks in the Apocalypse: ‘Behold I stand at the door of thy heart and knock with my gifts; and whoever opens unto me, to him will I go in, and give him bread from heaven, and a new stone in his hand, that is the new joy of everlasting life.’“[65] Of this advent St. Augustine speaks:
“Lord, who shall give it to me that thou shouldst come into my heart, sweet Jesus, and fill it, and that my soul should forget all evil and all sin?... ‘This is everlasting life (John xvii. 3), that men know thee, Father in heaven, and confess thee alone the living and true God, and Jesus Christ, whom thou hast sent.’ This raises a question—namely, Why did the Lord Jesus not come earlier? why delay his coming so long? For this reason: that Adam transgressed God’s command on the sixth day, and the coming of Christ was therefore deferred till the sixth age of the world.... If you turn to the Lord in truth, he will answer you through the prophet Ezechiel: ‘In whatsoever hour the sinner repents of his sins and forsakes them, and is turned from his unrighteousness, I will remember his sins no more, saith the Lord.”
The commentary on the gospel of the first Mass on Christmas night in the Basle edition of 1514 contains glimpses of legends which long kept their hold on the popular and even the scholarly mind of that age. The story of the Sibyllic prophecies is outlined:
“The Emperor Augustus, when he had conquered the whole world for the Roman Empire, was about to be adored by the Romans as a god. But he resisted and asked for a delay of three days, during which he sent for the wise woman, the Sibyl of Tibur, and asked her advice. When she shut herself up with the emperor and prayed to God to tell her how to advise the emperor, she saw close by the sun a shining ring of light, and within the ring a beautiful Virgin with a fair Child upon her knees. Then the Sibyl showed the Virgin and Child to the emperor, and said: “This Child upon the knees of a Virgin must thou adore, for he is God and Lord of the whole world, and the Child that is to be born of a Virgin shall be for the consolation and salvation of mankind.’ So when the emperor saw this he refused to let himself be adored....
“We read also that once the Romans built a fine temple, large and grand, which they meant to call the Temple of Peace. While they were building it they asked the Sibyl how long the temple should stand. She answered and said: ‘Until a Virgin shall bear a Child.’ ‘Then,’ said the Romans, ‘as that can never happen, the temple will stand for ever, and shall be called the Temple of Eternity.’ Then came the night when our Lord Jesus Christ was born, and a great part of the temple fell suddenly in ruins, and many who have been in Rome say that every Christmas night a portion of this temple still crumbles into ruin, as a sign that on this earth nothing is eternal.”
The three Maries at the sepulchre give the author occasion in the homily on Easter Sunday to link the virtues we ought to practise with the names of the three holy women. From Mary Magdalen, whom, according to the tradition of the time, he identified with Mary the Sinner, he bids us learn “the great diligence and great love with which she sought God the Lord; ... so should we also anoint the feet of Christ with the ointment of contrition and repentance. From Mary Jacobi (Mary the mother of James, or Jacob) we should learn to overcome sin, because Jacob means a fighter and striver.... From the third Mary we should learn to have a true hope of obtaining grace, for Salome means a woman of grace (probably he considered wisdom and grace identical), ... especially the grace to battle against despair.” And this suggests a comparison of the three Maries with the three virtues, faith, hope, and charity. Galilee, again, which he interprets to mean in German Passover, is set as a sign that we must part with sin and cross over to God, die to the world and be detached from its allurements. The commentary on the gospel of Whitsunday, in the older editions (1473-83), contains these words: “If you love God, you will willingly hear his word and diligently say to yourself, What I hear is a token from the great King.” Then follow several Scriptural quotations strengthening and illustrating this truth. The epistle of the day gives rise to an explanation of the appearance “as it were of fiery tongues”: “The fire of the Holy Ghost consumed all fear in their hearts, and so enkindled them that they feared neither king nor emperor. So was fulfilled the saying of the Redeemer, ‘I am come to bring a fire upon the earth,’ and what do I wish but that it should be enkindled?” Then the tongues signify that the word is spread by the tongue; God sent the Holy Ghost in fiery tongues, that they (the apostles) might burn with love and overflow in words. What is the Holy Ghost? He is the Third Person of the Holy Trinity, who confirms and establishes all things, and who comes at all times to the heart of every man who makes himself ready to receive him, as says St. Augustine: “It is of no use for a teacher to preach to our outer ears, if the Holy Ghost be not in our hearts and do not give us true understanding.” The likeness of the Holy Spirit to a dove is then ingeniously drawn out in comparisons such as St. Francis of Sales, two centuries later, might have adopted in his Introduction to a Devout Life, and the prayer or aspiration at the end is thus worded: “May the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost help us to hear the word of God and keep it, that our hearts may be enlightened and enkindled by the fire of the Holy Ghost, that we may live with simplicity and joy among the doves, and that the true Dove, the Holy Ghost, may come to us and abide with us for ever.”
The later editions of the sixteenth century have a longer and more complicated homily on the same subjects; they dwell, among other things, on the peace and comfort brought by the Holy Ghost, and distinguish three kinds of peace, that of the heart, that of time, and that of eternity, the second of which alone was not given to the apostles, because their Master also had it not, as is inferred from several texts quoted at length. The suddenness, the force of the wind, and the quickness of the appearance in the upper chamber in Jerusalem are all turned to practical account by the commentator, who also reminds his readers that the grace of God comes soonest to those who lead a life of inner recollection and prayer. The love of God is shown under a sort of parable, that of the scholars of an Athenian philosopher, who begged their master to write them a treatise upon love, and received from him in answer the picture of a lion with a legend round his neck: “Love brings forth nothing which afterwards causes remorse to man.” Thus Christ, the Lion of the tribe of Juda, is spiritually this lion of love, whose works were all for the salvation of man. For Trinity Sunday the glossaries of both the older and the later editions are very short, the mystery being confessedly unfathomable, and the ancient Fathers themselves having but feebly succeeded in throwing any other light than that of faith upon the subject. Both editions contain a warning not to search curiously into the mystery, but believe with simplicity, and the later ones cite the legend of St. Augustine and the child whom he met by the sea-shore trying to bail the sea into a small trench in the sand. On the thirteenth Sunday after Trinity the vision of God by purity of heart, “and by the reading of Holy Scripture and practising its precepts,” is descanted upon in the 1514 Basle edition, and the fate of Lot’s wife is used as a simile for the turning back from God into sin, while the love of our neighbor, as flowing from a true love of God, is strenuously inculcated by Scripture texts and warnings.
The description of the contents of these manuals, however, would not be complete, nor wholly convey the spirit of the age in which they were published and read, without some mention of the miraculous stories printed in them under the head of “useful examples.” Of these Frederick Hurter, in his work on Pope Innocent III., vol. iv. pp. 547-8, says:
“All writers of this time (the twelfth and thirteenth centuries; and what applies to those applies to later centuries almost as far as the seventeenth) are full of wonder-stories—a proof of how universal and deeply ingrained in man was the belief in wonders. Many of these are simply mythical, others had passed by tradition and literary embellishments from the region of facts into that of myths, while others again must be left uninterpreted by criticism, unless it is disposed to dismiss them with a mere denial. Whatever decision one may come to on this point, one truth certainly underlies this mass of tales: that they cannot have been without influence on the mind of thousands. Many may be looked upon as childish and crude, but from beneath this coating still shines the true gold of a belief in one almighty, ever-present Being, a father and protector of the good, a leader and raiser-up of the fallen or the wavering, an avenger against the evil and oppressing.”
Such stories have to later research appeared as interesting landmarks of the progress of a nation’s mind, and links with all its former beliefs and traditions. Again, they were striking illustrations, fitter to remain in the popular mind as emblems of great truths than the learned doctrinal disquisitions, which were always above the understanding of the masses. They are rather emblems than facts; the condensation of a truth than its actual outcome. We have only room for a single specimen. Whether it was intended to be related as a vision in a dream, or partly as a waking dream, does not appear clearly from the text:
“There was,” says the Basle Plenarium of 1514, on the occasion of Good Friday, “a prior in a monastery, who sat in his cell after his meal and fell asleep. While he slept, one of his brethren died and came to the sleeping prior, and spoke to him: ‘Father prior, with your permission, I am going.’ When the other asked him where, he answered: ‘I am going to God in eternal blessedness, for in this very moment I have died.’ Then said the prior: ‘Since many a perfect man must after death pass through purgatory, and one seldom comes back to earth from it, I ask you how can you go at once to God, and how do you know you have deserved it?’ Then answered the monk: ‘I always had the habit of praying thus at the feet of the crucifix: “Lord Jesus Christ, for the sake of thy bitter sufferings which thou hast endured on the holy cross for my salvation, and especially at the moment when thy blessed soul left thy body, have mercy on my soul when it leaves my body.“ And God mercifully heard my prayer.’ Then the prior asked again: ‘How was it with you when you died?’ and the other answered: ‘I thought at that moment that the whole world was a stone, and that it lay upon my breast, so terrible did death seem to me.’”
The Plenarii were not the only manuals scattered among the rapidly-increasing number of people who, in Germany, could read in their native tongue. Besides the Scriptures, of which nine translations, some partial, some entire, were printed before Luther’s, from 1466 to 1518, and three entire ones after his in the sixteenth century alone,[66] there were previous to that period fourteen complete Bibles in High-German and five in Low-German (the University of Freiburg possesses copies of eight of the former), and many psalters and gospels, as well as separate books of Scripture published singly. The psalter was undoubtedly the best-known and most commonly used part of Holy Writ. Panzer mentions the three oldest editions printed in Latin and German, without date or press, in folio; another octavo at Leipsic; others in German, Augsburg, 1492 and 1494; Basle, 1502 and 1503; Spires, 1504; Strassburg, 1506 and 1507; Metz, 1513; and the Book of Job, Strassburg, 1498. Again in the same years, and from the same presses as well as Mayence and Nuremberg, came the epistles and gospels, and the four Passions, divided according to their use on Sundays, while the first popular illustrated “Bibles of the Poor,” condensations and selections, chiefly of the most stirring stories told in the Old and New Testaments, followed each other rapidly after 1470. The wood-cuts were generally very good, and the Latin and German texts printed side by side. “German explanations of the office of the Mass” were also printed, and the devotional writings, meditations, etc., of Tauler, Suso, Thomas à Kempis, Geiler von Keisersperg, and Sebastian Brant. Lives of the saints and martyrologies were also printed, arranged according to the calendar in two parts, winter and summer; but though in the main edifying, these were chiefly reflections of traditions rather than authentic biographies taken from contemporary sources. That style of writing was not known then, and the general example of a holy life was more the object of the writers than the historic details of real life. But even in these traditions some nucleus of undisputed fact might always be found beneath the ivy tracery of legend. Panzer remarks that these editions differed greatly from Jacob of Voragine’s Legenda Aurea, and often contradicted it. Catechisms and manuals for confession and communion were also familiar, and some of the litanies now reprinted in modern prayer-books are of this date, while even the contents of the Breviary were translated into German by a Capuchin, James Wyg, and printed in Venice in 1518. “Little prayer-books” are mentioned by Panzer as printed at Nuremberg, Lübeck (these in Low German), Basle, and Mayence from 1487 to 1518. Two were called the Salus Animæ and the Hortulus Animæ. The latter is as well known now in English as it was then in German; one edition of 1508 has a little versified introduction, interesting as showing how Sebastian Brant’s talents were often practically employed:
“The soul’s little garden am I called. Known am I yet from my Latin name. At Strassburg, his fatherland, Did revise me Sebastian Brant, And industriously me corrected, And into German much translated, That now is to be found in me Which will give joy to every reader; Now, who uses me aright, And plants me well, reward shall have.”
The prayer Anima Christi is found in some editions. A book called The Mirror of the Sinner went through five editions from 1480 to 1510, which Pastor John Geffcken has most impartially and fully criticised in his history of catechetical instruction in the fifteenth century. The Ten Commandments was the title of two books printed at Venice by an Augsburg printer in 1483, and Strassburg in 1516, and a Manual for Preparation for Holy Communion, several times reprinted at Basle, has suggested this praise from Herzog, the biographer of John Œcolampadius: “It breathes the purest and noblest devotion (mystik); we shall seldom find a communion-book penetrated with such a glow of devotion”; if we had any room left for quotation, this judgment would be found fully deserved. Manuals for the sick and dying were also widely used; three of 1483, 1498, and 1518, and one without date, are given in Panzer’s catalogue. The Garden of the Soul also contains a long passage on the fit preparation for death; and other books have special prayers for the same circumstances. That we are apt to see but one side of any question, and that false impressions unluckily in the popular mind chiefly avail themselves of the axiom that “possession is nine points of the law,” Jacob Grimm very appositely complains in the preface to his Antiquities of German Jurisprudence. “What is the use,” he says, “of the poetry being now discovered which presents the joyous vitality of life in that time (the middle ages) in a hundred touching and serious representations? The outcry about feudalism and the right of the strongest is still uppermost, as if, forsooth, the present had no injustice and no wretchedness to bear.”
Footnote 60:
Die deutschen Plenarien (Handpostillen) 1470-1522. Dr. J. Alzog. Herder. Freiburg in Breisgau. To this most interesting and valuable brochure of the distinguished German ecclesiastical historian the writer is chiefly indebted for the substance of the present article.
Footnote 61:
Dans lequel sont décrits les livres rares, précieux, singuliers, et aussi les ouvrages les plus, estimés. Ve édit. Paris, 1860-1865, en vi. tomes.
Footnote 62:
Glossarium mediæ et infimæ latinitatis.
Footnote 63:
These “examples” constituted a literature apart, to which reference will be made later, characteristic of the middle ages, of which scholars like Grimm speak with more respect, because more knowledge, than many more modern and less discriminating writers.
Footnote 64:
Bampton Lectures, 1876. Witness of the Psalms to Christ and Christianity. Dr. William Alexander.
Footnote 65:
A paraphrase of Apocalypse ii. 17 and iii. 20.
Footnote 66:
The German translations of the Bible, in part or complete, of which the library of the University of Freiburg possesses copies, are as follows: 1. 1466, Strassburg, folio, in 2 vols., printed by Eggestein. 2. 1472-1474, Strassburg or Nuremberg, large folio, 1 vol., printer not named, the chief source from which the following editions were compiled. 3. 1474. Augsburg, Günther Zainer. 4. 1474, Augsburg, 1 vol., large folio, Antony Sorg. 5. 1483, Nuremberg, large folio, 2 vols., Antony Koburger. 6. 1485, Strassburg, small folio, 2 vols. 7. 1490, Augsburg, small folio, 2 vols., Hans Schösperger. 8. 1507, Augsburg, folio, 1 vol., but very defective. 9. 1518, Augsburg, small folio, 2 vols., the first missing, Sylvanus Otmar. 10. 1534, the Old and New Testaments, Mayence, folio, 1 vol., Dietenberger (of which six other editions were printed at Cologne between 154- and 1572). 11. 1534, The Old and New Testaments translated directly from the Hebrew and the Greek texts, Frankfort-on-the-Main, Christian Egenolff. 12. The Old and New Testaments, according to the text authorized by Holy Church, 1558, Ingoldstadt, small folio, 1 vol., Dr. John Ecken.
DANTE’S PURGATORIO. TRANSLATED BY T. W. PARSONS. CANTO SIXTEENTH.
‘Drizza (disse) ver me l’acute luci Dello Intelletto, e fieti manifesto L’error de’ ciechi, chi si fanno duci.’
—Purg. xviii. 16.
Turn thy sharp lights of intellect towards me And many errors will be manifest, In many a volume by the world possessed, Of men called leaders, and who claim to be.
Blackness of hell, and of a night unblest By any planet in a barren sky Which dunnest clouds to utmost gloom congest, Could not with veil so gross have barred mine eye Nor so austere to sense as now oppressed Us in that fog which we were folded by. Its sharpness open eye might not abide, Therefore my wise and faithful escort lent His shoulder’s aid, close coming to my side, And, thus companioned, close with him I went (Like a blind man who goes behind his guide, Lest he go wrong or strike him against aught To kill him haply or his life impair) On through that sharp and bitter air, in thought My duke observing, who still said: ‘Beware Lest thou be separate from me!’ Anon Voices I heard, and each voice seemed in prayer For peace and pity to the Holy One Of God, the Lamb who taketh sins away; Still from them all one word, one measure streamed, Still Agnus Dei prelude of their lay, So that among them perfect concord seemed. ‘Those, then, are spirits, Master, that I hear?’ I asked. He answered: ‘Rightly hast thou deemed They go untangling anger’s knot severe.’ ‘Now who art thou discoursing at thy will Of us? Who cleavest with thy shape our smoke As time by calends thou wert measuring still?’ So said a voice, whereat my Master spoke: ‘Ask him if any mounteth hence, up there.’ And I: ‘O being, who dost make thee pure Unto thy Maker to return as fair As thou wert born! draw near me, and full sure Thou shalt hear something to awake thy stare.’ ‘Far will I follow as allowed,’ he said; ‘And if the smoke permit us not to see, Our sense of hearing may avail instead Of sight, and grant me to converse with thee.’ Then I began: ‘With that same fleshly frame Which death dissolveth, I am bound above: Here through the infernal embassy I came, And if God so enfold me in his love That his grace grants me to behold his court In manner diverse from all modern wont, Keep not from me the knowledge, but report Who thou wast, living, and if up the mount My course is right: thy word shall us escort.’
‘Lombard I was, and Mark the name I bore; I knew the world, and loved that sort of worth At which men bend their bows not any more. Thy course is right: climb on directly forth.’ He answered, adding: ‘Pray for me when thou Shalt be up there.’ I answered him: ‘I bind Myself in good faith by a solemn vow To grant thy wish; but with one doubt my mind Will burst within unless I solve it now. The simple doubt which I had formed before From others’ words is doubled now by thine, Which, joined with those words, make my doubt the more. The world in sooth, as I may well divine From what thou say’st, is wicked at the core And clothed with evil; of all virtue bare: Show me, I pray, that I may tell again Others, the cause of this; for some declare That Heaven is cause of ill, and some say men. A deep-drawn sigh which anguish made a groan First giving vent, to ‘Brother’ spake he then: ‘The world is blind; sure thou of them art one. Ye who are living every cause refer Still to high Heaven, as though necessity Moved all things through Heaven’s[67] motion. If this were, Freedom of will impossible would be, Nor were it just that Goodness should for her Sure meed have joy, and Badness misery. Heaven to your actions the first movement gives— I say not all; but granted I say all, For good or evil each his light receives, And a free will which, if it do not fall, But win Heaven’s first hard battle, then it lives, And, if well trained, is never held in thrall.
‘To greater power and to a higher soul Free, ye are subject; and that power in you Creates the mind, which no stars can control: Hence if the present world go wrong, ’tis due To your own selves; and of this theme the whole I will expound as an informer true. Forth from His hand (before its birth who smiled On his new offspring) into being goes A little weeping, laughing, wanton child; The simple infant soul that nothing knows, Save that, by pleasure willingly beguiled, She turns to joy as her glad Maker chose. Taste of some trifling good it first perceives, And, cheated so, runs for the shining flower, Unless a rein or guide its love retrieves. Hence there was need of Law’s restraining power; A king there needed, that at least some one Of God’s true city might discern the tower. The laws exist, but who maintains them? none; Because the Shepherd, Sovereign of the fold, Though he may ruminate, no cleft hoof bears: The people then, seeing their Guide so fond Of what they crave, and with like greed as theirs, Pasture with him, and seek no good beyond. ’Tis plain to see that what hath made mankind So bad is evil guidance, not your own Corrupted nature. Once of old there shined The twofold splendors of a double sun In Rome, which city brought the world to good; One showed the way of earth to men, and one Gave them to see the other way, of God. One hath destroyed the other, and the sword Is with the crosier joined, that neither fears The other’s check; so joined they ill accord. If thou dost doubt me, think what fruit appears In the full blade, since every plant we know For good or evil by the seed it bears. Once in that goodly region by the Po And Adige watered, valor used to dwell And courtesy, ere Frederic’s trouble came: Now one might journey through that country well Secure from meeting (if it gave him shame To speak with good men) any that excel. Three old men yet dwell there in whom the old Chides the new age, and time seems slow to run To them till God replace them in his fold; Currado da Palazzo, he is one, Gherardo likewise, of the life unblamed, And Guido da Castello, who perchance Simply the Lombard might be better named, After the fashion of their speech in France. Say thou this day, then, that the Church of Rome, Confounding human rule and sway divine, Sinks with her charge beluted in the loam?’[68] ‘Thou reasonest well,’ I said, ‘O Marco mine, And I perceive now why the sacred tome The sons of Levi bars from heritage. But who is that Gherardo who, thou say’st, Remaineth in rebuke of this rough age From those who formerly the realm possessed?’
‘Either thy tongue misleads me or thou show’st A wish to try me,’ he to me replied, ‘That, using Tuscan speech, thou nothing know’st Of good Gherardo. No surname beside I know, unless unto that name he bore One from his daughter Gaia be supplied: Go thou with God! I follow thee no more. See! raying yonder through the fog a gleamy Splendor that whitens it; I must away (It is the Angel there!) before he see me.’ Thus turned he, nor would hear me further say.
Footnote 67:
By heaven, throughout this discourse, Dante means, simply, planetary influence. The lesson taught by Marco Lombardi is the same as that which Shakspere puts into the mouth of Cassius:
“The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, But in ourselves, that we are underlings.”
Footnote 68:
It is well to note in connection with this passage that Dante was, up to the time of his banishment by a political faction, a Guelph, the Guelphs being then the patriotic party in Italy, and supporters of the pope in his resolute opposition to the foreign invasion under Frederic Barbarossa. During his exile Dante changed his politics and joined the Ghibellines. Had he lived in our own days it is certain that he, whose faith was so high and clear, would have shared the openly expressed convictions of all responsible men and competent judges in this matter, that the temporal authority of the Holy See is necessary, as things now are, to the full liberty and full exercise of its spiritual authority. Dante’s opinion, as above expressed, is that of a political partisan in bygone times. Were he living to-day, instructed by the lessons of the centuries which have passed since he wrote, there can be no doubt that he would adhere to his earlier, truer, and more patriotic political convictions and see no impossibility of the union of “The twofold splendors of a double sun in Rome” in the person of Rome’s lawful and historic pontiff and king.—ED. C. W.
RESPECTABLE POVERTY IN FRANCE.
Under the title of “Indigence in a Black Coat” an observant French writer[69] draws a painful picture of the sufferings of a class of his countrymen usually much less compassionated than the so-called working-classes. That term, indeed, is a misnomer when applied to any one especial class, as, with rare exceptions, every one in France is hard at work, manually or intellectually. The class, however, with which these few pages are concerned is one still more deserving of respectful sympathy than even those who follow the honest, nay, noble, career of skilled or unskilled labor.
Besides the mechanic and artisan, whose payment follows in a certain measure the progressive price of provisions, there are other categories of men, assuredly not less interesting, whose pecuniary level has never risen or fallen even by a five-franc piece, and who at the present time are compelled to live on the appointed salary which has been attached to their place for an unlimited number of years.
Everywhere in the towns rents have doubled, and even trebled. The system of railways has disseminated local production, which formerly had a local and limited sale, over all parts of France, and even abroad, without any proportionate incomings to compensate for the increase of prices attendant on so great an increase of sale. The latter, it need hardly be said, involves a like increase of production.
In a country like France, where the agricultural riches are immense and the landed property infinitesimally parcelled out, the means of transport, which have increased tenfold within the last thirty years, have carried riches, or at least competency, into the villages and other country parts. To such a degree is this true that there is not now a peasant in France who cannot maintain himself by his strip of land. Formerly he would have carried into the town, on market days, the produce of his land and live stock. Now he rarely takes the trouble to do this, and almost always strikes a bargain with buyers who purchase en masse and pay him a high price. Thus, with hardly any expenditure,[70] he can live on his little property, his aim being to save all he can and to sell as dearly as possible.
But in the cities and small towns how to live is a more difficult problem. The clerks, secretaries, and small functionaries of every kind, who could formerly support and educate their families in a respectable way, have no longer the possibility of doing so on the meagre and rigidly-fixed salaries dispensed to them by the state. The sea itself is no longer a resource. The railway carries off the produce of the tides to Paris and the other large towns, which purchase the whole and throw away thousands of kilos of spoilt fish every week.
Again, these small official situations generally involve the necessity of being respectably, or even well, dressed. A professor, for example, or a magistrate, an employé of the registration or other government offices, belongs, by education or by the functions he discharges, to a class of persons who must make a good appearance, under pain of being neglected, unnoticed, or even altogether tabooed.
At Paris, where there is an abundance of everything, and into which the provinces pour the overflow of their riches, life, for certain persons, is materially impossible. The octroi absorbs all, and, under pretext of making the capital a rich and beautiful city, peoples it with poor by rendering their means wholly inadequate to meet the increasing exigencies of expenditure.
Thus, while living is difficult to them in the provinces, because the country sends all its produce to the great towns, in the towns they cannot live at all. The imposts there are enormous; while the fact that the necessaries of life are abundant is accompanied by no diminution of price, but the contrary.
Still, nothing is done; and these meritorious persons, obliged to conceal a very real poverty beneath an outward show that eats into their slender resources, and who, unlike so many around them, are disenchanted of the dream that the world is all their own, suffer uncomplainingly. Perhaps they are weary of complaining; in any case they do not noisily insist and threaten, but, at the utmost, plead, and certainly wait until hope and energy wither in the blight of continued disappointment. Hundreds of thousands of persons thus exist, and those who may be called the intellectual essence of the nation: professors, magistrates, men occupied in the various departments of art, and who prepare the intellectual prosperity of a generation to come. These men, especially such of them as have a family dependent upon them, drag on life year after year so miserably remunerated that how they contrive to live, and to strain the two ends to meet by any honorable means, is simply a mystery. In vain may each capable member of the family put a shoulder to the wheel and effect prodigies of economy. With every noble effort they find their life growing harder, and the cost of life increasing in proportions of which it is impossible to see the limit.
In the times through which France is passing even the wealthy, and those who are regarded as the favored ones of fortune, reduce their expenses under the influence of a certain feeling of apprehension which is not easy to define, unless a reason for it may be found in the frequent government changes and general instability of political affairs in this country. They instinctively restrain their expenditure to what they regard as the necessaries of life, and indulge in few of the luxuries of patronage involving outlay. And thus the hardness of the times makes itself so severely felt in all the liberal professions that in the study of the professor or literary author, as in the atelier of the artist, the pressing cares of life not unfrequently absorb the mind so as to eclipse and benumb the powers of imagination and invention. The father and bread-winner anxiously asks himself how, even with marvels of economy and self-denying privation, he is to provide for the present needs and future career of his children.
The question we are considering is for the moment drowned amid the tumult of political strife. It must, however, assert itself with increasing urgency in proportion as misery, in the full acceptation of the word, shows itself as the inevitable consequence of the progressive increase of prices in things of absolute necessity, without such compensation as corresponds with it or even approximates to it.
And yet France is far from being poor. Sober, industrious, and economical, her treasury is rich in spite of the enormous war-tribute by which it was partly diminished of late. That diminution was, by comparison, insignificant. Surely, with all the sources of wealth which France has at command, there must be amply sufficient to pay, at a rate commensurate with their services and due requirements, men who have never bargained for their trouble, but who now, under the continuance of the actual condition of things, will find it impossible to live.
This is a question demanding prompt attention, unless the anomaly is to be maintained that France is a country of great actual and possible wealth, in which the élite of the nation are more and more exposed to the danger of dying of hunger.
The writer on whose words, verified by our own observations, we have based our remarks says that from all quarters he receives letters of which the following extract is a sample: “What you have stated is far short of the truth. Could you lift the veil that conceals our misery, you would see into what a gulf of distress we have been plunged by years of indifference to our needs. From time to time we make earnest representations of our case, but these, as well as the proofs we give of the hard reality of our necessities and expenses, are year after year treated with the same passive disregard; and there are very many amongst us who, in spite of the most rigid economy, will never be able to recover themselves.”
In case our remarks should seem to have too general a character, or to be in any way exaggerated, we will give an example—namely, the parochial clergy, the men who are unweariedly denounced by the radical-republicans as “pillagers of the budget” and “robbers of the state.”
The ordinary income of one of the more opulent among the rural parish priests (by far the larger proportion receive less—some much less) is as follows:
Indemnity of the government for each quarter, paid 900 frs. three weeks or more after time = 225 francs, equalling per annum the sum of
Indemnity of the commune 100 frs.
Casual receipts 60 frs
(Say, 40) Low Masses 60 frs
——-
Forming a total of 1,120 frs
Then, as the sum of obligatory expenses, we have the following:
Wages of servant 240 frs.
Door and window tax 53 frs.
Prestation, or taking of oaths 5 frs.
Tax for dog 8 frs.
For the Fund for Infirm Priests, as the only means 10 frs. of securing a morsel of bread if disabled
___
Total 316 frs.
There remains, therefore, for this parish priest to live upon an average income of 804 francs—i.e., about $160. He is not even “passing rich” on the traditionary “forty pounds a year.”
With these eight hundred and four francs he must meet all expenses, keep open the hospitable door of the presbytery—the house so readily found, so close by the church, and so accessible; the house which receives the first visit of the poor, the outcast, and the wanderer, and whose occupant, thus poor himself, has neither the wish nor the right to close against any one the way to his fireside. Two francs and four sous a day, however, are the magnificent sum allowed for the inmates of this presbytery and for all the needy, who, regarding it as their natural home, go straight to the kitchen, not knowing what it is to be sent away empty.
We are personally acquainted with several country curés whose governmental stipend is from four to six hundred francs a year, and it is only the more important parishes of the curés doyens or curés de canton to which is attached the ampler revenue of nine hundred francs, or thirty-six pounds sterling. A large proportion of the curés de commune do not receive more from the state than four hundred francs per annum. And this stipend is termed, as if in mockery, an “indemnity.” It only deserves that title if we read the word by the light of a wholesale spoliation of church property and revenues, parochial, monastic, collegiate, and eleemosynary, effected by the revolution, and later on ratified, or at least condoned, by the state. If, indeed, as all history proves, the Catholic Church has been the saviour and preserver of the state, the state has often shown itself the Judas of the church, and this “indemnity” is its kiss of peace.
There are now in France more than twenty thousand priests who are the recipients of this exorbitant civil list. They neither complain nor recriminate, but patiently and bravely act for the best in the interest of all. With a calmness derived from faith, they allow to sweep by them, as if heeding it not, the flood of stupid and malignant calumnies with which they and their sacred office are daily assailed. They go on receiving the poor, visiting the sick, consoling the sorrowful, sympathizing with all, assisting, even beyond their power, the distressed out of their own pittance, and thus further lessening the scanty means doled out to them for the sublime service of every hour—services basely misrepresented as to their motive, their spirit, and even their result.
It is not our present intention to dwell on the high social part filled by the second order of the clergy in France, and almost invariably with the most praiseworthy self-abnegation. But, at a time when honor, justice, and moral sense are by so many in France completely forgotten, or treated as an effervescence of obsolete and Quixotic sentimentalism; when it is the order of the day for each to get as much as possible for himself, and thrust himself into any office at hand, irrespective of worth, fitness, or merit; and when legions of “enlightened” and “advanced” “republicans” (especially those who elect to be married like heathens and buried like dogs) are gnashing their teeth at the clergy of France, so excellent, so devoted, and in the truest sense so liberal, it would be well if these men who insult them without stint and against reason were made aware that the more opulent among the men they revile are receiving, for all personal and household requirements, and the satisfaction of the hospitable instincts of their sacerdotal hearts, the munificent revenue of forty-four sous a day.
Footnote 69:
Under the nom de plume of “Jean de Nivelle.” See Le Soleil for Jan. 4, 1878.
Footnote 70:
The diet of a French peasant is frugal in the extreme. His two meals usually consist of cabbage-soup—in which on Sundays and other special occasions a morsel of bacon is boiled—accompanied with rye bread. We have known a very well-to-do couple make half a rabbit last them four days in the way of meat. Many kinds of fungi are common articles of diet with the French peasantry. They cook them with vinegar “to kill the poison.”
THE CORONATION OF POPE LEO XIII. (FROM OUR SPECIAL CORRESPONDENT.)
ROME, March 20, 1878.
There is a passage in the circular of the cardinals addressed to the diplomatic corps accredited to the Holy See on the eve of the conclave which deserves to be noted in connection with the issue of the conclave and the secular policy of the new Pontiff. The circular, after renewing all the protests and reservations of the deceased Pontiff, and declaring the intention of the cardinals to hold the conclave in Rome, because the first duty of the Sacred College is to provide the widowed church with a pastor as quickly as possible, says: “And this resolution was taken with the greater tranquillity, inasmuch as, pledging the future in no wise, it left the future Pontiff at liberty to adopt those measures which the good of souls and the general interests of the church will suggest to him in the difficult and painful condition of the Holy See at present.” The future for the new Pontiff is a free and open field which he can traverse in the manner he shall judge best for the weal of the church. The protests and reservations of the deceased Pontiff touching the temporalities of the Holy See constitute a realm of principle. Surrounding this is a free border-land for the new Pope.
People here in Rome and elsewhere who speculate much on the present condition of the Holy See, and especially on the so-called antagonism existing between itself and the Italian government, hoped that Leo XIII. would assume a less inflexible attitude before the people. Of the liberals, the conservatives, who are the acknowledged exponents of the sentiments of the crown, hoped for a formal conciliation. The Catholics expected that the new Pope would at least appear occasionally in public to bless them; while the curious tourists of all countries had visions of the solemn and imposing ceremonies in St. Peter’s which were the characteristic feature of Rome in other days. The expectations of all have been falsified so far. Since the 3d of March, the day of Leo XIII.’s coronation, the most sanguine liberals have desisted from their conciliatory speculations, and the rest have settled down into quiet resignation, yet hoping that a propitious occasion may again bring the Pontiff in public before his people.
A more fitting occasion than the day of his coronation could not be desired. Nay, the Pontiff himself had resolved to make his appearance, and be crowned before the people, in the upper vestibule of St. Peter’s. The Mass and other functions, prefatory of the coronation, were to have been performed in the Sistine Chapel. In fact, on the 1st of March the members of the Sacred College each received an intimation from the acting Secretary of State that the ceremonies preceding the coronation would be performed in the Sistine Chapel of the Vatican Palace. In the vicinity of the inner balcony of St. Peter’s temporary balconies were erected for the diplomatic corps, the Roman nobles, and persons of distinction, native and foreign. The confession of St. Peter and the papal altar under the dome were surrounded with a strong railing to prevent accidents, while the central balcony itself was enlarged by extending it farther out into the basilica and back into the vestibule. It had been the intention of His Holiness to be crowned here, and afterwards to bestow the apostolic benediction upon the people below. But on Friday afternoon, March 1, the workmen received orders not only to discontinue but to undo the preparations. It is unnecessary to speculate on the cause of this order in the presence of explanatory facts. A demonstration of enthusiastic devotion on the part of the multitude of Catholics who would be assembled there was naturally expected, and in this there was nothing deterrent whatever. But the information had eked abroad, and was duly reported to His Holiness, that a party of Conciliators had resolved to seize the occasion of the solemn benediction, and create a demonstration in favor of a conciliation with the existing order of things. Flags, Papal and Italian, were to have been produced just at the moment of benediction, and an interesting tableau of alliance to have succeeded. But this was not all. A counter-demonstration of the radicals was also mooted. This is no trivial hearsay, as the events of the same evening sufficiently attest. I pass over the allusions to the explosion of Orsini shells in the church. In the face of such expectations ordinary prudence would have suggested to the Sovereign Pontiff the inexpediency of a public ceremony. Yet if he were disposed to hesitate before giving credence to what was related to him by reliable authority, the attitude suddenly assumed by the government left no doubt in his mind as to what was expedient in the matter. Crispi, the garrulous Minister of the Interior, had given out that the government would not consider itself responsible for the maintenance of order in St. Peter’s on the 3d of March. He had previously addressed a circular to the prefects and syndics of the realm, interdicting any participation of theirs in the public rejoicings for the election of Pope Leo XIII., because, forsooth, he had not been officially informed of the election! He seems to have overlooked the inconsistency of this act with the efficient service rendered by the troops in St. Peter’s during the funeral ceremonies of Pius IX., albeit the government had not been officially informed of his demise. The church, however, has long since learned that it is vain to look for consistency in men who are strangers to truth and fair dealing. Moreover, she has, within the past few years, had bitter experiences in the doctrine of provocation, as inculcated by the Italian government. Leo XIII. was crowned in his own chapel, in the presence only of the cardinals, the prelates, and dignitaries, ecclesiastical, civil, and military, of the Vatican, the diplomatic corps, the Roman nobility, and a few guests.
At half-past nine o’clock on Sunday morning, the 3d of March, Pope Leo XIII., preceded by the papal cross, and surrounded by the attendants of his court, by the Swiss and Noble Guards, descended from his apartments to the vestry hall. The two seniors of the cardinal deacons, the penitentiaries of St. Peter’s, and the archbishops and bishops awaited him there. When he had been vested in full pontificals, with golden mitre, a procession was formed, moving towards the ducal hall. A Greek deacon and subdeacon, in gorgeous robes, attended upon the deacon and subdeacon of honor. The cardinals were assembled in the ducal hall, where an altar was erected. His Holiness knelt for a moment in prayer, and then mounted a throne which stood on the gospel side of the altar. There he received what is termed the first obeisance of the cardinals, who approached, one by one, and kissed his hand. The archbishops and bishops kissed his foot. Having imparted the apostolic benediction, the Pope intoned Tierce of the Little Hours. Another procession was formed, preceded by the first cardinal, who bore the sacred ferule in his hand and chanted the Procedamus in pace. The Pope was carried in the gestatorial chair under a white canopy borne by eight clerics. The Blessed Sacrament had previously been exposed in the Pauline Chapel. Thither the procession moved. At the door of the chapel the Pope descended from his chair, entered the chapel bare-headed, and knelt for a time in silent prayer. It is to be supposed that in those moments he prayed for humility of self, as well as peace and benediction upon his reign. It is the fitting prelude to the significant ceremony which followed. Just as the procession was about to move from the chapel-door towards the Sistine Chapel a master of ceremonies, bearing in his hand a gilded reed, to the end of which a lock of dry flax was attached, approached the throne, and, going down upon one knee, gave fire to the flax. As it burned quickly to nothing he said: Pater Sancte, sic transit gloria mundi—“Holy Father, thus passeth away the glory of the world.” He repeated the same ceremony at the entrance to the Sistine Chapel, and again just as the Pope was approaching the altar—a sage reminder, for the Sistine Chapel at that moment presented a spectacle of glory and magnificence which has no parallel.
Sixty-two cardinals, in flowing robes of the richest scarlet, the magnificence of which was enhanced beneath tunics of the finest lace, and as many attendant train-bearers in purple cassocks and capes of ermine; archbishops and bishops vested in white pontificals; clerics of the apostolic palace in robes of violet; Roman princes, gentlemen of the pontifical throne, in their gorgeous costumes; officers and guards in splendid uniforms; diplomatic personages ablaze with decorations; Knights of the Order of Jerusalem in their historic vesture; ladies in black habits and veils, gracefully arranged, and gentlemen in the full dress of the present day. Despite all this splendor, the most trivial worldling could not but be impressed with the sacred solemnity, the awful genius of the occasion. A Pope was to be crowned—“the Great Priest, Supreme Pontiff; Prince of Bishops, heir of the apostles; in primacy, Abel; in government, Noe; in patriarchate, Abraham; in order, Melchisedech; in dignity, Aaron; in authority, Moses; in judicature, Samuel; in power, Peter; in unction, Christ.”[71]
The Mass has begun. The choir has sung the Kyrie Eleison in the inimitable style of the Sistine Chapel. The Pope has said the Confiteor. He returns to the gestatorial chair. The three senior cardinals of the order of bishops, mitred, come forward, and each in turn extends his hands over the Pontiff and recites the prayer of the ritual, Super electum Pontificem. Cardinal Mertel, first of the officiating deacons, places the pallium upon his shoulders, saying at the same time: Accipe pallium, scilicet plenitudinis Pontificalis officii, ad honorem Omnipotentis Dei, et gloriosissimæ Virginis Mariæ, Matris ejus, et Beatorum Apostolorum Petri et Pauli et Sanctæ Romanæ Ecclesiæ. Leaving the gestatorial chair, and ascending the throne on the gospel side of the altar, the Pope again receives the obeisance of the cardinals, of the archbishops and bishops. The Mass proper for the occasion is then celebrated by the Pontiff, and the Litany of the Saints recited.
The solemn moment has arrived. The Pope again ascends the throne, while the choir sings the antiphon, Corona aurea super caput ejus. The subdean of the Sacred College, Cardinal di Pietro, intones the Pater noster, and afterwards reads the prayer, Omnipotens sempiterne Deus, dignitas Sacerdotii, etc. The second deacon removes the mitre from the head of the Pontiff, and Cardinal Mertel approaches, bearing the tiara. Placing it on the head of the Pope, he says: Accipe thiaram tribus coronis ornatam, et scias te esse Patrem Principum et Regum, Rectorem Orbis, in terra Vicarium Salvatoris Nostri Jesu Christi, cui est honor et gloria in sæcula sæculorum.
The Pope then arose and imparted the trinal benediction. This was followed by the publication of the indulgences proper to the occasion. From the Sistine Chapel the Pope, with the tiara still glittering on his brow, was borne in procession back to the vestry hall, whither the cardinals had preceded him. When he had been unrobed and seated anew in the middle of the hall, Cardinal di Pietro approached and read the following discourse: “After our votes, inspired by God, fixed upon the person of your Holiness the choice for the supreme dignity of Sovereign Pontiff of the Catholic Church, we passed from deep affliction to lively hope. To the tears which we shed over the tomb of Pius IX.—a Pontiff so venerated throughout the world, so beloved by us—succeeded the consoling thought, like a new aurora, of well-founded hopes for the church of Jesus Christ.
“Yes, Most Holy Father, you gave us sufficient proofs, while ruling the diocese entrusted to you by divine Providence, or taking part in the important affairs of the Holy See, of your piety, your apostolic zeal, your many virtues, of your great intelligence, of your prudence, and of the lively interest which you also took in the glory and honor of our cardinalitial college; so that we could easily persuade ourselves that, being elected Supreme Pastor, you would act as the apostle wrote of himself to the Thessalonians: ‘Not in word only, but in power also, and in the Holy Ghost, and in much fulness.’ Nor was the divine will slow in manifesting itself, for by our means it repeated to you the words already addressed to David when it designated him King of Israel: ‘Thou shalt feed my people, and thou shalt be prince over Israel.’
“With which divine disposition we are happy to see the general sentiment immediately corresponding; and as all hasten to venerate your sacred person in the same manner as all the tribes of Israel prostrated themselves in Hebron before the new pastor given them by God, so we too hasten, on this solemn day of your coronation, like the seniors of the chosen people, to repeat to you as a pledge of affection and obedience the words recorded in the sacred pages: ‘Behold, we shall be thy bone and thy flesh.’
“May heaven grant that, as the holy Book of Kings adds that David reigned forty years, so ecclesiastical history may narrate for posterity the length of the pontificate of Leo XIII. These are the sentiments and the sincere wishes which, in the name of the Sacred College, I now lay at your sacred feet. Deign to accept them benignantly, imparting to us your apostolic benediction.”
His Holiness replied: “The noble and affectionate words which you, most reverend eminence, in the name of the whole Sacred College, have just addressed to us touch to the quick our heart, already greatly moved by the unlooked-for event of our exaltation to the supreme pontificate, which came to pass contrary to any merit of ours.
“The burden of the sovereign keys, formidable in itself, which has been placed upon our shoulders, becomes still more difficult, considering our insufficiency, which is quite overcome by it. The very rite which has just been performed with so much solemnity has made us comprehend still more the majesty and dignity of the see to which we have been raised, and has increased in our soul the idea of the grandeur of this sublime throne of the earth. And since you, lord cardinal, have named David, spontaneously the words of the same holy king occur to us: ‘Who am I, Lord God, that thou hast brought me hither?’
“Still, in the midst of so many just reasons for confusion and discomfort, it is consoling to us to see the Catholics all, unanimous and in harmony, pressing around this Holy See, and giving to it public attestations of obedience and of love. The concord and affection of all the members of the Sacred College, most dear to us, console us, and the assurance of their efficient co-operation in the discharge of the difficult ministry to which they have called us by their suffrage.
“Above all, we are comforted by confidence in the most loving God, who has willed to raise us to such an eminence, whose assistance we shall never cease to implore with all the fervor of our heart, desiring that it be implored by all, mindful of what the apostle says: ‘All our sufficiency is from God.’ Persuaded, moreover, that it is he who ‘chooses the weak things of the earth to confound the strong,’ we live in the certainty that he will sustain our weakness, and will raise up our humility to show his own power and cause his strength to shine forth.
“We heartily thank your eminence for the courteous sentiments and the sincere wishes which you have now addressed to us in the name of the Sacred College, and we accept them with all our heart. We conclude, imparting with all the effusion of our soul the apostolic benediction. Benedictio Dei, etc.”
His Holiness then retired to his apartments, and the solemn assembly dispersed.
Meanwhile, the vast basilica of St. Peter had been crowded with people since ten o’clock in the morning, who hoped on, despite the contrary appearances, that His Holiness would come out at the last moment to bless them. Deeming such an event not unlikely, the Duke of Aosta, now military commander in Rome, had ordered several battalions of soldiers into the square, with orders to render sovereign honors to the Pontiff if he appeared on the outer balcony. This measure inculpated still more the Minister of the Interior, inasmuch as the unofficial information which was acted upon by the Minister of War should have been sufficient for the Interior Department. Save and except the salaried organs of the ministry, the journals of every color in Rome concurred in censuring the action of Signor Crispi, adding, at the same time, that it was the duty of the government to show every consideration for a Pontiff whose election has given such universal satisfaction. The breach between the church and state, they concluded, was only widened and the antagonism intensified.
Though the ceremonies of the coronation terminated at half-past ten o’clock, and the equipages of the cardinals and dignitaries had disappeared from the neighborhood of the Vatican, still the expectant and anxious people lingered in the basilica until the afternoon was far advanced. Then only did they turn homewards, supremely dissatisfied, not with the Pope but with the civil authorities. The demonstration of the canaille in the evening against the Pope and the clerical party only confirmed the report of an intended tumult in St. Peter’s, to be provoked by the radicals. The palaces of the nobles had been illuminated about an hour on the Corso, when the mob assembled at the usual rendezvous, Piazza Colonna. With a movement which betokened a previous arrangement they rushed down the Corso to cries of “Death to the Pope!” “Down with the clericals!” “Down with the Law of the Papal Guarantees!” etc. They halted before the palace of the Marquis Theodoli, and assailed the windows with a prolonged volley of stones, which they had gathered elsewhere, as no missives could be had on the Corso, unless the pavement were torn up. A full hour elapsed before the troops appeared on the scene and the bugles sounded the order to disperse. Only a few were arrested.
That same afternoon the Mausoleum of Augustus was the witness of a more systematic and dangerous demonstration against the Law of the Guarantees. The speakers, several of whom are members of the Parliament, indulged in the most villanous tirades against the Papacy, coupled with no measured votes of censure upon the government. A strong memorial was drawn up and addressed to Parliament, demanding the abrogation of the Law of Papal Guarantees.
Two days after his coronation Pope Leo XIII. appointed to the office of Secretary of State his Eminence Cardinal Alessandro Franchi, formerly prefect of the Propaganda. Whether it be that the moderate liberals still harbor visions of a formal conciliation, or that their esteem for Leo XIII. is superior to every party question, or both the one and the other motive actuate them, is not yet established; but the fact is, every act of the new Pontiff has been more warmly commended, as an additional instance of his unquestionable capabilities and profound sagacity, by the liberal than by the Catholic press. I am far from wishing to intimate that the latter displays no enthusiastic admiration for the inaugurative acts of Pope Leo’s pontificate. But the liberal press is particularly demonstrative in its admiration. The nomination of Cardinal Franchi to the Secretaryship of State has been hailed with jubilation by organs which hitherto have devoted every energy to bringing the late incumbents of that office, living and dead, into disrepute. “Cardinal Franchi,” say they, “is the man for this epoch. Accomplished, polished, bland of manner, skilled in diplomacy, and of accommodating disposition, he will be a worthy companion and counsellor to Leo XIII. in the new era for the church just inaugurated.” It is to be regretted, however, that their admiration for the Sovereign Pontiff and his secretary has not been able to keep their usual powers of invention from running riot in their regard. Cardinal Franchi is already credited with addressing a circular to the nuncios abroad, asking how a change of the Vatican policy in a less aggressive sense would be regarded by the powers of Europe. He is also said to have made the first step towards an understanding with Prussia, while the Pope himself is asserted as having addressed an autograph letter to the Czar of Russia, in which he expresses the hope that the difficulty between the Holy See and the imperial government, touching the condition of the church in Poland, will soon be removed.
It is needless to observe that the nomination of Cardinal Franchi as Secretary of State is pleasing to the Catholics. His career has been throughout one of eminent service to the Church. He was born of distinguished parents in Rome, on the 25th of June, 1819. At the age of eight years he entered the Roman Seminary, where he graduated with distinction, and was ordained priest. Soon after he was appointed to the chair of history in both his Alma Mater and the University of the Sapienza. Later on he became professor of sacred and civil diplomacy in the Accademia Ecclesiastica. Some of his pupils are now members of the Sacred College. In 1853 he was sent as chargé d’affaires to Spain, where he remained, with honor to the Holy See and to himself, until 1856. Recalled from Spain, Pope Pius IX. himself consecrated him Archbishop of Thessalonica in partibus, and appointed him nuncio to the then existing courts of Florence and Modena. He remained in that capacity until the annexation to Piedmont of both duchies in 1859. Returning to Rome, he was nominated in 1860 secretary of the Congregation of Ecclesiastical Affairs. In 1868 he was sent back to Spain as apostolic nuncio. The Spanish Revolution of 1869 brought his useful labors in that country to a close, and he again sought his native city, but only to be sent to Constantinople in 1871, on the delicate mission of arranging the serious difficulty then existing between the Holy See and the sultan touching the Armenian Catholics in the Turkish capital. His sound judgment, coupled with his proverbial urbanity, enabled him to bring his mission to a successful conclusion in a short time, and he returned to Rome laden with presents from the sultan to the Holy Father. He was created cardinal in the consistory of December 22, 1873, and in the March of the following year was appointed prefect of the Propaganda. His qualifications for the present office need not be enlarged upon after a consideration of his antecedents. With the office of Secretary of State is joined that of prefect of the Apostolic Palace, and administrator of the revenues and possessions of the Holy See. In the latter capacity he will be assisted by their Eminences Cardinals Borromeo and Nina, recently nominated at his request by the Sovereign Pontiff.
Pope Leo XIII. has inaugurated an era of reform in the administrative department of the Vatican. He is fast retrenching unnecessary expenses. He has brought into the Vatican his old frugal habits which distinguished him as the bishop of Perugia. He still uses the midnight lamp of study, and is at the moment of the present writing busily engaged in drawing up the allocution which he will pronounce in the coming consistory.
In that document Leo XIII. will stand revealed in his attitude before the Powers, friendly and hostile, of the world.
Footnote 71:
St. Bernard.
NEW PUBLICATIONS.
A LIFE OF POPE PIUS IX. By John R. G. Hassard. New York: The Catholic Publication Society Co. 1878.
“It is ... with the story of the private virtues of Pius IX., the outlines of his public life, and the most important works of his pontificate that the present biography will be chiefly concerned,” says the author of this really excellent life of the late Pope. Mr. Hassard has closely kept to the programme which he thus clearly set down for himself in the beginning, and the result is one of the most comprehensive biographies of Pius IX. that we have yet seen. The book is by no means a bulky one, yet the story of the wonderful pontificate is all there; the events that mark it grouped with the skill of a thoroughly practised and efficient pen: the secret forces that impelled those events brought to light; and the lights and shadows of the ever-shifting scene pictured with a rapid yet bold and true hand. Mr. Hassard has the happy gift of collecting his facts, setting them together in the briefest and most intelligible form, and leaving the reader to make his own comment on them. The comment is sure to be such as the author himself would make, so clear and logical is his arrangement of the premises. Another happy feature marks this biography: there is an absence of gush. The author writes tenderly and with an open admiration of his subject; but the tenderness never sinks into sentimentality, and the admiration is always manly and reasonable. The anecdotes are well chosen and happy, and most, if not all, of them will be new to the general reader. The author’s study of the workings of the secret societies, which play so prominent a part in the history of the last pontificate, has been close and searching. His acquaintance with European politics generally, so necessary in a biographer of Pius IX., is equally thorough. These necessary qualifications give a special value to the present Life, while the whole story is told with a genial glow of personal regard and admiration for its subject, none the less charming that its tone is rationally subdued. Mr. Hassard is to be congratulated on having produced a biography that will be cherished by Catholic readers as we cherish and keep by us, and look at again and again, a faithful miniature of one very dear to our hearts.
LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS TO FANNY BRAWNE. From the original manuscripts, with introduction and notes by Harry Buxton Forman. New York: Scribner, Armstrong & Co. 1878.
Were these the letters of John Brown instead of John Keats the world would wonder, with reason, what possible motive could have induced their publication. Well might poor Keats, were he alive, say on seeing them in print and exposed to the public gaze, “Save me from my friends!” Their publication is, perhaps, the greatest injury that the unfortunate poet, or his memory, ever had to sustain. As letters, even as love-letters, they are remarkably dull and insipid. How Miss Fanny Brawne received them of course we do not know. Love is reputed to be blind. It is certainly color-blind. Othello could never have looked black—at least not very black—to Desdemona. Had he worn his native sable that poor lady would undoubtedly have been reserved for a better fate. So it is presumably with love-letters. They may contain wells of wit and wisdom and eloquence and fire to the party to whom they are addressed, and who is bewitched by love’s potion, though to all the rest of the world they are the very embodiment of absurdity and nonsense. Titania, over whom the spell has been wrought, sees an Adonis where everybody else only sees honest Nick Bottom, the weaver, fittingly capped by an ass’s head. It is an evil day for Bottom when the love potion has lost its virtue and the scales drop from the eyes of Titania. Such an event does happen at times to all the Bottoms and Titanias, and probably it happened to Miss Fanny Brawne, who never became Mrs. Keats, but Mrs. Somebody Else. If ever she had cause for a grudge against Keats she has more than revenged it by allowing some prying busybody access to these very silly letters which are now given to the public for the first time.
They show nothing but weakness, mental and moral, in their author. It should be remembered, however, that they are the letters of a man marked for death. They exhibit not a trace of the wit and humor which Keats really had, and to which he sometimes gave expression. They are utterly without his classic grace and profound, if pagan, sympathy with nature. They are the expressions of morbid feeling, and of nothing else. They can serve no purpose but to lower Keats in the estimation of all who read them. He was never a robust character; but these exhibit him as a weakling of weaklings, and it was simply cruel to publish them. The whole thing is a piece of the worst kind of bookmaking we have seen. The introduction, which is worth nothing save to perplex, occupies sixty-seven pages; the letters, which are of about equal value, occupy one hundred and seven pages; an appendix of nine pages sets forth “the locality of Wentworth Place”; to all of which there are no less than six pages of an index with such headings as these: “Arrears of Versifying to be Cleared”; “Books lent to Miss Brawne not to be sent home”; “Brawne, Fanny”; “Brawne, Margaret”; “Brawne, Mrs.”; “Brawne, Samuel, Jr.”; “Brawne, Samuel, Sr.” (why not “The Brawne Family” at once?); “Café, Keats will not sing in a”; “Flirting with Brawne”; “Front parlor, Watching in”; “Getting Stouter”; “Laughter of Friends”; “Sore throat, Confinement to the house with”; and so on. We do not know who Mr. “Harry” Buxton Forman may be, but if ever it came to pass that we were threatened with fame at the cost of a future Harry Buxton Forman to hunt up our love-letters or butchers’ and bakers’ bills, or every scrap that we might write in an incautious moment, we should certainly prefer to all time our present happy obscurity.
LIFE OF HENRI PLANCHAT, Priest of the Congregation of the Brothers of St. Vincent de Paul. By Maurice Maignen. Translated from the French, with an introductory preface. By Rev. W. H. Anderdon, S.J. London: Burns & Oates. (For sale by The Catholic Publication Society Co.)
This Life is a beautiful one. In reading it we are constantly reminded of the just and faithful man—the privileged servant of God—who, amidst the turmoil of the world, possesses his soul in peace. Henri Planchat was born of good parents at Bourbon-Vendée on November 22, 1823. After a holy youth he was called to the sanctuary and studied under the venerable Sulpitians at Paris. Being ordained priest on December 22, 1850, he offered his first Mass the next day, and the day after that “attained,” says his biographer, “the climax of his wishes by becoming a member of the little community of Brothers of St. Vincent of Paul, in order to live and die in the service of the working classes and of the poor in general.” Interior recollection, humility, and the perfect performance of the duties of his ministry raised him to a martyr’s throne. A dreadful storm, the fury of the Commune, suddenly burst upon this life of singular simplicity and charity, devoted to the needy and the ignorant for upwards of twenty years, and he was basely massacred, out of hatred to religion, in the Rue Haxo, on the 27th of May, 1871, among that very class of people for whom he had labored so earnestly and so long. “We are the good odor of Christ,” says the apostle, and in the untimely yet happy death of Henri Planchat we perceive the aptness of Bacon’s saying about adversity, that “virtue is like precious odors, most fragrant when they are incensed or crushed.”
The Rev. Father Anderdon, S.J., has written an introductory preface to this English translation which is short and to the point; but a scholar like Father Anderdon should not have mistaken (preface) Poitou for Picardy, which was an altogether different province of the territorial divisions of France before the Revolution.
ONE OF GOD’S HEROINES: A Biographical Sketch of Mother Mary Teresa Kelly, Foundress of the Convent of Mercy, Wexford. By Kathleen O’Meara. New York: The Catholic Publication Society Co. 1878.
Nothing that the very gifted author of the Life of Frederic Ozanam writes can fail to attract attention or excite admiration. Miss O’Meara seems equally happy in biography as in fiction. Her stories, such as Are You My Wife? Alba’s Dream, etc., etc., need no recommendation to readers of THE CATHOLIC WORLD. In the touching little biography which calls for the present notice Miss O’Meara has evidently performed a labor of love. The title exactly describes the subject of the sketch. Mother Kelly was indeed “one of God’s heroines,” called up at a time when such heroines are peculiarly needed—in our own days. She was born in 1813; she died on Christmas day, 1866. Her religious life was a sustained series of heroic actions—actions none the less heroic that they were done in a practical, unostentatious, matter-of-fact manner. Her good works live after her, and it was a kindly and just thought to commemorate them as they have been commemorated in the bright pages of this tender and graceful little memoir by so skilful a hand and appreciative a heart. No one can read One of God’s Heroines without feeling that after all the world is a brighter place than so many writers are wont to picture it. It will always be bright and worth living in while it can boast of such pious and charitable souls as Mother Mary Kelly. The only fault to be found with the present sketch of that life is its brevity.
TO THE SUN? From the French of Jules Verne. By Edward Roth. Philadelphia: Claxton, Remsen & Haffelfinger. 1878.
That very clever Frenchman, Jules Verne, has again given us a most interesting and wonderful tale, which has been very successfully translated by Mr. Roth. It is to be wished that all translations were equally well done. Captain Hector Servadac and his servant, Ben Zoof, a typical Frenchman, are hurled into space upon a piece of the earth’s surface, and proceed with alarming velocity toward the sun. Of course they are not the only ones removed from this sphere. There are some Englishmen and Spaniards, and a Dutch Jew. We must not forget a Russian count and his companions, who all play an important part in this wondrous story. Verne’s object is to interest boys in the exact sciences, as Mayne Reid’s was to awaken a corresponding interest in natural history. At the present day, when stories for boys are becoming so intensely vulgar, and contain so much slang which passes for wit and playful badinage, it is a relief to find a story that is told in good English, and that contains, moreover, in a marked degree the highest sentiments of manly honor. There is in it an undercurrent of the strongest feeling against the Germans, which is vented upon a Holland Jew. The book would have been better without this. Some English officers come in for a few hits at their national characteristics, but, on the other hand, our young captain himself is frequently reproved by his Mentor, the Russian count, who, of course, is nearly faultless.
The chief beauty of the book is the large amount of interesting scientific knowledge which can be gleaned from it, if carefully perused, and although not as amusing as Twenty Thousand Leagues under the Sea or A Journey to the Centre of the Earth, it can be cheerfully recommended to our boyish friends as full of absorbing interest and healthy in its moral tone. It is to be followed by a sequel.
THIRTY-NINE SERMONS PREACHED IN THE ALBANY COUNTY PENITENTIARY, FROM MAY, 1874, TO MARCH, 1877. By the Rev. Theodore Noethen, Catholic Chaplain. Albany: Van Benthuysen Printing House. 1877.
These discourses are published in aid of a fund for increasing the Catholic library of the prison. The author’s preface tells us that the library contains about one hundred bound volumes and a number of pamphlets. “An incalculable amount of good has already been effected” by it; but the number of Catholic prisoners—nearly four hundred—makes many more books necessary. “If,” he says, “there could be some concerted action among the Catholic publishers of the United States, each contributing a few books, an excellent library would soon be formed; and it is but right that this suggestion should be acted on, for the reason that prisoners are sent to the Albany penitentiary from all parts of the Union.” He praises the example of a few of our leading Catholic publishing houses, “whose generous contributions of English and German books, together with rosaries and medals, have earned for them the gratitude” of their unfortunate fellow-Catholics.
These sermons are short and simple, and will be found very useful to pastors whose time is crowded with work, and particularly to those in the country who have more than one “mission” to attend. They will also prove excellent reading for the Catholic inmates of other penitentiary institutions.
THE FOUR SEASONS. By Rev. J. W. Vahey. New York: The Catholic Publication Society Co. 1878.
This is a useful book of instruction, written in a pleasing and popular style. The “four seasons” represent the various stages of human life from early youth to ripe old age. The lesson inculcated is the old one, that as a man sows so shall he reap. The author has happily contrived to weave much practical observation and really sound knowledge into his allegory—for such the little work may be styled. The chief object aimed at is to arouse Catholic parents to the necessity of religiously guarding the education of their children, and thus keeping them all their lives within the church into which they are baptized. Father Vahey’s volume has the warm approval of his archbishop, the Most Rev. John M. Henni.
THE YOUNG GIRL’S MONTH OF MAY. By the Author of Golden Sands. New York: The Catholic Publication Society Co. 1878.
Golden Sands, which was noticed in this magazine, has become, as it deserved to become, a very popular book of devotion. In the present small volume the same author has given us a work admirably adapted for May devotions. There is a special motive, aspiration, and brief meditation set apart for each day of the month of Mary, breathing a happy piety and tender grace throughout. The devotions need not at all be restricted to “young girls.” The same skilful hand that rendered Golden Sands into English has with equal happiness set this Month of May before English readers.
THE CATHOLIC WORLD. VOL. XXVII., No. 159.—JUNE, 1878.
THOREAU AND NEW ENGLAND TRANSCENDENTALISM.[72]
There is a story told of an illiterate cobbler who was wont to attend the theological discussions in an Italian university, and who, despite his ignorance of Latin and the points discussed, always discovered the disputant that was worsted. To a friend who expressed surprise at his acuteness he explained that he had noticed that the arguer who first lost his temper was the one who also lost the victory.
The cobbler’s test admits of wide application. The consciousness of truth begets serenity. What chronic ill-temper was there amongst the first Protestant Reformers! And even to-day a Protestant controversial author writes as though he were aflame with rage. The doughty Luther, warmed, possibly, as much with the wine whose praises he so lustily sang as with polemical zeal, hurls such names as sot, devil, and ass at his opponents. He has declined and conjugated the word “devil” in all cases, moods, tenses, numbers, and persons. We can imagine his broad face purple with rage, and his bovine neck throbbing apoplectically, as he pours out the vials of his wrath upon that “besatanized, insatanized, and supersatanized royal ass,” Henry VIII., whose accredited book won for the monarchs of England that most glorious, though now, alas! inappropriate, title, “defender of the Faith.” The meek Melanchthon had the tongue of a termagant; and Bucer must have suggested to Shakspere some of the characteristics of Sir John Falstaff, so far as a command of billingsgate goes; for the wordy combats of that Reformer (Bucer, we mean) recall the conversational victories of the knight of sack.
Morbid irritability and unwholesome sensitiveness were the characteristics of the movement known, rather vaguely, as “New England Transcendentalism,” which, forty years ago, promised America a new life in religion, literature, and art. This ill-temper was a forecast of defeat. It brought the movement under the suspicion of weakness and error. It was a voice crying in the wilderness; it had not, however, the trumpet-tones of strength and conviction, but was rather the puny wail of complaint and despair. We were just ceasing to be provincial and were opening to world-wide influences. Our national boastfulness was hugely developed, and we flattered ourselves that no pent-up Utica contracted our powers. De Tocqueville says of us that we are a nation without neighbors; and this, of course, means that we are without standards or comparisons of excellence, and so, like the Buddhist devotee, we aim after perfection by self-contemplation. New England was filled with schoolmasters who had read Carlyle and translations of the Encyclopædists, and who in consequence began to have doubts about what not even Pyrrho would have considered a doubt, so far as it had any existence in their minds—religion. The stern-eyed old Calvinism which watched them like a detective became inexpressibly odious to them, and they hated “Romanism,” too, with all that contradictoriness that baffles explanation. It was soon discovered that Scotch Puritanism was unfitted for the latitude of New England, though it must be said that the mechanical virtues and the staid habits of the people owed much to that strange fanaticism which, whether happily or unhappily for them, has passed away for ever.
How to throttle Puritanism, and yet preserve its corpse from putrefaction as a convenient effigy to appeal to, became a problem for which no solution presented itself. The American masses even to this day venerate the Pilgrim Fathers, and no amount of historical evidence will shake their veneration for those fierce and ignorant fanatics, whose memory should long ago have been buried in charitable oblivion. It is only the Catholic historian and philosopher that can to-day respect the inkling of truth which they held, and which St. Augustine says is to be found in every heresy and doctrinal vagary. They attempted to make the Bible a practical working code of laws—an idea which to-day would be greeted with laughter by their children, who have long since unlearned veneration for the Scriptures. There is something quite noble, though irresistibly ridiculous, in the old Puritan notions about the Bible. One wonders that they did not revive the rite of circumcision. Protestants are beginning to acknowledge the wisdom of the church in not making the Scriptures as common as the almanac or the newspaper. The whole atmosphere of New England became Judaic. Biblical names of towns abounded. Scriptural names were given to children, with a disregard for length and pronunciation that in after-years provoked the ire of the bearers. The Mosaic law was ludicrously incorporated with the legal enactments of the civil law. The old Levitical ordinances were carried out as far as practicable, and the minister of the town just barely refrained from donning the garments of the high-priest and decorating himself with the Urim and Thummim. This anomalous society survived even the great social changes which were wrought by the Revolution.
Puritanism repressed all individual eccentricities of religious opinion. The boasted independence of Protestantism scarcely ever did exist, except in name. Let a man to-day dissent from the opinions of the sect in which he has been brought up, and he may as well become a Catholic, though that is the crowning evidence of being given over to a reprobate sense. What liberty did Luther give the Sacramentarians? What divergence of opinion did Calvin allow in Geneva? He punished heresy with death. What toleration was there in the Church of England for Dissenters? And there is a quiet but effective persecution kept up in the English church to-day against all “Romanistic tendencies.” There is not a greater delusion prevalent than the lauded Protestant freedom of investigation and liberty of conscience. The Catholic Church, even as judged by her enemies, was never so intolerant as that obscurest of Protestant sects, the Puritans of New England. The harshest charges that have been falsely made against a merely local tribunal, the Spanish Inquisition, are historically proved against the full ecclesiastico-civil tribunals of Massachusetts in the punishment, not of turbulent and contumacious heretics, but of wretched and harmless old women accused of witchcraft. Every Protestant church is a complexus of social and business influences, all of which are cruelly and unfairly brought to bear against any member who uses the Protestant right of private judgment. If he will disjoin himself from church communion, though his interpretation of the Scriptures may assure him that the Father is worshipped in spirit, he is looked upon as an infidel and blasphemer. The petty persecution of the Protestant church is a subject admissive of infinite illustration.
Cramped and crippled by a fierce Scotch Covenantism, what were the aspiring minds of New England to do? A natural idea struck them. Some of the fathers of the Revolution were infidels. That great and glorious light of American history, Benjamin Franklin, who was held up as a model to every New England boy, was a sort of deist. The influence of that man’s example and writings has been one of the most baleful in our country’s history. The fathomless depths of his pride, the cool assurance of his “virtue,” the intensely worldly spirit of his maxims, and his Pharisaical reward of wealth and honors in this world have been imitated by thousands of American youth. That nauseating schedule of “virtues” which he drew up; such hideous maxims as “Rarely use venery” and “Imitate Jesus and Socrates,” which seem to us infinitely more shocking in their cold calculation than a wild debauch or a hot-headed oath; his constant prating about integrity as the high-road to health and wealth; and, in short, the whole wretched man, body and soul, furnished the worst yet widest-copied example of American virtue and success. Add to such influences the schoolboy beliefs in liberty and independence, the solemn Fourth-of-July glorification of individual freedom, the vision of the Presidency open to the humblest youth in the district school, and the gradual weakening of faith in the Bible, brought about by the rapid multiplication of the poor, deistical histories and scientific miscellanies of fifty years ago, and the end of Puritanism was soon predicted. The heavy hand of the clergy was shaken off. The curiosity deeply planted in the Yankee nature looked around for a new religion. At once all the vagaries of undisciplined thought, so long held in silence by Protestantism, burst out in Babel speech. Chaos was come again. If Puritanism had dared, it would have sent the “Apostles of the Newness,” as they were called, to the scaffold or the pillory, or, at the very least, it would have pierced their tongues and branded them with symbolic letters.
And what a revelation! We laugh at the wild rhapsodies of George Fox, and Mr. Lecky, in his late book, England in the Eighteenth Century, has rather cruelly, we think, dragged up Wesley’s and Whitefield’s eccentricities for the laughter of a world which should rather be in tears over the vanishing of such earnestness as both those deluded men had; but the laughter which New England Transcendentalism evokes is hearty and sincere, from whatever side we view it.
In the first place, there is no meaning in the name. The logician knows what transcendental ideas are—the ens, verum, bonum, etc.; and what philosophy calls the transcendental is really the most familiar, as connected with universal ideas. But Transcendentalism in New England was understood to mean a high, dreamy, supersensuous, and altogether unintelligible and unexplainable state, condition, life, or religion that escaped in the very attempt to define it. Dr. Brownson complains that he had much difficulty in convincing a philosopher that nothing is nothing; and we feel much in the same mental condition as that philosopher, for we cannot see how Transcendentalism (a polysyllable with a capital T) is nothing. It is infinitely suggestive. It is any number of things, all beginning with capitals. It is Soul, Universe, the Force, the Eternities, the Infinities, the βία καὶ κράτος. It is Any Number of Greek and Latin Nouns. It is, in fact, a Great Humbug (in the largest kind of caps). Mr. Barnum’s “What-is-it?” is nothing to the Protean forms of Transcendentalism. A fair definition might be, Puritanism run mad. There was a certain method in it, and it would be false to say that the absurdity ever went so far in America as Fichtism or even Hegelism in Germany. The old Puritan leaven was too strong for that; and the Yankee common sense, which not even the wildest flights of Transcendentalism could wholly carry from earth, instinctively rejected the German theories. Not even Comte’s Positivism, which has quite a following in England and an influential organ in the Westminster Review, ever gained ground amongst us. We do not believe in Cosmic Emotion or Aggregate Immortality, ponderous and unmeaning words, to which, listening, a Yankee asks, Heow?
The surprising fact is how, in the name of all the philosophers and the muse that presides over them, did New England fall a victim to the “Apostles of the Newness”? It was worse than the Protestant Reformation, which is said to have developed more crazy and eccentric enthusiasts than any other physical or social convulsion recorded in history. The shrewd Yankee genius was supposed to be insured against spiritual lightnings. The cold and common-sense temperament of the people seemed farthest removed from the action of “celestial ardors.” But the fierce old Puritanism was taking only a new form. The spirit that sent Charles I. to the scaffold was nurtured amid the gloomy woods. Only that the sweet providence of God, mysteriously permitting and clearly punishing evil, is gradually withdrawing even the physical presence of that spiritually and intellectually unbalanced race, what chance would there be for the action of his all-holy will as wrought out by the church? New England is largely Catholic to-day, yet New Hampshire will have no popery in her councils. “This spirit is not cast out without prayer and fasting.” Milton, who lacks spiritual insight, fails to identify the spirit of pride with the spirit of impurity. New England, alas! has been filled with the spirit of pride, and of hatred against the City of God, and lo! now she is slain by the spirit of impurity, and the stranger within her gates has taken her place and will wear her crown. And that stranger is the despised and hated “Romanist,” who now enjoys the blessing foretold in that mystic Psalm whose counsels New England despised—the blessing of progeny. It is a prophecy and a history (Ps. cxxvi.): “Unless the Lord buildeth the house, they labor in vain that build it. Unless the Lord keepeth the city, he watches in vain that keepeth it. It is in vain for you to rise before the Light. Rise after ye have sat down, and eaten the bread of sorrow. Behold, children are an inheritance from the Lord, and the fruit of the womb is his reward. As arrows in the hand of the mighty, so are the children of them that were rejected.”
This is the divine “survival of the fittest.” Would to Heaven that the solemn significance of this great Psalm could sink into the heart of New England and cast out the foul demons that have so long lurked within it; that, having partaken of “the bread of sorrow,” she might rise to the contemplation of the true Light!
No sooner was the restraining power of Puritanism cast off than Transcendentalism, like the genie in the Arabian Nights, rose like an exhalation, and afterward defied the command of the invokers to return to its former limited quarters. The men who assisted at this liberation of a powerful and anarchic spirit soon discovered, to their fear and disgust, that they could not control it. It was worse than Frankenstein, for it appeared to have symmetry, and the land was quickly enamored with its beauty. Every theorist felt that the millennium had dawned. A truce to common sense was called. The leaders of the movement were put in the painful but logical predicament of inability to object to the consequences of their teachings. The over-soul was reduced to such limitations as the necessity and obligation of using bran-bread in preference to all other forms of food. Carlyle’s Sartor Resartus happening to appear at a time when the inspiration was fullest, Sartorial heresies became the rage. Bloomer costumes asserted their rights. The old sect of Adamites revived, and nothing but tar and feathers, which hard-headed Calvinists bestowed with unsparing vigor and abundance, prevented many from rushing into a state of nudity. There arose prophets of vegetarianism, and, says Lowell, every form of dyspepsia had its apostle. Money, the root of all evil, was condemned by impecunious disciples, who drew largely upon treasures which they imagined they had laid up in heaven. Furious assaults were made upon the Bible, which was stigmatized as a worn-out and effete system. A crew of anti-tobacconists, who regretted that they could not find a condemnation of the weed in Scripture, were joined by a set of teetotalers, who did not hesitate to condemn our Blessed Lord’s use of wine, and, as they were unable to see the high, mystic significance of the Eucharist, they vented their foolish wrath upon such of the Protestant sects as retained wine in the Lord’s Supper, and this with such effect that it became quite common in New England to administer bread and milk instead of wine in the communion, thus destroying even the semblance to the blood which we are commanded to drink in remembrance of That which was shed for our redemption, and which, in the divine Sacrifice celebrated by Christ on Holy Thursday, was then really and truly poured forth, in the chalice, unto the remission of sin.
The revulsion from the unspeakable harshness of the Puritanic interpretation of the Scriptures was so complete that men cast about for an entirely new theological terminology. The transcendental pedants were ready for the want. What was grander than the old Scandinavian mythology? What is Jehovah to Thor? What is the Trinity to the sublimity of the Buddhistic teachings? The cardinal doctrine of the New Testament is the golden rule, which was familiar to the Greeks, and expressed in our own terms by Confucius. Satan’s master-stroke was thus levelled at the Bible, which was the word of life to the New-Englander. Take the written word away from the Protestant, and the gates of hell have prevailed against him. The inscriptions upon the Temple of Delphi preserved Greek mythology for centuries. Infantine belief in the poor, adulterated word of the Scriptures, which, after all, were never subjected to the full action of the Protestant theory, kept alive some remnants of Christian faith and hope. But to cast away the Bible for the Vedas, the Krishnas, the Mahabarattas, the skalds, and the devil knows what other vague and windy compilations of Scandinavian and Brahminical superstitions was to inaugurate a chaotic era, the like of which history does not record. There is no sympathy between the American mind and the Buddhism of the East, much less between the minds of the Yankee Transcendentalists and the wild beliefs of Danish sea-kings, who would have knocked their brains out, as puling and scholarly creatures unfit to wield a club or harpoon a seal, and consequently objects of the just wrath and derision of Odin and Thor. Yet these strange mythologies, intermixed with fatalism, Schellingism, and nature-worship, formed the olla-podrida to which New England for at least ten years sat down, after the unsavory dish of Puritanism had been thrown out of doors.
The spiritual squalor and intellectual poverty of most Transcendentalists were studiously kept out of sight, and the school—for it would be blasphemy to call it a religion—pushed forward into notice its exponents, who, under the stricter requirements of writing, considerably toned down their sentiments, and sought to give intelligible and literary form to their extravagances. A magazine, called the Dial, was published in Boston, in 1840 and a few following years, and notwithstanding the petulant genius of Emerson, its editor, who only now and then yielded to the spirit of newness, the strangest gibberish began to mumble in its columns. The following, from the “Orphic Sayings” of Bronson Alcott, who was considered to be one “overflowed with spiritual intimations,” is an illustration of the jargon. It might be proposed by a weekly paper as a puzzle to the readers:
“The popular genesis is historical. It is written to sense, not to soul. Two principles, diverse and alien, intercharge the Godhead and sway the world by turns. God is dual. Spirit is derivative. Identity halts in diversity. Unity is actual merely. The poles of things are not integrated. Creation is globed and orbed.”
The leaders of the movement cared nothing about letting their infidelity be known; but the mass following were loath to break completely with their religious traditions. They did not know what Kultur meant, and had neither knowledge of, nor sympathy with, Wilhelm Meister or Werther. The Atlantic Monthly, which may be regarded as having taken the place of the Dial, became the repository of Transcendental thought, though, with Yankee shrewdness and savoir faire, the editors managed to give it an unsectarian and, in time, even a national character.
The Atlantic never committed itself to Christianity, or, if it did so, it was to that spurious horror which in rhyme, idea, and general relativeness joins Jesus with Crœsus. A peculiar school of literature, marked with the patient study of German idealism, grew up around the Atlantic, which, with characteristic New England assertion, claimed to be the critic and model of American letters. The orphic style was sternly kept down in the Atlantic, but it would assert itself. Any one who cares about illustrating this idea has but to turn over the older Atlantics to see the painful efforts made to paraphrase the name of God, which, whenever boldly printed, has some title of limitation. We have any quantity of Valhallas and mythologies, and poems about the Christ that’s born in lilies, etc.; but it is tacitly understood that Kultur is the presiding genius. It must be admitted that New England Transcendentalism developed, or at least engaged, considerable literary and poetic talent. Not to speak of its High-Priest, Avatar, Inspirationalist, Seer, or Writer (with a big W), or Whatsoever you call him—Emerson, who has retreated from its altar and seems to be swinging his Thor-hammer wildly in every direction, there appeared a number of writers, all under the mystic spell. They aimed at a certain vague and beautiful language, and were given to pluralizing nouns which are one and singular in meaning. A certain kind of poetry, after the manner of Shelley, but not after his genius, sprang up and monthly bedecked the Atlantic with flowers. The literary men of New England were made to feel that inspiration sprang from Transcendentalism alone.
Nathaniel Hawthorne became its novelist, and Thoreau, whom we have been keeping at the door so long, suggested to him the idea of Donatello in The Marble Faun—a finely-organized animal, acted upon by human and otherwise spiritual influences. Hawthorne’s morbid genius, for which we confess we have little admiration, was unnaturally stimulated by the Transcendental seers. He is for ever diving into the depths of inner consciousness, and always appearing with a devil-fish instead of a pearl. His Note-Books show him to have been a spiritually diseased man, for whom the stench and ugliness of moral fungus growths had more charms than had the flowers. He has the besetting weakness of false reformers, chronic irritation, quite as vehement against the pettiest crosses and vexations of life as against its awful tragedies and crimes. This is the evolution of Transcendentalism. It began with enthusiasm and ended in worse than Reformation anger at everything and everybody, not excepting itself; but it was not an anger that sins not.
Theodore Parker was its theologian by excellence, and as the one god he believed in was himself, we suppose he may be allowed the title. Margaret Fuller Ossoli was co-editor with Emerson of the Dial, and was a strong-minded woman, whom her admirers insisted upon calling Anne Hutchinson come again—so strong, after all, were their New England traditions. Dwight wrote their music, if music can be limited in expression. William Ellery Channing was the poet of Transcendentalism, and Henry D. Thoreau was its hermit.
Thoreau was born at Concord in 1817, and he died in 1862. He was the only man among the Transcendentalists that allowed their theories the fullest play in him, and the incompleteness and failure of his life cannot be concealed by all the verbiage and praise of his biographers. Emerson’s high-flown monologues ruined him. A trick of naturalizing and botanizing which he had, and which never reached the dignity or usefulness of science, was exaggerated by a false praise that acted more powerfully than any other influence in sending him into the woods as a hermit, and among mountains as a poet-naturalist. He appears to have cherished some crude notions about the glory and bountifulness of Nature and her soothing and uplifting ministry, but these notions are, in the ultimate analysis, admissive of much limitation and qualification, if they be not altogether ægræ somnia mentis. The Transcendentalists worshipped Nature and built airy altars to the Beautiful, but they did not venture into the woods on a rainy day without thick shoes and good umbrellas. Thoreau gave up his life to this delusory study and adoration of Nature, and got for his worship a bronchial affection which struck him down in the full vigor of manhood. We have no patience with an ideal that takes us away from the comforting and companionship of our fellow-men. What divine lessons has Nature to teach us comparable with her manifestations in human nature? Why should we run off into solitude, and busy ourselves with the habits of raccoons and chipmunks that are sublimely indifferent to us? How much better is old Dr. Johnson’s theory: “This is a world in which we have good to do, and not much time in which to do it,” and who, on being asked by Boswell to take a walk in the fields, answered: “Sir, one green field is like another green field. I like to look at men.”
Life in the woods is very good for a mood or a vacation, but man escapes from them into the city. The old proverb about solitude runs, Aut deus, aut lupus—no one but a divinity or a wolf can stand solitude. One of the weaknesses of Transcendentalism was an affectation of seclusion. It was too good for human nature’s daily food. Man is such a bore! “O for a lodge in some vast wilderness!” Now, all this is sinful and unreasonable. Why should we shrink from the bad and evil and objectionable in mankind to herd with the wild beasts of the forest? The only thing that sanctifies solitude is the Catholic faith; and, even when the monastic idea sought to realize complete isolation from the world, the superiors were loath to grant permission. They felt that it is not good for man to be alone, and St. Benedict, in his Rule, has a reflection that there were monks lost in solitude who would have been saved in community. The true idea is that we can be solitary in spirit in the midst of crowds. There is no necessity of betaking ourselves to the woods.
Very likely the high praise of isolation, as nutritive of genius, acting upon a naturally retiring disposition, first led Thoreau to his sylvan life. The common idea that he was a hermit or a misanthropist is fully disproved by his biographers. In our opinion he is just the reverse, and if we were disposed to bring in evidence we could show that he was wild for notoriety. His private letters are more affected than Pope’s, who wrote with an eye to publication. All Thoreau’s books are full of his private experiences, thoughts, and emotions. He never suffers you to escape from his overpowering personality. He never sinks the ego. He reminds one of the diary of the private gentleman in Addison’s Spectator: “To-day the beef was underdone. Took a walk. Dreamt about the Grand Turk.” Thoreau is for ever telling us about his personal feelings, his method of baking bread, and his dreams about tortoises, etc. There is something funny in his writing six volumes for men on whom he fancied he looked with Transcendental contempt. The fact is, he was a fine, naturally talented, and poetic man, who was bewitched by the theories which we have sketched; and the contest within his spirit has led his biographers and critics into pardonable misapprehensions of his life and aims. Left to himself and his aspirations, he would have developed into a fair poet or a good naturalist—perchance an Agassiz or an Audubon. He had no theological or philosophical ability, but a deep sense of truthfulness, which made him experimentalize upon the theories which he heard. He found it much easier than would most men to live in the woods, to take long walks, to navigate rivers, and to collect specimens of natural history. His studies in nature have no value to the scientist. He was a good surveyor and liked animals. He wrote some indifferent poetry. He described some gorgeous sunsets. He delivered an oration on John Brown, and he managed to let the world know that he built and lived in a hut at Walden. Voilà tout. He flippantly criticised our Lord Jesus Christ, ridiculed all Christian beliefs, preferred the company of a mouse to that of a man, of an Indian to a white man, and died without a single throb of supernatural faith, hope, or charity. This was a man, too, who had Catholic blood in his veins, but who could not bear to hear the chime of church-bells without some contemptuous remarks, and who professed himself a Buddhist without the Indic veneration, and a worshipper of Pan without knowing or believing that the great Pan had died for his salvation.
Two biographies are before us, one by William Ellery Channing, who was Thoreau’s friend and companion, the other by H. A. Page, who appears to be a biographer-in-general or by profession. Channing’s, as might be expected, is a sort of prose In Memoriam; and Page’s is made ridiculous by an attempted comparison between Thoreau and St. Francis of Assisi, based on the saint’s love of, and miraculous power over, animals, and the Concord man’s ability to bring a mouse out of its hole or tickle a trout. Strange as it sounds, this comparison is carried on through one-third of the volume. Page must be a member of a Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, for Thoreau’s kindness to brutes he evidently regards as his finest trait. Such stuff as “the animals are brethren of ours and undeveloped men,” and the slops of evolution in general, are poured out in vast quantity, and the impression forced upon the reader is that Mr. Page, who speaks of himself as an Englishman, has no conception of Thoreau’s character, nor, indeed, of any adventurous or sport-loving nature such as freely develops on our wide plains and high mountains.
Thoreau graduated at Harvard, but without distinction. He and his brother taught school for a while at Concord, where the sage lives who gave such cheering voice to Carlyle. There was a wildness in him which nothing could subdue, yet it took no cruel or brutal form. He appears to have had that passionate love of external nature which is so sublime as a reality, so detestable as an affectation. He was made of the stuff of pioneers and Indian scouts, but with rarer feeling and poetic temperament. A water-lily was more than a water-lily to him. He had no social theory to advocate—a delusion about him into which Page falls—but he took to the woods as an Indian to a trail. There is nothing Transcendental about his life, and yet he is the chief and crown of Transcendentalists. He had a brave, high life in him, which is perfectly intelligible and realizable, quite as much in the parlor as in the swamp. Heroism need not leave New York for the steppes of Russia. A naturally timid priest who anoints a small-poxed patient is as brave in his way as Alexander or Charles XII. of Sweden. A thousand hermits have lived before Thoreau, and made no palaver over their social discomforts, which are, indeed, inseparable from their way of life. There is an unpleasant soupçon of Yankeeism when, in Walden, Thoreau lectures us on economy. The Transcendental aurora vanishes before the prosaic hearth-fire.
We remember having read A Week on the Concord and Merrimac Rivers and The Maine Woods during a summer vacation which we spent between Mount Desert and Nantucket, and the sweet naturalness of those two beautiful books sank into our heart, touched, perhaps, by the glorious yet sombre scenery in which we moved. The jar and discord of Thoreau’s theological opinions melted away in the harmony of the great music which he made us hear among the hills and scenes which he loved so well, and of which he seemed a part. Hawthorne’s keen eye, sharpened, we will not say purified, by high æsthetic cultivation, detected in Thoreau the latent qualities of the Faun whose existence, by an anomaly, he has thrown into modern Italy, and even intimates as wrought on by the church. We love to think of Thoreau, not as idealized by Emerson, Channing, or Page, nor shallowly criticised as by Lowell, but as bright and winsome, afar from the sensuous creation of Hawthorne, and full of that boyish love of flood and field which has made us all at one time Robinson Crusoes. This is a most undignified descent from that ideal type of character which Thoreau is supposed to represent; but we submit to any reader of his books, if he did not skip his foolish theories about religion, friendship, society, ethics, and other such themes on which Emerson expatiates, and about which dear old Thoreau never knew anything at all practical, and leap with him into the stream, follow the trails he knew so well, learn the mysteries of angling and hunting, and tramp with him through the forests, read with him his dearly-loved Homer, and, in spite of our half-concealed laughter, listen to his wonderful explanations of the Beghavat-Gheeva.
It is encouraging to notice how bravely he shakes off half the nonsense of Transcendentalism, though bound by the wiles of Merlin, who lived only two miles from Walden. Transcendentalism gave no religion. It was even hollower than Rousseau’s Contrat Social and Émile, in which writings the wicked old Voltaire said that Jean Jacques was so earnest in converting us back to nature that he almost persuaded us to go upon all fours. Even Emerson confesses to the failure of Thoreau’s life. “Pounding beans,” says that wise old man, with the air of a Persian sage—a character which he frequently adopts, especially when he recommends some thousand-dollar Persian book to us as infinitely superior to the New Testament,—“Pounding beans,” says he, referring to poor Thoreau’s attempt to carry out his Transcendentalism, “may lead to pounding thrones; but what if a man spends all his life pounding beans?”
And so, in the style of the tellers of fairy stories, we say that poor Thoreau continued all his life pounding beans, but without caring very much for the bearing of beans upon the eternities, splendors, and thrones, and that he lived a cheerful and wholesome, natural life, though rather an uncomfortable one, in his woods and among his beasts and flowers; that he was kind and gentle to beasts, but not to God or to man, of whom he seemed to be afraid, which was a mistake; and after he was dead he was made out to be a great philosopher, a golden poet, a great social theorist, and a Transcendental saint, which is another mistake.
With Thoreau died the Transcendental hermit, and, so far as human nature and a happy combination of character and circumstance could permit, the only truly ideal man that Transcendentalism has produced. Yet how far he falls below the most commonplace monk in spiritual range and power and aim! No great spiritual fire burns in his bosom; nor will any Montalembert be attracted to his memory. There was not the light of Christian faith or love upon his life, which is distinguished from the savage’s only by its superior mental civilization and its relation to that civilization which he so humorously yet contradictorily despised. With Emerson, who has now convinced himself of the absurdity of immortality, its greatest writer will die. The Kulturkampf of Germany, which New England introduced into America, cannot survive the literary changes which take place every half-century. Emerson will fade into oblivion, and even now he is no longer listened to. But there is that in Thoreau’s books which gives vitality to old Walton’s Angler, and the traveller on the Concord and through Maine will recall the memory of Thoreau, no longer, we hope, to be associated with the eclipse of his false philosophy, but seen bright and vivid in that sunshine and beauty he loved so well.
Footnote 72:
Thoreau, the Poet-Naturalist. By W. E. Channing. Boston: Roberts Brothers. 1873.
Thoreau: his Life and Aims. A Study. By H. A. Page. Boston: J. R. Osgood & Co. 1877.
THE FOUNTAIN’S SONG.
Into the narrow basin Falleth the ceaseless rain, Echo of sweet-voiced river Singing through mountain glen, Breaking amid the footfalls Filling the city square, Mingling with childhood’s clamor Piercing the heavy air: Shrill-sounding, childish voices Gathered from dust-grimed street, Pale little wondering faces, Swift little shoeless feet; Coral-stained cheeks of olive, Lips where all roses melt, Eyes like the heavens’ zenith— Latin, Teuton, and Celt Crowding with eager glances Where the wide bowl lies spread, Watching the gold-fish glimmer, Giving the turtles bread: Eyes that of mountain streamlet Never the light have known, Ears that of mountain music Know not a single tone, Feet that have never clambered Clinging to mossy stone, Hands that the palest harebell Never have called their own.
Glittering in the sunshine Droppeth the fountain’s rain; Glistening in the moonlight, Singing its mountain strain. Twittering round the basins Sparrows sit in a line, Dip in the ruffled water, Scatter its jewels fine. Rests in the earth-bound basin Depth of the starlit sky, Shadows of noon and twilight Soft on the waters lie. Fresh on the clover circle Falleth the wind-driven spray, Keeping an April greenness All through the August day. Meet that St. Mary’s gable, Bearing the cross, should crown This little glimpse of freshness Set in the sun-parched town; Meet that St. Mary’s altar Rise with its Sacrifice Here where the city’s poor ones Seek pure breath from the skies.
E’er in the dropping water Filling the pool below Voices I hear that never Pure mountain-stream can know: Singeth the city fountain Songs that are all its own, Though for its needs it borrow Music the hills have known: Sings it of sin forgiven, Sorrow-tossed heart at rest, Wearisome load soft lifted, Soul of all bliss possessed. Chanteth the silver murmur Notes of the vesper hymn; Gleams in the moonlit showers Twinkle of taper dim Burning before God’s altar Faithful through day and night, In its unbroken service Token of holier light. Bells rung at Benediction Mingle their sacred chime Clear in the solemn rhythm Wherewith the fountain keeps time.
Gifts of our Blessed Mother, Lady of God’s dear Grace, Fall with the falling waters— Heavenly dew of peace. Wind-swept spray of the fountain Keeping the clover green, Telleth the grace of sorrow Clothing a soul serene; Bubbles breaking in sunshine— Heaven-reflecting spheres— Shine like joy-freighted eyelids: Heart finding speech in tears. Quarrelsome little sparrows Wear the white wings of dove, Brooding o’er mystical waters, Fusing the waves with love. So doth the fountain whisper Thoughts of all sorrow and joy, Sparkle like blessèd water Cleansing from sin’s alloy: Voices of mountain and altar Blend in its ceaseless rain, Holding my soul that listens Bound in a subtle chain.
HERMITAGES IN THE PYRÉNÉES ORIENTALES.
I.
“Let man return to God the same way in which he turned from him; and as the love of created beauty made him lose sight of the Creator, so let the beauty of the creature lead him back to the beauty of the Creator.”—St. Isidore of Seville.
Let others who visit the magnificent range of the Pyrenees tell of the grandeur of the scenery and the beneficence of the mineral waters; let them recount the days of border warfare, when Christian and Saracen fought in the narrow passes, and Charlemagne, and Roland, and all the mighty peers awoke the echoes of the mountains; we will seek out the traces of those unlaurelled and, for the most part, nameless heroes who overcame the world and ended their days in the lonely caves and cells that are to be found all along the chain from the Mediterranean Sea to the Bay of Biscay. Many towns and villages of southwestern France owe their origin to some such cell. The hermit at first only built one large enough for himself, in which he set up a cross and rude statue of the Virgin. Other souls, longing for solitude, came to knock at his door. The cell was enlarged. An oratory was erected. People came to pray therein and bring their offerings. The oratory grew into a chapel. The hermitage became a monastery, around which families gradually took shelter, and the hamlet thus formed sometimes grew into a town. Lombez, St. Papoul, St. Sever, and many other places owe their origin to some poor hermit. The names of a few of these holy anchorites are still glorious in these mountains, like those of St. Orens, St. Savin, and St. Aventin, but most of them are hidden as their lives were, and as they desired them to be. Many of the chapels connected with their cells have acquired a local celebrity and are frequented by the people of the neighboring villages. This is a natural tribute to the memory of the saintly men to whom their fathers used to come when in need of prayer or spiritual counsel. The influence of such men on the rural population around was incalculable, with their lessons of the lowly virtues enforced by constant example. Sometimes not only the peasant but the neighboring lord would come with his Dic mihi verbum, and go away with new views of life and its great aims. King Perceforest, in his lessons to his knights, said: “I have graven on my memory what a hermit a long time ago said to me by way of admonition—that should I possess as much of the earth as Alexander, as much wisdom as Solomon, and as much valor as the brave Hector of Troy, pride alone, if it reigned in my bosom, would outweigh all these advantages.”
Many of these hermitages and oratories are
“Umbrageous grots and caves Of cool recess”
that have been consecrated to religious purposes from the first introduction of Christianity. In the valley of the Neste is one of these grottoes, to which you ascend by steps hewn in the cliff. The opening is to the west, and the altar, cut out of the live rock, is turned duly to the east, where the perpetual Oblation was first offered. The sacred stone of sacrifice has been carefully preserved. There is a similar cave near Argelés also with its altar to the east.
Whether cave or cell, these hermitages are nearly all remarkable not only for their solitude but for the beauty of their situation. Sometimes they are in a fertile valley amid whispering leaves and wild flowers that give out sweet thoughts with their odors; sometimes ’mid the deep umbrage of the green hillside, vocal with birds, perchance the nightingale that
“Shuns the noise of folly, Most musical, most melancholy”;
or on the border of a mountain stream with no noise there
“But that of falling water, friend to thought”;
or some secluded tarn whose tideless waters, like the soul stilled to all human passions, give back an undisturbed image of the sky; but oftener on some lofty crag, gray and melancholy, with scarce a spray for bird to light on, where amid heat of summer and winter frosts the hermit grew “content in heavenward musings,” like him, sung by Dante, on that stony ridge of Catria
“Sacred to the lonely Eremite, For worship set apart and holy things.”
Every one in his hours of deepest feeling, whether of love, or grief, or devotion, has longed for some such retreat where he might nurse it in solitude. To every soul of any sensibility that has lived and suffered—and is it not all one?—it appeals with a force proportioned to the deep solitude he has already passed through, and his sense of that solitude he knows must one day be encountered. There is something healing and sustaining in this contact with nature, but it is only experienced by him who has that “inward eye which,” says Cowley, “is the bliss of solitude.”
“The common air, the earth, the skies, To him are opening Paradise.”
“But solitude, when created by God,” says Lacordaire, “has a companion from whom it is never separated: it is Poverty. To be solitary and poor is the secret of the heroic in soul. To live on a little, and with few associates; to maintain the integrity of the conscience by limiting the wants of the body, and giving unlimited satisfaction to the soul, is the means of developing every manly virtue, and that which in pagan antiquity was a rare and noble exception has become under the law of Christ an example given by multitudes.”
The cells of these mountain hermits are therefore invariably of extreme simplicity. “Prayer all their business, all their pleasure praise,” the mere necessities of the body only were yielded to.
“The moss his bed, the cave his humble cell, His food the fruits, his drink the crystal well.”
There were once more than a thousand hermitages on both sides of the Pyrenees, most of which have been swept away in the different revolutions. Several of them, however, have been restored, and a great number of the chapels connected with them have become popular places of devotion. This is especially the case in the Pyrénées Orientales. M. Just, who was our guide to so many of them, and on whom we draw freely in our narration, gives nearly forty of ancient origin that still exist in Roussillon, the chapels of which are open to the public and greatly frequented, at least on certain festivals of the year. The people love the altars where erst their fathers prayed, and have restored most of those which fell into ruin at the Revolution. One feels, in going from one of these holy places to another, as if in the true garden of the Lord filled with flowers of aromatic sweetness. The “balm-breathing Orient” has nothing to surpass them. Let us pass several of them in review, and catch, if possible, the secrets of their spicy nests.
There is the hermitage of Notre Dame de Peña—Our Lady of the Peak—on a barren mountain, bristling with needles, not far from the source of the Aude. Nothing grows on these rocky cliffs, except here and there, in the crevices and hollows, tufts of fragrant lavender, thyme, and rosemary, and the box, the odor of which, as Holmes says, suggests eternity. A rough ascent, cut in the rock, leads up to the hermitage, with a little oratory here and there by the wayside, and a saint in the niche, reminding the visitor to prepare his heart to draw near the altar of the Mother of God. There is a narrow terrace before the chapel, from which you look down on the wild Agly rushing along at the foot of the mountain over its rough bed of schist. On the farther shore is the little village of Cases-de-Peña, surrounded by hills that in spite of the aridness of the soil are covered with vines, almond-trees, and the olive. In the distance is Cape Leucate, where the low range of the Corbières shoots forward into the very sea. The hermitage is in a most picturesque spot, and there is a stern severity about the bare gray cliffs not without its charm. An unbroken silence reigns here, except on certain festivals of the Virgin. Directly behind, a sharp needle springs up, called the Salt de la Donzella, with ruins on the summit, of which no history remains.[73] These cliffs can be seen far out at sea, and the mariner, when he comes into the basin of St. Laurent, looks up to invoke Our Lady of the Peak:
“Beloved is the Virgin of us. Every day we pray to her at the sound of the Angelus bell. Her image is the sail that impels our bark toward the flowery shore. O the Virgin! the Virgin! We need her now; we need her everywhere, and at all times!”[74]
Notre Dame de Peña is one of those Madonnas, so numerous in the Pyrenees, that were hidden in the time of the Moors or Huguenots, and, being forgotten, were brought to light in some marvellous manner. In this pastoral region it was almost always by means of the flocks or herds, whereas in Spain such images were generally found surrounded by light, music, and odors. In this case the lowing of cattle around a cliff of perilous height led to the discovery of the statue in a cave. When this took place, or when the chapel was built to receive the holy image, is not known. But the date on the cistern hollowed in the rock shows that it was already here at the beginning of the fifteenth century: “In the year 1414 this cistern was made by Bn. Angles, a mason of Perpignan, by the alms of charitable people.” The chapel formerly had no doors; consequently, any one could enter, day or night. The peasants used to say of the Madonna: “No quiere estar cerrada esta imagen”—This image is not willing to be shut up. But later, in order to keep animals out, a wall was built around it, with a gate that any one could unfasten. In old times there were many ex-votos in the chapel, and silver reliquaries, one of which contained a fragment of the tomb at which Christ wept, and another of the pillar to which he was bound. And the Virgin had thirteen veils broidered with silk and garnished with silver, and a still greater number of robes, it being the custom here, as in Spain, to clothe the sacred statues out of respect. The chapel and hermit’s cell fell to decay at the Revolution, and the Madonna was carried to a neighboring parish church. But the people continued to come here to pray amid the ruins. When better days arrived it was restored through the zeal of M. Ferrer-Maurell, of the neighboring village of Espira-de-l’Agly. The statues of St. Vincent and St. Catharine in the chapel are said to be the likenesses of his children of these names, who both entered the order of La Trappe and died in the odor of sanctity. They are generally known, their lives having been published, as Père Marie Ephrem and his sister.
The Madonna now in the chapel is commonly called the Mara de Deü Espagnola. The place was once owned by the Knights Templars, but now belongs to the chapter of Notre Dame de la Réal at Perpignan, and on certain festivals the youngest canon comes here with other priests to hear confessions and say votive Masses. At such times a great crowd ascends the mountain. The pavement of the chapel—of the solid rock—is worn smooth by the pilgrims of so many ages. At the foot of the mountain is a road leading to the Valley of the Aude.
The hermitage of Notre Dame de Força Réal is on a mountain of that name, so called from the royal hold that once stood on the summit, fifteen hundred feet above the level of the sea. When the clouds gather around it the people in the plain below pray to the Madonna veiled in the mist to be protected from hail, so often disastrous to the crops in this region. As the chapel is on the culminating point of the mountain, it is visible for miles around, and seems to the sailor afar off on the treacherous waves like a true pharos of hope. M. Méchain, the noted astronomer, established himself here when measuring the arc of the meridian between Dunkirk and Barcelona. All the villages around have stated days in the year to come here in procession. The people of Corneille come on Trinity Sunday; Millas, on Whitmonday, and so on. It is very picturesque to see them winding up the mountain-side with their crosses and gay banners, singing as they go. On the way they stop to pray at the little oratory of Notre Dame de Naudi, or Snow. Mass is sung in the chapel of Força Réal, and they all receive the Holy Eucharist. The chapel is dedicated to Notre Dame de Pitié, and over the altar is that group, always so affecting, of Marie éplorée at the foot of the cross receiving the body of her crucified Son. Two doors behind facilitate the approach of pilgrims to kiss the holy image. To see these pious mountaineers gathered around the dead Christ and his mourning Mother, singing the wild Goigs, so expressive of grief, in the native idiom, is very pathetic. Before the chapel is a large portico that also leads to the hermitage, and beyond is a small patch of land for cultivation. From the terrace before the chapel is a fine view over the sun-bathed plains of Riversal, and in the distance is the blue sea which washes the shores of that Eastern land where the angelic greeting was first uttered, but is now echoed for ever among these mountains consecrated to Mary. Not far off is an isolated peak, on which are the ruins of an old military post that had its origin in the time of the Romans. Roussillon, it must be remembered, has been successively occupied by the Romans, Visigoths, Saracens, Spaniards, and French. Separated from France by the Corbières, and from Spain by the Pyrenees, it was a border-land of perpetual warfare for centuries, and this post was noted in the contests, particularly in the war between Don Pedro of Aragon and King Jaime of Majorca, and was the last place to hold out against Don Pedro. Louis IX. had resigned all claim on Roussillon to Don Jaime el Conquistador, who, on his part, withdrew his pretensions to a portion of Languedoc. After the death of Don Jaime the province fell under the rule of the kings of Majorca, till the bloody wars of the fourteenth century gave Don Pedro possession of it. He made it the apanage of the crown prince of Aragon. Louis XIII. took Perpignan, and the treaty of the Pyrenees confirmed France in the possession of the whole province.
The hermitage of Notre Dame de Juegas is pleasantly situated in the plain of Salanca beside the river Agly, whence it derives its name—a corruption of Juxta aquas, near the water. Here once stood a temple to the false gods. It is a quiet peaceful spot, a little from the highway to St. Laurent, the centre of the maritime business on this coast, and the traveller often turns aside to say a prayer in the ever-open chapel. The sailors themselves come here, and there is a constant succession of votive Masses all the year for safe voyages and happy ventures. It is especially frequented in the summer. The neighboring parish of Torreilles comes here in procession four times a year, one of which is on the festival of St. Eloi to perpetuate a thanksgiving service at his altar for the cessation of a pestilence that raged ages ago in this vicinity. How few of us, who perhaps consider ourselves certain degrees higher in the intellectual scale than these good peasants, ever return to give thanks for our own mercies, much less for those of our forefathers! On Good Friday a great number come here from the surrounding parishes to make the Way of the Cross and pray at the altar of the Christ. There is a large garden walled in around the hermitage, and adjoining is a field belonging to it. Before the cell is a wide porch and a court shaded by trees, where the birds keep up their sweet responses from one leafy cell to another. Here the pilgrims assemble to eat the lunch they bring with them. The chapel is known to have existed in the thirteenth century by a document of 1245, by which Delmau de Castelnou transferred all his possessions in the territory of Sancta Maria de Juseguis to Don Jaime, the Infante of Majorca. It contains a statue of Our Lady between St. Ferréol and St. Lucy. Not far from the chapel is the mound where tradition says the Madonna was found. Out of respect it has never been cultivated.
About a mile from the little village of Corneilla-del-Vercol is the hermitage of Notre Dame du Paradis—in Latin, Regina Cœli. A fifteen minutes’ walk across the sunny plain brings you to it. It is in a retired spot well calculated to diffuse peace in the soul, and you pass out of the air tremulous with heat into the cool, solitary chapel with a delightful feeling of repose. The hermit, varying his duties by cultivating the land adjoining, may well find a calm happiness at the feet of Our Lady of Paradise. The very name brings joy to the gloomiest soul. The word Paradise, as the Père Bouhours says, “implies the cessation of every ill, and the fruition of all good.” Fra Egidio, one of the early Franciscans, used to fall into ecstasy at the very name of Paradise; for such holy souls kindle into a glow at the least spark, above all at the thought of the eternal bliss that awaits the end of their penitential life.
This chapel has recently been restored by the villagers and very prettily ornamented. One of the side chapels is dedicated to St. Acisclo, whom, with Santa Victoria, we found honored on Montserrat in Spain. Prudentius has consecrated a hymn to these two martyrs, who suffered at Cordova in the reign of Diocletian. The chapel is very ancient. In an old will of 1215 Dame Ermessende Raffarda bequeathed it half an aymine of barley, and not long after one Pons Martin, of Perpignan, wishing to be buried here, left it a whole load. High Mass is celebrated here on the Assumption, and there are frequent votive Masses throughout the year.
On the way from Caudies to Fénouillet is the hermitage of Notre Dame de la Vall, on a peak surrounded by a great number of old graves that are shaded by sad cypresses and olives. Mention is made of it in a privilege accorded by Pope Sergius IV. in 1011 to the monastery of St. Pierre de Fénouillet. Near the mount is the Ruisseau des Morts—the Stream of the Dead—to which the priest in his sable stole used to come down to receive those brought here for burial. About a mile from Caudies you come to the oratory of St. Ann, recently restored, with an inscription in the Catalan tongue stating that it was erected in 1483—that is, when the country was under the rule of Aragon. It then belonged to the domains of the counts of Fénouillet. Just beyond this oratory is a large cross at the foot of a long ramp leading up to the hermitage. The Madonna in the chapel is held in great veneration, as shown by the number of ex-votos on every side. She stands in a curious retablo of terra-cotta. In one of the compartments the demon is represented beneath the bier of the Virgin, seemingly half crushed by the weight, perhaps significant of her power over the Prince of Darkness. There is a kind of belvedere, to which you ascend by a flight of seventy-three steps, where you have a fine view over the valley of Caudies and the stern, barren mountains that surround it. On one of these rocky heights are to be seen the ruins of Castel Sizel, and on another those of the old château of Fénouillet, which take quite a poetic tinge up in that sunlit air. A great festival is held at Notre Dame de la Vall at the Assumption, when the mountain is clothed with joy and its summit crowned with light. At other times it wears a solemn aspect. To see it at night, especially, with its chapel on the top among lone graves and funereal cypresses, with the Stream of the Dead winding along at the foot, is something gloomy to behold. The monotonous flow of the sullen stream, the black shadows, the sighing of the night winds, as of suffering souls, strike a kind of terror into the heart.
The hermitage of St. Catharine nestles in the bottom of a charming valley about a mile and a half from Baixas, among almond-trees and luxuriant vines, the more pleasant from the contrast with the barren cliffs that enclose it. Here the titular saint has been venerated from time immemorial, as well as SS. Abdon and Sennen, who are in special honor in this country. They all have statues in the sanctuary, and above them stands supreme Notre Dame de la Salud, which is the Catalan for health—Salus Infirmorum. On St. Catharine’s day, as well as the feast of Our Lady of Snow, the whole valley is swarming with pilgrims and resonant with their Goigs, as the hymns in the native tongue are called.
The valley of the Agly leads to the hermitage of St. Antoine de Galamus by a pleasant road along the left bank of the river, shaded by trees and shrubs that never lose their verdure. On the other side rise bold cliffs with astonishing abruptness. At length you come to an iron gate that opens into the Bois de St. Antoine, where, along the path bordered with odorous plants, are the stations of the Via Crucis, and beyond is a cave dedicated to St. Magdalen, with her statue over a rude altar. Soon after you come to the hermitage at the end of the valley, surrounded by a wall, with a small belfry rising above it. Here you are welcomed with cordial simplicity by a hermit of saintly mien. A grotto, seventy feet deep and twenty wide, serves as a chapel. Eight steps lead to the marble altar, on which is a statue of the patron saint with the mysterious Tau on his mantle, and beside him the animal symbolic of all uncleanness. Every one who has seen the picture of the Temptation of St. Anthony by Teniers—and who has not?—remembers under how many aspects the great adversary was allowed to tempt the saint, and how, according to the significant legend, the victorious St. Anthony forced the malign spirit to remain beside him under the most suitable of forms.
This chapel has always enjoyed great celebrity since the cessation of an epidemic in 1782, in consequence of a solemn procession here by the neighboring people. Several rooms are built into the side of the cliff to accommodate those who wish to spend some days in meditating on the contemptu mundi. In one room is a shelf in the rock that used to serve as a bed for the hermit—certainly one that would not tempt him to remain too long inert. Near by is a small cave where the statue of St. Anthony was found. Here is a little fountain fed by water that comes trickling down the side of the cave with a pleasant murmur.
The place reminds one of Sir Lancelot, who, “after riding all night, became ware of a hermitage and a chappel that stood between two cliffs, and then he herd a lytel bell rynge to Masse, and thyder he rode, and alyghted and tyed hys hors to the gate.” But he that said Mass in our case was not “the byshop of Caunterburye,” but a poor friar of the Order of St. Francis. In 1482 this hermitage was taken possession of by the Observantine fathers, who occupied it for more than a century. They were succeeded by lay hermits. For several years past members of different religious orders have succeeded each other here, and by their austere lives recalled the ancient solitaries of the desert. You seem to see St. Pachomius in the wilderness among the clefts of the rocks. In 1843 Père Marie, of saintly memory, was the hermit here, and might have been daily seen hollowing out his tomb in the rock. Beside the yawning mouth lay a death’s head with the scroll: “Soon you will be what I am, all of you who behold me. Pray for the dead, and work out your own salvation.” Sometimes the hermit would stop in his lugubrious employment to prolong the moral as with the voice of one risen from the dead. He was succeeded by others who were desirous of pausing in the midst of their apostolic career and refreshing their weary souls by spending a season in retirement and prayer among the caves of this lonely mountain. One of these caves is in the side of a steep cliff difficult of access. On the wall is rudely graven: “The voice of him who crieth in the wilderness.” The very stones here, indeed, seem to cry out. The cave recalls the Earl of Warwick who became a hermit and scooped out his own cell in a cliff, as he is made to say:
“With my hands I hewed a house Out of the craggy rock of stone, And lived like a palmer poore Within that cave myself alone.”
The hermitage of St. Antoine is certainly a charming solitude. The cliffs are bare and stern, but the eye looks down on the verdure of trees and a meadow enamelled with flowers. The songs of the birds come up from their leafy nests, as if in response to the hermit’s psalm, and the sunny air is full of insects chirping in the bliss of their peaceful existence, only rivalled by his own.
Near the village of Pézilla de la Rivière is the ancient hermitage of St. Saturnin in a graveyard full of trees, and flowers, and crosses, showing the piety of the people towards their dead. Before burial their remains are taken into the chapel, where the Miserere is sung and absolution pronounced. Here are the statues of St. Saturnin, St. Blaise, St. Roch, and St. Sebastian, all popular saints in this region. On the wall is a tablet to the memory of a noble Béarnaise who became a canoness, and always used to attend High Mass here on St. Saturnin’s day. A legend tells how on one occasion, being overtaken by a hard rain, she was not wet in the least, while the servant who reluctantly accompanied her was drenched to the skin.
On the left bank of the Agly, about a mile and a half west of Claira, is the modest hermitage of St. Pierre del Vilar, surrounded by pale, trembling poplars, and tall reeds that rustle drearily in the wind, and orchards of olives—saddest, if most sacred, of trees. It wears an aspect of utter solitude. The chapel is so old that its origin is unknown. But there is a tombstone from a neighboring priory (now gone) to which the chapel gave its name, to the memory of Prior Berengarius, who died in 1193. There is an old statue of St. Peter here, carved out of wood, dressed in an alb, stole, and cope. This chapel was in such veneration that after the Revolution the people restored it, added a belfry, and on St. Peter’s day, as well as several other festivals, they come here in procession, and Mass is solemnly sung. At their departure they used to gather around the graves of the old hermits to chant the Requiem, but these graves are now covered by the cells built here in 1851 by some pious cenobites of the Order of St. Francis—refugees from Spain, who sought in prayer and solitude consolation for their exile.
The hermitage of St. Martin stands on one of the highest peaks around Camelas. It dates from a remote epoch, as appears by a bequest dated the twelfth of the Kalends of May, 1259. The seigneurie of Camelas belonged to the barony of Castelnou, and when Lady Anne de Fénouillet, the widow of one of the barons, took the veil “of her own free will,” as the account says, “de sa propria y mera voluntad, and not by force, or persuasion, or reward,” she gave all her rights over the domain of Camelas, including the hermitage of St. Martin, to the hospital of Ille, to which she had retired in order to serve the poor of Christ.
In the seventeenth century this venerable sanctuary, having fallen to partial ruin, was restored by the exertions of M. Curio, a priest of Camelas, who has left many details of its history in a manuscript of touching interest. He tells us how, when a mere escolanet dels rectors—a pupil of the curé—he used to walk in the processions of Rogation week, carrying the cross or the holy water; and when they came to St. Martin’s, and he saw its ruined condition, his young heart was deeply moved. The altar was poor. The old statues of St. George and St. Martin were defaced. The walls were crumbling to pieces, and there were holes in the vaulted roof; and the open doors allowed the goats and other animals to take shelter there. “Estas cosas,” says he, “eran pera mi de gran afflictio”—These things were to me a great affliction—and he longed to be able to repair the chapel. He finally became a priest and held a small benefice at Thuir, but he never lost sight of the chapel of St. Martin—a saint to whom he had special devotion—and he would have become a hermit here had it not been for the opposition of his superiors. On the 12th of January, 1637, during a visit at his brother’s in Camelas, while saying the rosary in the evening, he felt suddenly inspired to take immediate measures for the restoration of the chapel. But there were many obstacles. He was himself very poor, as he tells us, and the people around were equally so. He knew he should incur the reproaches of his brother as well as of the neighbors. And it would be expensive to transport brick, sand, and water to the mountain for the repairs. By a few sous from one, and a few francs from another, he was enabled to begin the work, but had to continue it at his own expense. Six years after the work was not completed. He now removed to Camelas to devote himself to it, bringing with him a pious old laborer to aid in the task, and a hermit to whom the bishop had given a license to collect alms within the circuit of two miles—a limitation made at the special request of the prudent M. Curio himself, lest, as he said, the hermit might have an excuse for “vagabondizing.” The zealous priest gave all his own income. He even made himself the organist of a church to add to his means. At length he had the happiness of seeing it completed, and, going to Perpignan, a painting of St. Martin was given him for the altar of his patron, and a retablo of sculptured wood for that of Notre Dame des Anges. The chapel was reopened September 25, 1644, and M. Curio figured as chief musician at the High Mass. His own inclination for the solitary life made him long to retire here himself, but he was again refused permission. At length, in the time of some pestilence, he made a vow to retire here for the space of a year, should he and his parish escape. He entered upon the fulfilment of his vow April 2, 1653.
The church consists of two aisles, each with its altar: one of St. Martin, with the old painting above it presented to M. Curio; and the other of Our Lady of the Angels with its ancient statue of coarse workmanship found in a neighboring cave still known as the Cova de la Mare de Deü.
In former times, after High Mass on St. Martin’s day, a small loaf, a cup of wine, and a morsel of cheese were given to all the people present; and the custom is still kept up, at least as to the bread.
Footnote 73:
Perhaps this peak, encircled by other peaks, is so styled from the curious dance of this region, called Lo Salt, performed by four men and four women. At a certain part the former pass their hands under the arms of the women, and raise them in the air in the form of a pyramid, of which their white caps form the summit.
Footnote 74:
Jasmin.
CONRAD AND WALBURGA. CHAPTER II.
On the way home Walburga stepped into the cathedral, the grand old Frauen Kirche, and remained a short while on her knees before the high altar. There Conrad and all that he had spoken passed out of her mind; she felt as if she were in another world, so changed was everything round about her, so solemn and still. Before her hung the ever-burning lamp, symbol of the Eternal Presence; and as Walburga’s eyes rested upon the sacred flame, she wondered at herself for bearing with so little resignation the troubles of this life.
“What I seek, what I yearn for,” she sighed, “is not to be found here below. Everything sooner or later passes away; the happiest home we may found on earth must in the end know tears and desolation. O eternity, eternity!”
Yet, strange to relate—and yet, no, not strange, but quite naturally enough—the moment Walburga emerged from this peaceful sanctuary and found herself once more in the noisy, airy, life-throbbing street, with the azure sky overhead and gladsome faces flitting to and fro, she felt very human again, ay, very human; and her craving for something human to love and be loved by grew none the less intense when presently she saw happy Ulrich and happy Moida advancing towards her arm-in-arm. It was not necessary for them to speak to tell that their hearts were throbbing in sweet harmony together, and that for them at least this world was all a paradise.
When Conrad and Ulrich found themselves back at Loewenstein again they talked of little else than their pleasant trip to Munich.
“The only harm ’twill do me,” said the artist, smiling, “is that I’ll lie awake a good while to-night thinking of Moida. The more I see of my betrothed, the more virtues do I discover in her. She is so full of common sense; she keeps store and keeps house too; nobody can make a better bargain when she goes to market, and it is a fortunate thing that Walburga has such a friend.”
“Miss Hofer is indeed a rare girl,” said Conrad, who was seated beside him watching the moon rise over the mountain; “and you have proved your own good sense in choosing her for your future spouse.” Then, assuming a graver tone: “But now let me tell you something which is of great concern to me. You remember that I spoke to you about a young lady whom I met with in the Pinakothek, and that it was in order to see her again that I went to-day to Munich. Well, she turns out to be your sister.”
“My sister! Walburga! Really!” exclaimed Ulrich, feigning surprise at this piece of news.
“And, Ulrich”—here Conrad took his hand in his—“I mean to try my best to win her heart.”
“And most sincerely do I hope you may succeed,” rejoined the youth.
“Well, is she quite free? Is any gentleman courting her?”
“Nobody, sir, is courting her.”
“It must be because she is poor,” said Conrad inwardly, “and perhaps, too, a little proud. Well, a Loewenstein has a right to be proud.”
They remained thus conversing together until a late hour, until all the lights in the valley were out, until the moon was sailing high in the heavens, and every sound was hushed except the voice of the waterfall in the ravine back of the castle.
And when at length they withdrew to rest, Ulrich, instead of lying awake, as he had feared he might, soon fell asleep, and till cockcrow next morning did nothing but dream of his beloved Moida. He dreamt—O naughty dreamer!—that he was tearing off his buttons purposely, that he might see her plump, ready hand sew them on again; and when he opened his eyes and heard the monastery bell ringing the Angelus, Ulrich fell at once on his knees and prayed with fervor, because he knew that at that same hour in Fingergasse Moida was saying the Angelus too.
The day which now opened was to be a busy one at Loewenstein. Ulrich betimes set himself to work renovating the half-destroyed frescos; and, to his great delight, several beautiful and interesting pictures came to view as he carefully scraped the whitewash off the walls. They appeared in patches: here an eye would peep out upon him; there a hand, a foot, a tress of hair; until by and by a lovely damsel or a knight in armor would stand full-length before his admiring gaze. This whitewash had been daubed over nearly the whole interior of the tower by a simple-minded cobbler, who had intended to make the place his home after Ulrich and Walburga went away, but who only passed one night in it; then was scared off by ghosts.
And when Conrad, who was superintending a band of laborers outside, came in and saw the art treasures which had been brought to light, he clapped his hands for joy. But more even than with the fair lady and mailed warrior was he charmed with a wild, shaggy figure, underneath which in quaint Gothic letters was written the word “Attila.”
“And now, as I behold anew this fresco,” remarked Ulrich, “my childhood comes vividly back to me, and I remember once hearing my father tell my mother that the great-grandsires of those who laid the foundations of Loewenstein might have known the king of the Huns.”
In short, these unlooked-for discoveries so excited Conrad that he could hardly go back to the open air, where the stones and earth which covered the site of three other towers were being cleared away; and ever and anon he would run in again to show Ulrich an old coin or other curious object which the workmen had found amid the rubbish. Whereupon the youth would point to still another long-concealed wall-picture gradually coming to view, till finally Conrad exclaimed: “God bless the stupid cobbler! I’ll not rail at him any more. But for his vile whitewash I should not have enjoyed all these surprises.”
Yes, it was a busy, happy day for them both. When the sun dipped behind the mountain in the west Conrad called to Ulrich to cease his labors and come out and watch the path leading down into the valley. “For I am expecting,” said he, “all the things I purchased of your betrothed to arrive this evening, and Miss Hofer is coming with them. I kept it secret, lest you might be too distracted if you knew it.”
“Really! is Moida coming?” cried Ulrich.
Scarcely had the words escaped his lips when they heard the bark of a dog—not a sharp, quick yelp, but the thick, husky bark of a dog that is aged—and in another moment who should be seen emerging from a clump of hazel bushes through which the pathway led but Caro and his mistress.
Down at a break-neck pace flew Ulrich, and, ere the girl had ascended a dozen steps further, she found herself clasped in his arms.
“My knight always takes me by storm,” said Moida, laughing merrily as soon as she recovered her breath.
“Nay, ’tis you who were taking us by storm at the pace you were mounting,” answered Ulrich; then, catching her hand, he assisted her up the rest of the way.
“Everything is coming, sir, everything,” were Moida’s first words to Conrad, who greeted her warmly when she reached the spot where he stood. “But the donkeys have a heavy load—a very heavy load—and so I determined to run ahead and tell you they were coming.”
“Bravo!” cried Conrad. Then, patting Caro’s woolly head: “And is this the good old poodle that I have heard so much of?”
“Yes, sir. And as my pet would be killed by the horrid police if they knew he was alive, I concluded to carry him away from Munich. I hope you are not displeased at my bringing him here?”
“Displeased? Why, nobody likes dogs more than I; and this one shall find a snug home in my castle. But why didn’t you bring the other pet, too?”
“What! the nightingale?” exclaimed Moida, with an air of surprise. “Oh! Walburga would not part with him for anything.”
“Well, the young lady only yesterday spoke of giving him his freedom.”
“Did she? Well, I trust, sir, you persuaded her not to do so,” answered Moida, smiling inwardly; for Walburga had related to her the whole conversation which had passed betwixt herself and Conrad at the Pinakothek, and ever since she had been full of hope that great good would result from her friend’s acquaintance with the new owner of Loewenstein. “And not only will Walburga not let her bird out,” she thought to herself, “but it may end by its joining Caro in this peaceful retreat.”
“But now, Moida, do come and see what I have been about since morning,” spoke Ulrich, drawing her gently along. With this all three passed into the tower, where verily a great change had been wrought in a few hours.
Not only were many frescos long invisible brought again to view, but it was now manifest that each figure and group of figures, from the barbarian Attila down to the most modern one of all, which was scarce a century old, were linked together and presented a tolerably good pictorial history of the house of Loewenstein; and Conrad observed to Moida with a roguish smile: “Your betrothed, miss, has for his remote ancestor a Hun.”
They were still examining these wall-paintings when the donkeys made their appearance, and, although the hour was rather late, Moida clapped her hands and said: “Let us put everything to rights at once. Do!” Accordingly, inspirited by her blithe voice, Conrad and Ulrich, without summoning others to help them, unpacked the loads, and so zealously did they work that in a very short while everything was in its proper place except the huge earthenware stove.
Then Conrad donned a suit of armor (rusty and dented, but all the better for being so), and, clutching firmly a heavy two-handed sword, laid about him right and left like mad for above a minute, to Moida’s great delight, and until he was fain to pause for breath.
“I have a friend in Cologne,” said he, “a republican like myself in his opinions; but I mean to write and warn him never to buy a castle—never; otherwise he’ll become a changed man. Oh! there’s nothing like buying a castle to make one an aristocrat.”
After joining in the hearty laugh with which he ended this speech, Moida said to him in a whisper, and as though she felt there was something touching in what she was about to communicate: “My friend Walburga entered the curiosity-shop to-day, sir, for the first time since I have had anything in it belonging to Loewenstein; and ere I packed up the various objects, she placed her hand on each one and stroked it, and even kissed yonder clock, for she said: ‘It stood in my mother’s chamber, it called many a happy hour, and now ’tis going back to the old home again.’”
“Well, now let me tell you a secret,” said Conrad, likewise in an undertone, but with a bright gleam in his eye: “I hope one of these days to see the young lady here herself.”
“Oh! wouldn’t that be charming! Wouldn’t that be glorious!” replied Moida, who understood what he meant. “Why, in the whole of Bavaria there is not her equal, and I am sure you will make her an excellent husband.”
“I hope so, Miss Hofer, even though I am no longer a believer in Christianity.”
“’Twill give Walburga the great happiness of making you a Christian again,” she added, with an arch smile. But Conrad’s expression did not respond to hers, and for a minute or two he was silent. When again he opened his lips the tone of his voice was changed, and, in order to shake off the gloom which he felt creeping upon him, he asked her to sing him a song.
“Yes, yes, do!” exclaimed Ulrich, turning away from the grated window through which he had been gazing while the others were whispering to each other. “Sing that wild ballad called the ‘Scream of the Eagle.’” Moida sang. Never before had Conrad Seinsheim heard anything half so thrilling, and the words were accompanied by such graceful motions as proved the girl to be no mean actress.
“Yes, it is a grand song,” she said when it was finished; “and I like to be in the country, where I may give it with my whole heart. In Munich our lodging is too small and the air out-doors too heavy with beer for such rousing, inspiring words.”
“Your grandfather composed it, did he not?” said Ulrich.
“Oh! no. But he and his riflemen used to chant it when they went into battle. ’Tis as old as the hills; perhaps it rang in the ears of the Roman legions.”
“Well, truly, you are a rare bird,” thought Conrad Seinsheim as he looked at Moida’s bright-blue eyes and cheeks glowing with health; “and if I had not already found my ideal I’d wish to marry you.”
Then, praying her to sit down in one of the old family chairs: “Now please,” he said, “tell me a little of your history; for”—here Conrad dropped his voice—“I hope ere long that you and Ulrich, and Walburga and myself, as well as Caro and the nightingale, will all form one happy family together. Therefore I am curious to know more about you.”
This was spoken in such a kindly way that Moida could not refuse. Accordingly, she began and told him how she was descended from a race of mountaineers who had never been serfs, like the peasants in other parts of Europe.
“We did not dwell in castles,” said Moida, darting a sportive glance at Ulrich, who was patting her hand. “Still, for all that we were nobles.”
“Yes, yes, you were indeed,” cried the youth.
“But after grandfather was put to death our family quitted their native place in South Tyrol—’twas too full of painful memories—and came north to Innspruck; and finally we drifted to Munich, where I now live. My parents are dead, but Walburga is like a sister to me; and as for this boy—”
“He is a poor, dreamy fellow, but, thanks to you, is turning over a new leaf at last,” interrupted Ulrich. “And I mean soon to have a studio in Munich, where I’ll paint fine pictures, and my darling sha’n’t keep shop any longer.”
“Ay, you must be weary of that sort of life,” observed Conrad.
“Well, if people would only buy something when they pause to look at my curiosities, ’twould not be so trying to my feelings, sir. But you can’t imagine how it excites me when I see a gentleman eyeing the things in the window, even pressing his nose against the glass to obtain a better view. Sometimes he actually enters and scrutinizes every article in the store; asks the price of this and that; smiles approvingly; in fact, looks as if he were about to draw forth his purse; then he coolly turns and walks out. O sir! I have more than once cried for disappointment.”
“Well, except that I might never have met you,” said Ulrich, “I’d rather you had stayed hidden among your native hills than lead such a life.”
“Ay, nothing is so mean and slavish as trade,” remarked Conrad, “and I am very glad that I have given it up.”
“Ha! but if you or your father, sir, had not turned over a good many banknotes and thalers, you might never have become owner of Loewenstein,” said the wise Moida. “And then dear Caro wouldn’t have had a home here, and all these pikes and helmets and other venerable relics would have been for ever scattered to the winds. Whereas now, thanks to your wealth, there will soon be no castle in all Tyrol like this one.”
“Well, tell me, Miss Hofer, what would you have me do now that I am out of business?” asked Conrad. “A man ought not to be idle.”
“Do? Why, I’d hunt chamois, and fish in the Inn, and climb the glaciers, and I’d find happiness in making others happy, for there are many poor people in the Innthal.”
“But would that suffice? Oh! you do not know what a restless mortal I am. I have always been sighing for something, but no sooner do I attain my heart’s desire—and thus far I have been very fortunate—than straightway I begin to yearn for something else. Suppose now I devote myself to science, say to astronomy, and build a telescope, a gigantic one, bigger than the biggest, and sweep the heavens millions of miles beyond the farthest star now seen?”
“Well, I’d rather busy myself with the things near me,” returned Moida. “However, if you like to look through a telescope, why I’d build one. But, telescope or no telescope, I’d do nothing but laugh from sunrise till sundown if this castle belonged to me.”
And this was true enough. Hers was a happy nature; nothing ever disturbed her serenity. Although poor, she did not envy the rich. Although a very good girl, she was never troubled by religious scruples; the most fiery sermon on eternal punishment could not keep Moida’s head from nodding after the preacher had been preaching more than twenty minutes, and Walburga used to envy her from the bottom of her heart. And now Ulrich’s betrothed felt inclined to smile at Conrad, who was so rich and free from care, but whose visage had assumed a grave look, and she thought to herself: “’Tis a pity he has moody spells, for dear Walburga is prone to them, too; she should have a laughing, jovial husband.”
Then, to cheer her host, Moida sang another song, which presently drove away the cloud from his face. But the girl paused not with one; the music continued to flow in an unbroken stream from her lips, until the oil in the lamp burned low and warned them that it was time to seek repose.
“And now good-night,” said Conrad, after showing his fair guest to a little room near the top of the tower. “I hope the moonbeams shining in through the chinks in the wall will not keep you awake. Good-night.”
“Nothing ever keeps me awake; I’ll soon shut out the moon. Good-night, sir,” she answered. And in a very short while Moida was fast asleep, with her rosary in her hand—for she always closed her eyes before she had half finished, and let her guardian angel say the rest of the prayer.
* * * * *
“Why, what an early bird you are!” exclaimed Walburga the following morning, as she was preparing to set off for the Pinakothek. “Back already?”
“Yes,” answered Moida. “I took the first train. Not that I didn’t wish to stay longer, but—”
“Ah! true, you have to look after the dinner—my breakfast was miserable without you—and keep store, and one night was quite as long as you could be spared,” added the other, smiling; and good-natured Moida smiled too; then with an arch glance said: “By the way, he came with me.”
“He! Whom do you mean?” asked Walburga, pretending not to understand.
“Why, Conrad Seinsheim. And really, I advise you to accept him if he proposes. The short time I passed in his company has convinced me that he is a good man, and I doubt not but you will bring him back to the faith. Yes, love and prayer will make a Christian of him again sooner than anything else.”
“But what makes you think he has any notion of courting me?”
“Oh! I can tell by the way he talks, and by what you yourself told me about him the other day. So you’ll surely see him this forenoon; he may be already at the gallery awaiting you.”
“Well, true, Mr. Seinsheim did ask my leave to come and renew our conversation. Therefore I presume he will be there.”
“Yet a moment since you feigned not to know that he cared for you,” continued Moida, twitching her sleeve.
“Oh! he merely wishes to converse on art. Besides, some men enjoy being near a woman, without having any thought of matrimony. There are full as many flirts in one sex as in the other; however, if Mr. Seinsheim imagines he can throw dust in my eyes, he’ll be mistaken. It shall be all art between us—nothing but art; not a single silly syllable.”
“Well, he doesn’t look like one to pay foolish compliments; you have owned as much yourself,” said Moida. “Now, remember his words when you spoke of uncaging your nightingale; and if I can read character, Mr. Seinsheim is just the man to ask a girl to be his wife at the second or third interview. So, dear friend, you may return at noon engaged.”
“How can you dream of such a thing!” said Walburga, half reproachfully.
“Oh! now don’t be vexed. But let me calmly inquire why I should not dream of it; for where could he find a better helpmate?”
“Because all men are alike. Even the holy patriarchs were guided by outward appearances in choosing their wives. Scripture tells us that Laban had two daughters, Leah and Rachel: ‘Leah was tender-eyed; but Rachel was beautiful, and Jacob loved Rachel.’”
This was more than Moida could gainsay; therefore she let the subject drop and asked about the bird.
“I have given him his liberty,” said Walburga.
“Have you truly? Well, I declare!”
This was all that Moida could utter. Then, putting on her hat and shawl, Walburga quitted the room, leaving her friend repeating to herself:
“What a sentimental girl she is! What a sentimental girl she is!”
We may be sure that while on her way to the picture gallery Walburga thought only of the one whom she expected to meet there, and she quite agreed with Moida that Conrad did not seem like a man to play at courtship. Yet, admitting that he was in earnest, would he not prove to be in the end like the great majority of his sex—a blind follower only of what his eyes revealed to him? Would he dive below the surface and judge her by her inner self?
“I will try not to indulge any hope,” thought Walburga. Yet, at this very moment, down in her heart’s depths the flower of hope was already beginning to bud, and no doubt that was why her step this morning was lighter than usual. As for Conrad having lost his faith, however much she regretted it, and pious girl though she was, this did not lead her to believe that he was a bad man. Walburga had sense enough to discern the difficulties which lie in the way of belief in the revelation to those who have wandered from, or never known, the truth; she knew, too, that the universities were full of learned professors who spoke of God as a myth. “And even some saints,” she said, “have been racked by doubt, and overcame this, the greatest of all the temptations of the arch-fiend, only by severe self-tortures. Therefore I will continue to pray for Conrad Seinsheim.” (Walburga had remembered him in her prayers ever since she had heard that he was an unbeliever). “And I will pray also for dear Ulrich, who is young and confiding, and is much in Conrad’s power.”
A quarter of an hour later and the girl was busy at her easel, and working swiftly too. “For I must accomplish all I can before he arrives,” she murmured to herself.
But Conrad did not allow her time to do much. Presently his voice was heard bidding her good-morning. Whereupon she returned his greeting in a cheery tone, but without looking round.
“Gracious lady,” he began, “doubtless Miss Hofer has already told you of her pleasant visit to Loewenstein. The weather was delightful, the old place looked charming, and I should not have let her return so soon, nor come myself either, only that I longed to see you again.”
“Dear Moida enjoyed it very much, but she knows that ’tis impossible for me to get along without her,” answered Walburga, revealing only by a faint flush the emotion excited by Conrad’s words. Her hand, however, was steadier than it had been the first time he paid her a compliment. Then the other, after observing her a moment in silence, went on:
“How rapidly you paint, Miss Von Loewenstein! And what life you throw into your picture!”
“Well, yes, sir, I am a quick worker. I hope my brother is not disappointing you and dawdling over his task.”
“No, indeed! And I consider myself very fortunate in having found such an artist. There he was, seated amid the ruins of the old castle, when I arrived, apparently waiting for me to appear; and if you saw the tower now you would hardly recognize it. Why, some of the frescos, since Ulrich has restored them, are as fine as anything in this gallery.”
“Really!” exclaimed Walburga.
“Yes, really. And he declares his skill and energy are all due to Moida. Ulrich says she spurs him on, and I believe it. Oh! nothing like a woman to put fire into a man.”
“Well, some gentlemen, sir, manage to live and prosper without any such spurring,” rejoined Walburga, with a smile lurking on her lips.
“I am exceedingly hard to please; that is why I am still a bachelor,” said her admirer, wincing a little at this remark.
“Well, believe me, sir, ’tis foolish to be so fastidious. Why, in any town of ten, nay, of even five thousand inhabitants a good man may find a good woman to be his wife.”
“Do you think so?”
“’Tis my conviction. This hunting up and down the world for an ideal woman is nonsense.” Then, with a slight gesture of impatience: “O these lips!” exclaimed Walburga—“these lips! when shall I get them right?”
“Well, you see, Miss Von Loewenstein, what a severe critic you are of your exquisite copy of Carlo Dolce; whereas to me it seems already perfect.”
“Oh! but this is a picture, not a living being. Here the eye is our only guide. In the other case—”
“Then a blind man might do as well as one who had sight in choosing a wife?” interrupted Conrad, laughing.
Walburga laughed, too, then answered:
“Verily, sir, there is more truth in that than you imagine. He knows little of a woman who knows only what his eyes tell him of her.”
“Well, you may be right,” he added musingly; “you may be right. Yet I trust a good deal to mine.”
“If women did the same, might there not be fewer weddings?” said Walburga. “Besides, I know I am right. Why, the happiest lady in Munich—I know her intimately—is wedded to a little squab of a man, who squints so badly that his two eyes seem blended into one.”
Here a pause ensued, during which Conrad made up his mind that Ulrich’s sister was no ordinary character. She had ideas of her own, and was not afraid to express them. Then, unable to resist the temptation to speak something else that was flattering, he said:
“I wonder how a person so gifted as yourself should be content to remain a mere copyist.”
“’Tis all one can be in our age,” replied Walburga. “The days of originality are gone by. We need another deluge to blot out whatever mankind has wrought in literature and art; then, after the flood should have subsided, artists and writers might begin anew.”
“Oh! but surely there are original things painted and written nowadays?” said Conrad.
“It may appear so, sir. But ’tis only because the ignorant public does not know where lies hidden the musty parchment or worm-eaten canvas whence the so-called genius has stolen his prize. No, no; originality, in this age of the world, is the art of knowing how to pilfer. True originality is stark dead.” And the girl ended these words with a sigh, which proved that she, at least, believed what she said to be true.
“Well, if all copyists did their duty as faithfully as yourself,” pursued Conrad, “we might readily forego any more originals.” Then, while the bright color which this speech brought to her cheek was still glowing upon it, he added: “And now, gracious lady, let me remind you that I once asked if your picture was for sale, and you told me ‘yes.’ But we came to no bargain.”
“Well, what will you give me for it?” said Walburga, little dreaming what a weighty response her question would draw forth.
“A castle and my own poor self with it,” answered Conrad.
For full a minute the girl stayed silent; her brush fell to her lap, and, without giving him a glance, she bowed her head. Then presently, resuming her work: “Come back, sir,” she said, “in three days and you shall have my decision.”
“Oh! but why not to-day? now? at this moment? Nobody is near to hear what you say,” pleaded Conrad, and so fervent was his tone that Walburga’s resolution was half shaken. Then, while her right hand hung quivering upon the canvas, he seized it and pressed it to his lips.
The effect of this kiss was magical; it thrilled like lightning through every vein in her body, and from that instant Walburga’s heart was won.
But presently, to Conrad’s amazement, the glow faded from her cheek and she heaved a sigh; then came a tear.
“What can it mean?” he asked himself, strongly tempted to sweep the bright jewel away with another kiss. “What can it mean?” And again he implored her to end his suspense, to let him know his fate at once.
“Please do not urge me; I would rather not,” said Walburga, in a voice little above a whisper. “I believe, sir, you love me; therefore wait and be patient.”
These last words lent fire to Conrad’s hopes, and scarcely doubting that her response, when it came, would be favorable, he allowed her hand to go free.
But any more work was out of the question for the fair artist; while the other, albeit longing to linger in her company, judged it would be best to withdraw. And so Conrad went away, full of gladness, leaving Walburga cherishing, too, the fond belief that here was a man who was not like other men—a man who would take her for her inner worth, who would give her that home, that celestial harmony of loving hearts, which had been for years the craving of her soul.
TO BE CONCLUDED NEXT MONTH.
HELL AND SCIENCE.
The editor of Popular Science Monthly gave us in one of his late issues an article concerning the belief in hell. The article begins by referring to the lively discussion which has recently been carried on in the pulpit and the press as to whether there is a state of eternal torments. According to Prof. Youmans, this discussion shows that “there has been, thanks to the influence of science, a pretty rapid liberalizing of theological opinion during the past generation, and is an instructive indication of the advance that has been made.” After this expression of satisfaction he very naturally remarks that the question of the existence of a veritable hell is a theological one, which he cheerfully leaves “to those interested,” as if men of science, especially those of a certain school, were not interested in the question of knowing what is kept in store for those who sin against truth and against God. But “the topic,” he adds, “has also a scientific side. The rise and course of the idea, or what may be called the natural history of the belief in hell, is a subject quite within the sphere of scientific inquiry. It is legitimate to ask as to how the notion originated, as to its antiquity, the extent to which it has been entertained, the forms it has assumed, and the changes it has undergone; and from this point of view it of course involves the principle of evolution.” Whence he concludes that a few suggestions concerning this view of the subject may not be inappropriate.
This preamble, though the least objectionable portion of Prof. Youmans’ article, is full of questionable assertions. First, the discussion about the existence of eternal punishment does not show any “rapid liberalizing” of theological opinion. For, on the one hand, the doctrine of hell is not a theological opinion but a revealed dogma; and, on the other, the foolish attempt of discrediting it among the ignorant did not proceed from theologians, but from such men as have been, and are, the worst enemies of theology. Theology is essentially based on authority; hence theology has no existence in the Protestant sects, whose very reason of being is a contemptuous disregard of authority and the assumed right of private interpretation. Now, all those who ventured to argue against the existence of eternal punishment belonged to Protestant sects. And, therefore, their “liberal” view of the subject does not constitute “theological opinion.” Protestants may, indeed, assume the title of “divines”; but the title is not the thing. There is no real theology outside of the Catholic Church. When Catholic divines shall discuss the existence of hell as a free theological opinion—which, of course, will never happen—then only Prof. Youmans will be welcome to say that there has been “a liberalizing of theological opinion.”
But, secondly, the very idea of “liberalizing” Protestant thought is supremely ludicrous. For who has been the forerunner, the inventor, the father, and the fosterer of liberalism but Protestant thought? Whence did religious scepticism spring but from Protestant inconsistency? Liberalism is nothing but Protestantism applied to philosophical, political, and social questions. It is Protestant thought, therefore, that has liberalized a portion of modern society, not modern thought that has liberalized Protestant opinion. To liberalize Protestant thought is like carrying coal to Newcastle.
Thirdly, it is not true that the recent discussion of the doctrine of hell shows “the influence of science.” It simply shows the ignorance of some Protestant divines and the wickedness of perverted human hearts. Science, as now understood, is exclusively concerned with things that fall under observation and experiment, or that can be logically inferred or mathematically deduced from experiment and observation. Now, surely, the torments of hell are not a matter of observation and experiment during the present life, as even Prof. Youmans will concede. And therefore it is evident that the doctrine of hell cannot be made the subject of scientific reasoning. On the other hand, how can science influence the opinion of men as to believing or not believing in a future state of eternal punishment? Our advanced thinkers assume that science knows everything, and that what is unknown to science has no existence. It is on this ground that they ignore revelation, creation, immortality, and a number of other important truths. But the absurdity of such an assumption is so evident that there can be no mistake about it. Science knows, or pretends to know, matter and force; but it knows nothing about right and wrong, nothing about virtue and vice, nothing about religion and moral law, nothing about the origin and the finality of things, and it is so ignorant (we speak of advanced science) that it even fails to see the absolute necessity of a Creator. Is it not ridiculous, then, to assume that there may be no hell because modern science professes to know nothing about its existence?
But “the topic,” continues Prof. Youmans, “has also a scientific side. The rise and course of the idea, or what may be called the natural history of the belief in hell, is a subject quite within the sphere of scientific inquiry. It is legitimate to ask as to how the notion originated, as to its antiquity, the extent to which it has been entertained, the forms it has assumed, and the changes it has undergone, and from this point of view it of course involves the principle of evolution.” This reasoning, on which the professor endeavors to ground a scientific claim to meddle with a revealed doctrine, is altogether preposterous. For, although it be legitimate to ask how the notion of hell originated, and how ancient it is, and how ignorance and vulgar prejudices may have distorted it, nevertheless it is not from natural science that an answer to such questions can be expected. The theologian, the historian, and the moral philosopher are the only competent authorities on the subject. The scientist, as such, is not qualified to speak of the origin of revealed doctrines; for science, especially advanced science, has no knowledge of revelation. Hence, when our scientists venture to pass a judgment upon matters connected with revelation, they deserve to be reminded of the good old precept: Let the cobbler stick to his last.
The reader will have remarked that Prof. Youmans proposes to deal with the “forms” which the doctrine of eternal punishment has assumed, and with the “changes” it has undergone. This, of course, has no bearing on the question of the existence of hell; for the existence of things does not depend on the changeable views entertained as to their mode of existing. But the professor, who is wise in his generation, perceived that by insisting on the changes undergone by the doctrine two advantages could be gained. On the one hand, a precious opportunity would be offered of confounding our revealed doctrine with the fabulous conceptions of the pagan world; on the other hand, the professor would be enabled to treat our revealed doctrine as a mere development of old fables, according to certain principles of evolution which modern science has invented though never established. But we would remark that, since the professor meant to show, as we see from the conclusion of his article, that our Christian doctrine of hell “should be eliminated from the popular creed,” the argument drawn from the discordant views of heathen and barbarous nations should have been considered preposterous. For what does it matter if the pagan fables took different forms and underwent any number of changes? It is quite enough for us that our own doctrine has been invariably the same. It is a blunder, therefore, to condemn the latter for the variations of the former.
Prof. Youmans begins to develop his subject in the following manner: “In the first place, it is necessary to rise above that narrowness of view which regards the doctrine of hell as especially a Christian doctrine or as the monopoly of any particular religion. On the contrary, it is as ancient and universal as the systems of religious faith that have overspread the world.” In our opinion, this pretended necessity of rising “above the narrowness of view” which regards the doctrine of hell as especially Christian doctrine is only a futile pretext for putting on the same level the Christian dogma and the pagan inventions. In the recent discussion of the doctrine by the Protestant sects there had been no question about the existence of the imaginary hell of the pagans; the whole question regarded the Scriptural hell. Hence a reference to pagan ideas could not be necessary. Nor is it true that the view which regards the doctrine of hell as a specially Christian doctrine is “narrow.” We see that different sects have kept or borrowed some points of doctrine from the Catholic Church, and that they have perverted them more or less, as was the case with the doctrine of baptismal regeneration, of the Eucharist, of justification, and of other supernatural truths; and yet no one will say that it is a “narrow view” to regard these doctrines as essentially and exclusively Catholic. For to whom were they originally revealed but to the Catholic Church? and where are they to be found in their primitive entirety but in the Catholic Church? The vagaries of sectarian thought are surely not to be considered as a development of doctrine; they are only a travesty and an adulteration of truth, just in the same manner as the evolution of species is no part of natural science, being only a mass of absurdities, as we have abundantly shown in some of our past numbers. To mix together doctrinal truth and doctrinal error is not to avoid narrowness but to produce confusion. Were we to collect all the errors of modern scientists about force or about the constitution of matter, we could easily prove, by Prof. Youmans’ method, that science is a mere imposition and a disgrace to the age. But our logic differs from that of the professor; hence we do not consider it “narrowness” to distinguish science from the errors of scientists, that truth and error may not be involved indiscriminately in the same condemnation. But let us proceed:
“The oldest religions of which we have any knowledge—Hindoo, Egyptian, and the various Oriental systems of worship—all affirm the doctrine of a future life with accompanying hells for the torture of condemned souls. We certainly cannot assume that all these systems are true and of divine origin; but, if not, then the question forces itself upon us how they came to this belief. The old historic religious systems involved advanced and complicated creeds and rituals, and if they were not real divine revelations in this elaborate shape, we are compelled to regard them as having had a natural development out of lower and cruder forms of superstition. To explain these religions we must go behind them. There is a prehistoric, rudimentary theology of the primitive man, the quality of which has to be deduced from his low, infantine condition of mind, interpreted by what we observe among the inferior types of mankind in the present time.”
This passage contains the main argument of Prof. Youmans’ article, by which he intends to show that the doctrine of hell has no ground in divine revelation, but simply originated in human ignorance. Unfortunately, Professor Youmans’ interpretation of history cannot be depended upon. The fact that Hindoos, Egyptians, and all other nations admitted in some shape the doctrine of hell is a very good evidence that the doctrine of the existence of hell was co-extensive with humanity, and therefore had its origin in a primitive tradition of the race, and not in the imagination of isolated individuals or families. This primitive tradition, as well as the primitive religion, must be traced to Noe and his family. It is Noe’s religion, not the Hindoo or the Egyptian or any other Oriental religion, that has been “the oldest religion of which we have any knowledge”; and this oldest religion had its secure foundation in the knowledge of the true God and of his supreme, omnipotent, provident will. Hence, when Prof. Youmans, forsaking all mention of this primitive religion derived from direct divine revelation, resorts to other systems of worship more or less corrupt, and declares that “we cannot assume that all these systems are true and of divine origin,” he shows either a perverse desire of deceiving his readers, or at least a strange ignorance of ancient history.
The consequence he draws from the preceding assertions is even more unreasonable. If the religious systems of the ancient heathens were not divine revelations, “we are compelled,” he says, “to regard them as having a natural development out of lower and cruder forms of superstition.” This conclusion is so contrary to all we know of mankind that it required the inventive genius of an advanced scientist to formulate it. The known truth is that the objectionable systems of worship invented among different nations were not a progress of humanity from a lower form of superstition, but a departure from the form of worship originally practised according to God’s prescription, a fall from the region of light into the darkness of error. Noe’s religion was no superstition; and it is from Noe’s religion that the pagan nations apostatized by a gradual corruption of revealed truth.
Our advanced scientist invents also “a prehistoric rudimentary theology of the primitive man.” The invention is quite new and deserves to be patented. And the primitive man was still “in a low, infantine condition of mind”; which is another great discovery. The pity is that it has no ground. The Darwinian theory of evolution cannot be appealed to; for it is philosophically, historically, and even scientifically exploded, so that only “the inferior types of mankind”—that is, “the low and infantine minds”—can hear of it without shaking their heads. The primitive man knew his noble origin, conversed with his Creator, received his orders, and learned from him his own destiny. Adam was a great deal sharper, wittier, and more instructed in all important things than his modern scientific descendants; and Noe, the second father of our race, the second propagator and witness of divine revelation, was as eminent a man at least as any of our contemporaries; for he it was who transmitted to his descendants that knowledge of astronomy, architecture, philosophy, history, agriculture, and other arts and sciences by which the post-diluvian world, as soon as sufficiently repeopled, displayed in the wonderful magnificence of Babylonian and Egyptian civilization the intellectual treasures inherited from the antediluvian culture. Such was the man who handed down to us the fundamental truths of primitive religion. If such a man is said to have been “in a low and infantine condition of mind,” could we not say as much of the average scientist of the time?
The professor remarks that the early men, in profound ignorance of the surrounding world and of their own nature, must have grossly misinterpreted outward appearances and their internal experiences, and this, he says, “is certain.” Indeed? How did the professor ascertain this? Men whose lives were measured by centuries could not have sufficient experience of things to save them from gross mistakes! They made no sufficient observations to enable them to interpret exterior and interior phenomena! They did not even know their own natures! Their ignorance was profound! Adam had the advantage of nine hundred and thirty years of experience, and yet “it is certain” that he remained in profound ignorance of the surrounding world! His descendants soon invented different useful arts, as metallurgy, architecture, and music both vocal and instrumental; they built cities, and reached that high degree of civilization and refinement without which the subsequent universal corruption would have been impossible; and yet, if we believe our professor, they did not know their natures nor what they were doing!
Then we are told that the analysis of the conditions of early men “has abundantly shown how these primitive misunderstandings led inevitably to manifold superstitions.” It is plain, however, that the conditions of early men have never been analyzed by those who reject the Mosaic history, for the first requisite for proceeding to such an analysis is a knowledge of the conditions themselves which are to be analyzed; and these conditions are found nowhere but in the book of Genesis. And as to “primitive misunderstandings” and the “inevitable superstitions” to which they have led, can Prof. Youmans give us more detailed information? Did Adam, in his “profound ignorance of the surrounding world,” imagine that the sun was a god? or the moon a goddess? Or was it possible for him to fall into “inevitable superstition,” seeing that he had been in frequent direct communication with his true Creator and God?
It is altogether ridiculous to pretend that Herbert Spencer “has carefully traced out this working of the primitive mind, and explained how the early men, by their crude misconceptions of natural things, were gradually led to the belief in a ghost-realm of beings appended to the existing order.” Herbert Spencer did nothing of the kind. He analyzed fictions, not facts, and his conclusions are worthless.
But, says Mr. Youmans, “the idea of a life after death, so universally entertained among races of the lowest grades of intelligence, is accounted for, and is only to be accounted for, in this way. Through experiences of sleep, dreams, and loss and return of consciousness at irregular times, ... there grew up the idea of a double nature—of a part that goes away leaving the body lifeless, and returns again to revivify it; and thus originated the theory of immaterial ghosts or spirits.” This is just what we could expect from an admirer of Herbert Spencer’s philosophical method. Prof. Youmans does not know, apparently, that the idea of a life after death is a simple corollary of a manifest truth—viz., that the reasoning principle which is in man is neither matter, nor an affection or modification of matter, but a distinct substance, and one which possesses powers and properties of a much higher order than the powers and properties of matter. This truth, against which materialists can allege nothing which has not been refuted a hundred times, combined with another obvious truth which even advanced science admits—viz., that no substance is or can be naturally annihilated—leads directly to the consequence that our reasoning principle, our soul, will naturally survive the death of our body. This mere hint concerning the substantiality, spirituality, and natural immortality of the human soul may here suffice. It shows that men had no need of resorting to the experiences of dreams, swoons, catalepsy, trance, and other forms of insensibility to be enabled to infer that the human soul is a spiritual substance. Every act of our intellectual faculties proclaims that our soul is a self-moving and self-possessing being. Dreams and swoons and catalepsy, being common to the lower animals, have never been considered a proof of the spirituality and immortality of the human soul. It is childish, therefore, to derive the idea of spirituality and immortality from the experience of such phenomena.
Mr. Youmans tells us also that when the conception of a separate and future life arose in men’s minds, such a life could not have been supposed to differ much from that of the present order of things. This he takes for granted, owing to the profound ignorance which, according to advanced science, characterized the primitive men; and he illustrates this view by some examples of savages, who bury food, weapons, implements, etc., with the bodies of their dead friends. But, “as knowledge accumulated, the conception grew incongruous, and underwent important modifications, so that similarity gradually passed into contrast. The intimacy of the intercourse supposed to be carried on between the two worlds decreased; the future world was conceived of as more remote, and as having other occupations and gratifications more consonant with developing ideas of the present life.” Such is the professor’s theory. We need hardly say that, as a scientific theory, it has no value. Science is based on facts; but here we have nothing but dreams exploded by history as well as by philosophy. The origin of the belief in hell is not to be traced to the profound ignorance of the primitive man. This profound ignorance is not a fact but a fiction. The assumption that man’s intellect was originally in an undeveloped condition, and that it has gone on improving all along till it became able to discover the incongruousness of its previous notions and to give them up, is another fiction. That the “accumulation of knowledge,” such as obtained among infidel nations, could enlighten them on a question as to which nothing can be definitely known on merely natural grounds, is a third fiction; whilst the truth is that the pretended knowledge of the heathens, like the pretended science of our modern sceptics, has been rather a source of innumerable absurdities, by which the primitive holy and healthy traditions of the race have been obscured, corrupted, and disfigured.
But the professor has more to say in support of his “scientific” view. “Rude conceptions regarding good and evil could not fail to be early involved with considerations of man’s futurity. Good and evil are inextricably mixed up in this world, which seems always to have been regarded as a faulty arrangement, and, as there was little hope of rectifying it here, the future life came to be regarded as compensatory to the present.... This idea of using the next world to redress the imperfections and wrongs of this grew up early and survives still, and it has exerted a prodigious influence in human affairs.” It is evident that the consideration of man’s futurity, to be rational, must involve the consideration of man’s moral nature; for the futurity of a moral being is necessarily connected with the moral order. It would be folly to deny that virtue deserves reward, or that vice deserves punishment; and even the most stupid understand that the future of a scoundrel must differ from the future of a saint. This universal belief “survives still,” as Mr. Youmans himself testifies, and is not “growing obsolete,” as he pretends, but is still universal in our civilized society. Of course a dozen or two of advanced thinkers may be found who reject this universal belief; for, as they suppress God and worship Nature, they would be embarrassed to explain how the good can be rewarded and the wicked punished by their blind goddess that has no knowledge of the moral law. But this shows only the “profound ignorance” of such advanced thinkers regarding things supersensible, and proves to demonstration that, in spite of all their pretensions, they do not belong to the civilized world. The early men, whose conceptions our professor denounces as “rude,” were better and deeper philosophers than he is. They recognized a personal God, the eternal source of morality, the judge of his creatures, the rewarder of justice, and the punisher of crime. They knew, therefore, that the problem of good and evil was to be solved “not by the absorption and disappearance of evil,” but by separating the good from the bad, “the good being all collected in a good place, and the bad ones all turned into a bad place.” Mr. Youmans does not like this solution. He seems to insinuate that the true solution implies the absorption and disappearance of evil. He seems to say: Let virtue be rewarded, but let not wickedness be punished. He may have his reasons for preferring this solution, but we have none for accepting it. Reason as well as revelation declare it to be unacceptable.
What follows is a vulgar tirade against priesthood. All priests indiscriminately are denounced by our liberal professor for having taught the existence of heaven and hell. He says:
“As the grosser superstitions were gradually developed into systematic religions, a priestly class arose, and religious beliefs were embodied in definite creeds. Fundamental among these was the belief in heaven as a place of happiness, and of hell as a place of torment for the wicked. To one or other of these places, it was held, all men are bound to go after death; but to which depended—and here the office of the priesthood assumed a terrible importance, for they knew all about it and had the keys. It is impossible to conceive any other idea of such tremendous power for dominating mankind as this! It raised the priesthood and the ecclesiastical institutions into despotic ascendency, brought it into unholy alliance with civil despotism, and became the mighty means of plundering the people, crushing out their liberties, darkening their hopes, and cursing their lives.”
This bit of declamation might safely be left without answer. But to clear up the confusion made by the scientific writer, we will ask him to explain what he understands by the word “priesthood.” Does he mean the ministers of all religions without exception, or the ministers of false religions only? Does he involve in the same sentence the priest of God and of Christ with the priest of Baal and of Moloch? or does he admit that a distinction should be made? Perhaps he will smile at our simplicity in asking a question about which his habitual readers can entertain no doubt, it being evident that a man who worships nothing but matter and force is a natural enemy of Christ and of his ministers. Nevertheless, as no one must be allowed to snarl and bite without motive, we insist on an explanation. If the Christian priesthood is not involved in his denunciations, then Mr. Youmans’ eloquence is all thrown away; for it is by the Christian priesthood that the doctrine of hell has been most efficiently taught and inculcated all the world over. If, on the contrary, as it is logical to assume, the Christian priesthood is involved in his denunciations, then Mr. Youmans’ brain is surely not in a sound condition. A man in full possession of his reasoning power would never have thought of connecting the Christian priesthood with despotism, or of charging them with plundering the people, crushing their liberties, darkening their hopes, or cursing their lives. No; the professor is not in full possession of his faculties in this matter. Were it otherwise, he would be guilty of the most odious slander. In some of his articles, which we have analyzed not long ago, we had already found what might be taken as unmistakable signs of scientific aberration. The reader may still remember how the professor countenanced the conception of the unthinkable, how he advocated continuous evolution without any actual link of continuity, and how he made life spring from dead, inert matter. But now it is the Christian priesthood that makes an unholy alliance with civil despotism and crushes the liberties of the people! This assertion cannot be excused by the plea of bad logic; for it regards a matter of fact, not of speculation, and logic, whether good or bad, has nothing to do with it. Only a natural or preternatural derangement in a man’s brain can account for the oddity of such a charge. We say natural or preternatural, because it sometimes happens, even in this age of advanced civilization, that a man who makes profession of militant infidelity is taken possession of, either consciously or unconsciously, by “the father of lies,” who makes a fool of him in this world the better to secure his everlasting ruin in the other. We repeat that a man of sound mind, and free from satanic influence, would never make such a silly and unhistorical denunciation of the priesthood as Prof. Youmans has ventured to make. He would rather say that the Christian priesthood has been the most earnest champion of popular liberties in all times and in all countries, as all ecclesiastical and secular history testifies. He would say that their ascendency, far from being despotic, was kind and paternal, and calculated to win, as it did, the love of the people without ceasing to command their respect. He would say that this ascendency was not derived from their threats of the torments of hell, but was the reward of their virtuous life, ardent charity, singular prudence, and superior education; and was used, not to plunder the people, but to protect them against baronial, royal, and imperial plunderers.
Plundering is a masonic virtue; witness the great French Revolution in the last century, and the policy of Italy, Germany, and Switzerland in the present. And who are the men that plunder the American people but the infidel politicians who do not believe in hell? Mr. Youmans may depend upon it, no judicial, legislative, or executive power will ever put a stop to such a wholesale plundering until they humbly kneel before the priest, and conjure him to take in hand the education of our citizens and to revive in them a salutary fear of hell. It is not the fear of hell that “curses the lives” or “darkens the hopes” of men. All the world knows, on the contrary, that there has never been on the face of the earth a thriftier and happier people than the Christian has been. Of course criminals are troubled by the remembrance of hell, their lives are galled, and their hopes are darkened; but we presume that Mr. Youmans does not mean to patronize them. After all it is not the priests that have created hell; they merely warn the sinner of its existence, that he may mend his ways and be saved. Indeed, it is sin, not hell, that darkens the hopes and curses the life of man.
From the bitter tone of the passage we have been refuting it would appear that Mr. Youmans is extremely jealous of the authority and ascendency of the priesthood. The jealousy is very natural. The priest, who teaches the Gospel backed by the authority of the universal church, is a very serious obstacle to the propagation of false scientific or unscientific belief. Therefore it is that Mr. Youmans cannot bear to see the Christian priesthood revered and esteemed by the people, and does his best to destroy their reputation and authority. At this we are not astonished; for modern unbelief is so destitute of intrinsic grounds and so incapable of defending itself that it is constrained to go out of its lines and try a diversion. Accordingly, it takes the offensive. But when the offensive is carried on with no other weapons than those recommended by Voltaire, “Mentez, mentez toujours; il faut mentir comme des diables,” then tranquillus judicat orbis terrarum, the world, though wicked, will be heard to pronounce its sentence against the offender.
The professor adds:
“So productive an agency of unscrupulous ambition could not fail to be assiduously cultivated, and the conception of hell, the most potent element in the case by its appeal to fear, was elaborated with the utmost ingenuity. Language was exhausted in depicting the terrors of the infernal regions and the agonies of the damned. We by no means say that these ideas were mere priestly inventions, but only that they grew up under the powerful guidance of a class consecrated to their exposition and incited by the most powerful worldly motives to strengthen their influence. In order to enforce belief, to compel obedience to ecclesiastical requirements, to coerce civil submission, and to extort money, people were threatened with the horrors of hell, which were pictured with all the vividness of rhetorical and poetic fanaticism. As the hierarchical spirit grew in strength and became a tyrannical rule, obedience to its minutest rites was enforced by the most appalling intimidations.”
We did not know, before we read this passage, that preaching the Christian doctrine of hell was productive of “unscrupulous ambition”; we rather thought that it was productive of deep and sincere humility. The preacher of the Gospel believes in the Gospel, and knows that hell is awaiting the bad and “unscrupulous” priest no less than the bad and unscrupulous layman. Hence, if the priest assiduously cultivated the thought and elaborated the doctrine of hell, it would appear that the priest could not be “unscrupulous”—at least, not so unscrupulous as those professors who get rid of hell by the final “absorption of evil.” Nor do we understand why a wise man should complain that the priests assiduously cultivated and elaborated the doctrine of hell, and that “language was exhausted in depicting the terrors of the infernal regions.” This fact should be a matter of congratulation, not of blame; for the terrors of hell “exert a prodigious influence,” as the professor acknowledges, in human affairs; they discourage crime, fortify virtue, and contribute to the maintenance of those conditions without which human society would be transformed into a lair of ferocious beasts. A professor who pretends to a high place among the friends of civilization should have seen this.
As to the motives which induced the priesthood to dilate so assiduously on the torments of hell, we admit that they were “powerful”; but that they were “worldly” we do not admit, for had they been worldly they would have lost all their power. In like manner we admit that the hierarchical spirit may have grown in strength; but that it became a “tyrannical rule,” enforcing the minutest rites “by appalling intimidations,” we most confidently deny. These malicious assertions cannot be substantiated. And again, we understand how the fear of the eternal torments may have helped to secure obedience to the lawful authorities, whether civil or ecclesiastical; but we do not see how this fear could be used “to extort money” from the people. The thing is absurd, as it involves the assumption that the most virtuous, venerable, and self-sacrificing friends of the people, the Christian priesthood, were a set of knaves.
The professor’s remark that “the terrors of hell were not mere priestly inventions, but grew up under their powerful guidance,” will receive more light from the passage which follows:
“We must not forget that the future life, being beyond experience and inaccessible to reason, offers an attractive playground for the unbridled imagination. It opens an infinite realm for sensuous imagery and creative invention, stirs the deepest feelings, and concerns itself with the mystery of human destiny. It accordingly offers a favorite topic for poetic treatment, and this is more especially true of the darker aspect of the future world, poets having taken with avidity to delineations of hell.... Homer, Virgil, Dante, and Milton, working through poems of immortal genius that have fascinated mankind, some of them through thousands of years and others through centuries, have thus combined to familiarize countless millions of people with the conception, and to stamp it deep in the literature of all countries.”
There is some truth in this; for it is true that all our pictures of hell are drawn more or less from our imagination. However, we do not mistake our pictures for the reality. No effort to depict what we have never seen can be a success. But what of that? The belief in the existence of hell is not derived from, or subordinated to, our mode of representing its torments, just as the belief in the existence of heaven is not derived from our wild theories of celestial spaces or from our poor notions of happiness. The future life is indeed “beyond experience,” as Mr. Youmans says, but its existence is not “inaccessible to reason,” as he sophistically assumes; for it is by reasoning that both the ancient and the modern philosophers established the truth of the conception. On the other hand, our pictures of hell are not drawn exclusively from our imagination. The lake of fire and brimstone, the undying worm, the weeping and gnashing of teeth, the sempiternal horror, the company of devils, etc., are mentioned in the Bible. Hence, when we use such words as these for describing the state of eternal damnation, we use images authorized by Him who knows what he has prepared for the unrepentant transgressor of his commandments.
From these remarks it clearly follows that if the poet can find in the notion of hell “an attractive playground for the unbridled imagination,” such is not the case with the priest. The imagination of the priest is not “unbridled”; it is ruled by the Scriptural language. The preacher who would countenance Dante’s Inferno from the pulpit would be accounted a traitor or a fool. The hell of the poets may be highly amusing in spite of its terrors, but it makes no conversions, whilst the hell of the Bible has converted millions upon millions of sinful souls. Prof. Youmans strives to confound the hell of the Christians with the hell of the poets. It is lost labor. Fecundity and sterility demand different subjects. It is truth that fructifies. Fiction is barren.
And again, to say that the poetic inventions of Homer, Virgil, Dante, and Milton “combined to familiarize countless millions of people” with the conception of hell, is to utter a paradox which has no foundation. Prof. Youmans mistakes the effect for the cause. There has been no need of poesy to familiarize the countless millions with the conception. The millions were familiar with it before they ever read the poets; nay, more, it is from the popular conception that the poets collected the first materials for their descriptions of hell. The multitude, the millions, do not read poets. On the other hand, before the invention of typography—that is, for long centuries—books were extremely rare, and the “countless millions” did not even know how to read. Hence Mr. Youmans’ attempt to trace the general belief in hell to poetical inventions is a manifest fallacy.
The professor now comes to our time, and with an air of great satisfaction makes the following assertions:
“Yet the doctrine of hell is now growing obsolete. Originating in ages of savagery and low barbarism, and developed in periods of fierce intolerance, sanguinary persecutions, cruel civil codes, and vindictive punishments, it harmonized with the severities and violence of society, and undoubtedly had use as a means of the harsh discipline of men, when they were moved only by the lowest motives. But with the advance of knowledge, and the cultivation of humaner sentiments, the doctrine has become anomalous and out of harmony with the advance of human nature. Hence, though still a cardinal tenet of orthodoxy, it is now generally entertained in a vague and loose way, and with reservations and protests that virtually destroy it. Only revival preachers of the Moody stamp still affirm the literal lake of fire and brimstone, and it is certain that the doctrine in any shape recurs much less prominently in current preaching than it did a generation or two ago. Sober-minded clergymen have got in the way of neglecting it, except now and then when rehearsing the creed, or, as at present, under the spur of controversy, or when rallied about the decay of the old theology.”
Here Mr. Youmans surpasses himself; for, though he has given us already other proofs of his recklessness, yet here he displays his power of misrepresentation with an effrontery that beggars description. “The doctrine of hell is now growing obsolete”! Is this a fact? No. It is only a desire and a delusion of the anti-Christian sects. Were it a fact, the church, too, would be growing obsolete; for the doctrine of hell is one of the “cardinal” tenets of the church, as Mr. Youmans himself testifies. But we see, on the contrary, that the church is everywhere gaining new ground and extending her conquests. We are not ignorant that a spirit of apostasy has pervaded a portion of the ruling classes, and that Freemasonry makes daily some converts to Satan; but, while we are sorry to see this ruin of souls, we are far from regarding it as a loss to the militant church. The church cannot but thrive better when cowardice and hypocrisy cease to conceal themselves under her glorious banner. Can the apostasy of her unworthy sons cause her faith to grow obsolete? No. The third part of the angels, according to a received view, refused obedience to God and became his enemies; yet obedience to God did not grow obsolete. At the time of the Lutheran Reformation the authority of the popes was fiercely denounced, vilified, and rejected throughout all Germany, Switzerland, and other countries; yet the pope’s authority did not grow obsolete. What does it matter, then, if a set of fools who have no God but the “unthinkable” agree to reject the doctrine of hell? So long as two hundred millions of Catholics believe the doctrine as a “cardinal tenet” of the church, and so long as the rest of the world, Protestants, Jews, and pagans, believe either the same or an analogous doctrine, it is absurd to call it obsolete. Opinions may grow obsolete, dogmatic truths never; for the church and her doctrine, whether respected or disregarded by our modern wiseacres, will last to the end of time.
The doctrine of hell “originated in ages of savagery and barbarism”! The sapient writer who makes this assertion should be asked to point out a definite age in which the doctrine originated, and to give some proof of the savagery and barbarism of such an age. Will Mr. Youmans give us any evidence on these two points? No; he cannot. He will merely appeal to prehistoric time—that is, to the unknown and unknowable. This is now the style of many scientific jugglers; they draw their conclusions from unknown premises! We have already shown, by reference to the Bible, how the doctrine of hell originated. Let Mr. Youmans examine our statement of facts, and we do not doubt but that, in a lucid interval, he will see the absurdity of his assertion, and the futility of his struggle against historical truth.
The doctrine of hell “was developed in periods of fierce intolerance, sanguinary persecutions, cruel codes, and vindictive punishments”! Much might be said about this bold untruth. Perhaps we might reverse the whole phrase, and say that it is the hostility to the doctrine of hell that was developed in a period of fierce intolerance, sanguinary persecution, cruel codes, and vindictive punishments. Unbelief had a period of triumph in the great French Revolution. Its intolerance was so fierce that it brought about “the Reign of Terror”; its persecution was decidedly sanguinary; its code the will of a drunken mob or the caprice of a profligate dictator. That period is past, but another, and not a better one, is approaching. Freemasonry is maturing new diabolic plans, and, if allowed to conquer, when the time comes will not stop midway in their execution. Meanwhile these enemies of “fierce intolerance” are satisfied with a Bismarckian humanity, and these denouncers of “sanguinary persecutions” wash their innocent hands in the blood of Colombian and Ecuadorian citizens, priests, and bishops who have had manhood enough to oppose the tyranny of the sect. We might add much more, of course, to unmask these virtuous Pharisees, who are so scandalized at the intolerance of Christianity; but we must return to our subject.
The assertion that the doctrine of hell “was developed in periods of fierce intolerance,” etc., is really nonsensical. For the truth is that this doctrine was never developed. The doctrine, as now held in the universal church, does not contain anything besides what it contained at the time of the apostles. Hence the development of the doctrine of hell is a “scientific” invention of Mr. Youmans’ brain. Nor can he exculpate himself by pretending that his phrase refers to the barbarous inhabitants of the primitive world. For civil codes had then no existence, and nothing allows the assumption that the early men passed through periods of fierce intolerance and sanguinary persecution. These words are meant to stigmatize Christianity and the middle ages as contrasted with the scepticism of the present age. If our professor had a correct idea of what the middle ages really were, we fancy that, though a man of progress, he would admire their culture, wisdom, and humanity.
The doctrine of hell was used as “a means of harsh discipline when men were moved only by the lowest motives”! Be humble, Mr. Youmans; you are not a competent judge in matters of this sort. First, you know not the facts. Secondly, you know not the nature and value of supernatural motives. Thirdly, you know not that a “harsh discipline” is as much needed to-day to curb the unruly passions as it was a thousand years ago. Fourthly, you do not know that the lowest motives do not exclude the highest. Fifthly, you do not know that no motive is low which is suggested and inculcated by God. Sixthly, you do not know that your words are a crushing condemnation of modern liberalism, whose god is the almighty Dollar, and whose best motives are infinitely lower than those which animated the chivalric and high-spirited Christians of the mediæval time.
“With the advance of knowledge and the cultivation of humaner sentiments the doctrine of hell has become anomalous”! What does this mean? Did the advance of geography, physics, mechanics, cosmogony, chemistry, or other branches of science alter the conception or diminish the certainty of the doctrine of hell? Common sense says no. And yet these are the only branches of knowledge that claim to have advanced. But we must notice that “knowledge,” according to Prof. Youmans’ phraseology, comprises all the wild hypotheses of our modern speculators, and that among these there is a theory which has charmed our professor, and to which he certainly alludes when he reminds us of the advance of knowledge. This is Darwin’s theory of the descent of man. If man is a modified ape, it is quite plain that the doctrine of hell becomes “anomalous”; for apes do not go to hell. But, if such be the case, then “the advance of human nature” is retrogressive, and we cannot boast of “humaner sentiments” without inconsistency. The truth is that we have advanced a little in the knowledge of matter; but our moral advance has been, and still is, badly cramped by false ideas of civilization. The very effort of advanced thinkers to suppress hell reveals the hollowness of their humane sentiments, and proves that their philanthropy is a sham.
The doctrine of hell “is now generally entertained with reservations and protests that virtually destroy it.” By whom?—perhaps by the professor’s friends. And the doctrine is entertained “in a vague and loose manner.” Again by whom?—by sceptics, we suppose. But scepticism is ignorance; it deserves pity, not approval. Yet “only revival preachers of the Moody stamp still affirm the literal lake of fire and brimstone”! Perhaps Prof. Youmans will be glad to be informed that the literal lake of fire and brimstone is preached even now all over the earth, and in the very centres of civilization, by men of a far higher stamp of intellect than Moody and Sankey. The “sober-mindedness” of the Protestant clergymen who “have got in the way of neglecting” the Scriptural hell is nothing but scepticism, or, worse still, cowardice. But the silence of these men proves nothing. They have no mission to teach. They are not “the salt of the earth”; and their defection does no harm to the dogmas of Christianity.
Mr. Youmans concludes thus:
“In the recent pulpit utterance there is a perfect chaos of discordant speculation, open repudiation, tacit disavowal, and ingenious refining away, but no stern and sturdy defence of it, in the old form and spirit, from any source that commands respect. The doctrine of hell is still conserved in popular creeds, but, if not eliminated, it will be pretty certain to carry the creeds with it into the limbo of abandoned superstitions.”
This conclusion would be unanswerable, if the Protestant pulpit were the standard of religious doctrine. But why did not Mr. Youmans reflect that his clergymen are only leaders of sects whose Christianity is nearly extinct, and whose words have no authority? Is it not plain that, if the blind lead the blind, both will fall into a ditch?
But we must conclude without entering into further developments. The Christian doctrine of hell is incontrovertible. It is universal, it is reasonable, and it is revealed in unequivocal terms. Advanced scientists may not like it; yet, instead of sowing malicious doubts about it, they should bear in mind that they themselves are of all men the most likely to fall into the lake of fire in which they disbelieve. To Prof. Youmans we offer a text from St. John’s Apocalypse, chapter fourteen:
“And the third angel followed them, saying with a loud voice: If any man shall adore the beast and his image, and receive his mark in his forehead or in his hand, he also shall drink of the wine of the wrath of God, which is mingled with pure wine in the cup of his wrath, and he shall be tormented with fire and brimstone in the sight of the holy angels, and in the sight of the Lamb; and the smoke of their torments shall ascend up for ever and ever.”
Professor Youmans need not be informed that this great beast with its adorers and followers is a symbolic representation of anti-Christianism. Its soul is the spirit of apostasy; its heads and horns are governments and kings; its body is an organic confederation of all secret societies, comprising diplomatists, statesmen, politicians, godless newspaper editors, authors of infamous books, writers of “scientific” articles against revelation, and the whole army of the enemies of Christ. The beast will have great power, God so permitting; but its reign will be short. Jesus Christ will defeat it, and its followers will find no mercy. Their portion shall be “in the lake of fire and brimstone,” and their punishment shall last “for ever and ever.” We think that no sensible man can deceive himself so as to undervalue this solemn prophecy. The great beast, which is now walking upon the earth, has been minutely described by the evangelist and by Daniel; and it would be odd to pretend that they could, without a revelation from God, foresee, thousands of years ago, what was to happen in this time of ours. But if their words have come from God, then the lake of fire and brimstone and the eternity of the torments deserve the most serious consideration, especially on the part of our professors of anti-Christianity. Materialism will not help them in the day of wrath. Friends will not save them. Faith, repentance, and a timely satisfaction for past delinquencies are the sole chance of salvation.
We earnestly entreat Prof. Youmans to ponder over this momentous truth. It may be unattractive, but it has the merit of being absolutely certain.
SORROW.
Sorrow and I so long have lived together How would it seem now if we had to part? So many storms we two have had to weather, Such thunders heard! following the lightning’s dart! Come, Sorrow, now what say you to a truce? Wilt lift the cloudy curtain so long hung Around our fates, those heavy rings unloose, Let fly the fetters that have made us one?
And yet it might be—I should miss thee, Sorrow! Thy constancy to me has been so great, Thy shadow banished from my life to-morrow, What earthly lover on me thus would wait? For thou art sent from heaven, a sacred guest. And though, sweet Sorrow, I’ll not bid thee stay, Yet to those sins I bear one more confest Were this: that I turned Heaven’s guest away.
A. T. L.
KITTY DARCY.
“You have overdone it, Bertram.”
“Not a bit of it, father.”
“You must get away.”
“Can’t afford expensive luxuries.”
“Do you consider health a luxury?”
“A necessity.”
“And yet, for the sake of piling up a few hundred dollars, you fling, yes, actually fling, it from you as though you were tired of it.”
“I love my profession too much not to make some little concession to it.”
“Come, now, Bertram, this won’t do. You have overworked yourself, and off you must go. This is the right time to start.”
“Whither?”
“To Paris.”
“Paris! Why not say Timbuctoo?”
“I say Paris.”
“You are surely jesting.”
“I do not jest on so serious a subject as your health, my boy.”
“It can’t be done, father.”
“It must be done, Bertram. Your Uncle Kirwan starts on Wednesday, and with him you shall go. He hopes to be in time for the opening of the Exhibition.”
“My Uncle Kirwan goes on business.”
“His nephew shall go on pleasure. Why, what’s the matter with you? Half the young fellows in New York would be half-mad with delight to be in your place.” Doctor Bertram Martin laughs. The idea is ridiculous, absurd. He cannot, he dare not leave his patients. That delightful case of tetanus, that splendid fracture of the hip, that exquisite tumor yielding to a new treatment, that interesting consumption, that curious cardiac dropsy, that superb typhus!
Bertram Martin, although but twenty-four years of age, is regarded by the profession as the coming man. His work on aneurism is considered the ablest essay yet written upon the subject, and his reputation with the “knife” is second to none. He is highly cultured, earnest, a calm intelligence, with the fires of enthusiasm well banked up; but he is full of latent purpose, an energy that is ever on the spring, and of lava that eventually cools into solid success. He has a great future before him, and he feels it.
His father, in whose Turkey-rugged, book-lined office he reclines in a low chair—one of those delightful chairs that fondle and caress the weary occupant—is also a physician, and who, having amassed a considerable fortune, now that he has safely launched the good ship that bears his name, is about to enjoy a well-earned otium cum dignitate.
Bertram’s mother has noted the increasing pallor in the young physician’s face, the drag under the eye, the hard, dark lines, and the weariness of tone, that denote an active brain heated to a white heat, and has determined, coûte que coûte, that her eldest-born shall “drop both spade and plough for a revel amongst the daisies.”
“Exhibitions are played out, father,” exclaims Bertram. “The last and best was at Philadelphia, and no show on the earth could beat that.”
He is intensely American, regarding Europe as effete, old-world, used up.
“Paris is not played out.”
“I should much prefer seeing Paris at any other time.”
“That’s what everybody will say who can’t go. I may as well tell you, Bertram, that there’s a little conspiracy got up against you, and at the head of it is your mother.”
“Yes, Bertie,” exclaims Mrs. Martin, who enters, “we have undermined you. Your Uncle Kirwan starts on Wednesday by the Scythia, and here’s the ticket for your state-rooms,” handing him the article in question.
“Why, mother—”
“My darling child, you look dreadfully ill, and it is fretting my heart out. I spoke to Doctor Lynch, and he orders change of air and total cessation from work. You never opposed me in your young life; you are not going to commence now.”
“But—”
“But me no buts, Bertie.”
“This trip would take two months.”
“Three.”
“I should be out of the race in three months.”
“You’ll return fresh and vigorous, and to win.”
“This is sheer folly. I never felt better in my life.”
“Next Wednesday, Bertie.”
“I could not, even if I listened to this absurd proposal, be ready before two weeks.”
“Next Wednesday, Bertie.”
In vain does the young doctor expostulate, contesting the ground inch by inch. In vain does he plead for time. His pickets are driven in, the enemy is upon him in force, and, ere he can well realize the exact posture of affairs, his mother has obtained his solemn promise that he will leave for Europe by the Scythia upon the following Wednesday in company with his uncle, Walter Kirwan.
A bright and joyous group was assembled at the Cunard wharf to see him off, and to bid him Godspeed across the waste of waters. Mr. Kirwan, a fine, handsome man of five-and-thirty, over six feet high, with a winning eye and a wooing voice, stood “one bumper at parting” in his state-room, which was decorated with a profusion of glorious flowers, the offerings of very near and very dear friends. One bouquet, composed exclusively of forget-me-nots and mignonette, caused any number of “Oh! my’s,” “How beautiful!” “Isn’t it lovely!” from pouting female lips.
“Who sent it to you, Bertram?” asked Mrs. Martin.
“It may not be for me, mother.”
“Oh! yes, it is; here is the card with your name upon it.”
“I have no idea.”
“No idea?”
“None in the world.”
A tall, lithe, graceful girl stands a little aside, trifling with the fringe of her parasol, as these questions are being put, her embarrassed looks and blushing cheeks denoting fierce and scarce controlled agitation.
“Did you send me this bouquet, Miss Reed?” asks Bertram in a low tone.
“I—I—that is—I hope you will—that they will—look pretty,” is the murmured response.
“Did Carrie Reed send those flowers to Bertram?” asks Mrs. Martin of her sister, Mrs. Kirwan, in freezing tones.
“Yes; I heard her admit it just now.”
“What a forward minx! I’ve a great mind to tell her so.”
How severe these mothers are when “my son” is approached by youth and beauty! The idea of marriage is a horror.
* * * * *
“And this is Liverpool!” exclaims Bertie, as the good ship steams up the Mersey. “I’m awfully sorry to have been asleep when we were at Queenstown; why didn’t you shake me up, uncle?”
“Because you want all the sleep you can get. You were nearly in for a dose of insomnia, and that would have pretty soon squared your account, my boy.”
“Pshaw! you all made me out worse than I really was.”
“Not a bit of it. You allowed a nice lot of sand to run out of your glass. But isn’t that a sight, Bertie? There are masts—a forest. There are docks—the docks of the world.”
“What docks we’ll have in twenty years at New York!”
“You don’t believe in anything outside of the stars and stripes.”
“Not much,” with a laugh; adding, “Shall we make any stay in Liverpool?”
Mr. Kirwan consults his watch.
“We shall only just catch that train due in London at 6.40. The Dover express starts at 7.35. This will decant us in Paris to-morrow morning at six. We shall have nice time for a big wash, a big breakfast, and then for the opening of the Exhibition.”
“This is close shaving.”
“That’s my principle. Narrow margins. They pay best all round.”
Mr. Kirwan’s calculations, based Upon professional experience, proved correct. A vague soup and an ill-dressed cutlet at Charing Cross, a thick omelette and a thin wine at Amiens, did duty for refreshment. In the sheen of dazzling early sunlight Bertram Martin first saw Paris, the bright, the joyous, the glittering, the beautiful. A dream of his life was about to be realized.
Mr. Kirwan having telegraphed for apartments, he with our hero was “skied” at the Hôtel du Louvre, and after a breakfast which would have done honor to a navvy had been disposed of by Bertie, who in New York would flirt with a slice of toast and coquette with a fresh egg, cigars were lighted and the two gentlemen set forth in the direction of the Champ de Mars.
“This is the best sight I have ever seen,” cried the young physician, as they strolled along the Rue de Rivoli. “Why, it’s nearly as bright as Broadway.”
“What a thorough Yank you are, Bertie! Come here, now; just take a look around you, and confess that you are fairly dumbfounded.”
They stood at the Place de la Concorde. The fountains were throwing feathery sprays high in air; the flowers were blooming in a myriad hues. Thousands of vehicles were flashing past, tens of thousands of pedestrians. The great tide of human life had set in towards the Trocadero. Regiments in gorgeous uniforms, headed by bands playing superbly, marched onwards, quaint costumes of every nationality under the sun flitted by—bizarre groups chatting and laughing and gesticulating!
Behind them the blackened walls of the Tuileries, in front the Champs Elysées and the Arc de Triomphe, on the left the Chamber of Deputies, on the right the glorious Madeleine.
“It is magnificent,” exclaimed Bertie at length, in a subdued tone of emotion.
“Nearly as bright as Broadway,” laughed Kirwan.
“Wait! Twenty years, and our up-town will be as gorgeous as this. We have the taste, we have the money, all we want is the time; that we have not.”
“And never will have. We rush too much. But come along; we must be at the Exhibition building early or our chances of getting in will be a little thin. We shall have, as we say in New York, to take a back seat, doctor.”
“I should prefer to stop here. What a sight this is! What contrasts; how vivid! Look at that grim sergent-de-ville, and beside him that piquante girl in the Normandy cap as high as his cocked hat, and earrings as long as his sword. See that ouvrier in the blouse; how cheerfully he smokes his cigar, carrying his two children! I do believe he would carry his wife into the bargain. How coquettishly she is attired, and how cheaply! See the artistic manner that two-dollar shawl is draped over her shoulder, and how that five-cent ribbon hangs. I’ll wager that these fellows coming along as if walking on air are of the Quartier Latin, the students’ quarter. They, poor fellows! have come to see the crowd. I suppose their united wealth at this moment will scarcely do more than omelette and beer them. What flashing equipages! How beautifully finished! We do want these liveries in Central Park. Imagine those yellows, and purples, and blues, and saffrons, and whites glancing amongst our green trees or up Fifth Avenue. What cavalry! How superbly those dragoons sit their horses—Centaurs every man of them. It must have been by sheer force of numbers that they bit the dust in the late war. What fountains! what flowers! what trees—four rows of them up to that magnificent arch—and what residences!” gushed Bertram Martin.
“These gilded pagodas, and Swiss chalets, and marble palaces, and fairy bowers are for open-air concerts. Wait till you see them lighted up, and I tell you what it is, Bertie, you’ll go into raptures. Why, no tale in the Arabian Nights equals them for glitter. And the music, my boy, sparkles like champagne,” cried Kirwan enthusiastically.
Arrived at the Champ de Mars, the crowd gradually filtered into the Exhibition building. At the turnstile Bertie was separated from his uncle, who made a rush for another entrance. Immediately in front of him was a young girl, lissome and lithe of figure, attired in a raiment of soft, filmy, cloudy, floating white. He could detect a delicate little ear, and a white neck from which the hair was scrupulously lifted and arranged—she had removed her hat—dark and lustrous, tight and trim, in a fashion exceedingly becoming to the beautiful, but trying to the more ordinary of womankind.
Have we not all at some time or another felt that something strange was going to happen to us? that steps were coming nearer and nearer? that a voice was calling to us at a great way off that would presently become more distinct?
A something urged Bertram Martin to see this girl’s face. Was it mere curiosity? No. The impulse was indefinable as a subtle perfume, indefinable as a sweet sound in music. A shapely head, and lustrous hair, and a lissome form—this was a very ordinary scaffolding whereon to build a romance, and, although the young doctor would have laughed anybody to scorn who would have taxed him with being romantic, there was no boy of half his age and quarter his experience more likely to make a fool of himself about a woman than Bertie Martin.
He had led his life amongst his books, his profession his mistress. Too much absorbed in the engrossing duties attendant upon the alleviation of the ills the flesh is heir to, he was in the world and yet not of it, beholding it as through a polished sheet of plate-glass. His mother, a woman of the highest culture, refinement, taste, and ability, had vainly urged upon him the necessity of taking part in the gayeties of a very extended and highly fashionable circle—vainly, indeed; for having on a few occasions attended “swell” receptions and upper-crust entertainments, he squarely pilloried himself in a cui bono? and from that hour the butterfly world knew him no more.
He is tall, lightly built, graceful. His eyes are dark gray, full of earnestness, and blazing with intelligence. His mouth is absolutely faultless, having at command a smile, a veritable ray of sunshine. His light-brown moustache and beard have never known the razor. He dresses well, and is a dandy in gloves and boots.
He must see that girl’s face, and he plunged forward despite the sacr-r-ré of an infuriated Frenchman and the full-flavored exclamation of a London cockney, into whose ribs he had plunged his right elbow. At this moment she turned her head a little to address a portly gentleman behind, who, with a flushed face and a general appearance of acute physical and mental suffering, through heat, crush, and excitement, had been urging her to push onwards.
Her profile was simply lovely: one inch of forehead; a nose a trifle out of the regular line of beauty; eyelashes that swept her cheeks; a short upper lip with a tremulous curl in it, a rich red under one, and a chin worthy the chisel of Phidias. And yet, despite its classical contour, her face was Irish—yea, that delicious ensemble which Erin bestows upon her daughters, placing them above all in beauty, in archness, and in purity of expression.
“She is lovely,” murmured Bertie, gazing at her with all his eyes.
A rush came, a great pressure from behind, and the wave flung him beyond the turnstile.
“Well done, old fellow!” cried Kirwan, clapping him on the back.
“Where is she?” demanded the young physician, gazing round him on every side, as though his head were rotary.
“Just gone up this way with her son.”
“Who? What son?”
“Why, the Duchess of Lachaunay. That’s what caused the rush; her toilet is by Worth, and cost twenty thousand francs.”
“Hang the duchess!” groaned Bertie. “I have lost sight of the loveliest girl I ever laid eyes on.”
“Where was she?”
“There, right in front of me.”
“Never mind. Take heart of grace. We’ll pick her up by and by. Let’s get our seats or we’ll forfeit them.”
“You go, uncle. I’ll do as I am, I think I’ll walk about.”
Kirwan looked at his nephew with a merry glance.
“So badly hit as that, Bertie?”
“Pshaw!” cried the doctor, turning on his heel.
And they did not find her. Not a bit of it. Bertram walked, and stalked, and darted hither and thither, until Kirwan fairly let him have his own way, giving him a rendezvous at the hotel for seven o’clock.
What cared Bertram Martin for the gorgeous array of foreign princes, ambassadors, commissioners, presidents, ministers, deputations, senators, or deputies? What cared he for the address to Marshal MacMahon, or the one-hundred-and-one gun salute, or the military music, or the hoisting of flags, or the playing of fountains? What cared he for the procession, with all its glittering magnificence, or for all the treasures of the earth dug up by man and nurtured by art? He sought the four-leaved shamrock in the bright young girl whose beauty had flashed upon him as a revelation, and although he posted himself at the chief exit until he came to be regarded with suspicion by a grim sergent-de-ville, in the hope of obtaining another glimpse of her, he was doomed to disappointment, and he returned to the hotel, and to a petit dîner ordered for the occasion by his uncle, in the worst possible spirits.
“Did you find her, Bertie?”
“No.”
“If she’s French she won’t go to the Exhibition again for some time. She has done the opening, and will take it now, as the Crushed Tragedian says, ‘in sections.’ But come, Bertie, love or no love, try this Soupe à la Bonne Femme; it will ring up the curtain to a menu that even Delmonico never dreamt of in his wildest imaginings.”
* * * * *
For the two weeks that Bertie remained in Paris he sought the fair unknown—sought her in the Exposition, in the galleries of the Louvre, at Versailles, amongst the ruins of the palace of St. Cloud, in churches, on the boulevards, in cafés—everywhere. Once he thought he caught a glimpse of her passing along the Rue de Rome, and, plunging from the top of the omnibus at the imminent risk of breaking his neck, came up with a very pretty young girl who turned into the residence of the ex-Queen of Spain.
“It is a perfect infatuation,” wrote home Kirwan. “Bertie is crazed about some girl he saw on the opening day of the Exhibition. I can get no good of him. I scarcely ever see him, and when he is with me he is continually darting from me in pursuit of this will-o’-the-wisp, or craning his neck in search of her. And only to think of grave Doctor Bertram Martin being in this horrid state!”
It had been announced that the tour was to include London, the English lakes, Scotland, and Ireland. Bertie voted London a bore, the lakes a nuisance, the land of cakes nowhere, and declared in favor of a few days in Ireland. With a sigh, as though tearing up his heart by the roots, he took his departure from Paris.
“I shall never, never see her again,” he groaned, and was silent the whole way to Calais.
Kirwan fondly imagined that London would shake off this glamour, and did his uttermost to bring all the attractions of the modern Babylon into bold relief; but four days seemed so thoroughly to weary his nephew that it was resolved to start for Ireland without any further delay.
A glorious evening found them pacing the deck of the mail steamer Connaught, en route from Holyhead to Kingstown. Before them lay the Dublin mountains, bathed in glorious greens, yellows, and purples. Away to the left stretched the Wicklow hills, guarded by the twin sugar-loaves and backed by lordly Djouce. To the right the Hill of Howth, the famous battlefield of Clontarf, and in the smoky distance the city of Dublin. Kingstown, its white terraces sloping to the sea; Dalkey, its villas peeping timidly forth from the fairest verdure-clad groves; Killiney, lying in the lap of a heather-caressed mountain; Bray, like a string of pearls on the ocean’s edge; the dark-blue waters of the bay, dotted here and there with snowy yachts, or with the russet brown of the Skerries fishing-smacks—what a coup-d’œil!
“It is glorious,” murmured Bertie, as, leaning on the railing of the bridge, he drained this cup of loveliness to the very dregs.
Arrived at Dublin, they put up at the Shelborne Hotel, in Stephen’s Green, whither they were borne from the dingy station at Westland Row on an outside car that jingled, rattled, creaked, and groaned at every revolution of its rickety wheels.
“What’s this fur?” demanded the tatterdemalion driver, got up in a cast-off suit of Con the Shaughraun, as he glanced from half a crown lying upon the palm of his horny hand to Kirwan and Bertie.
“What’s this fur at all, at all?”
“It’s your fare, my man,” said Kirwan.
“Me fare? An yez come from Amerikey?”
“Yes.”
“The cunthry that me sisther, and me aunt, an’ me cousin Tim, an’ me cousin Phil is always braggin about? Wisha, wisha, but it’s lies they’re tellin’ me, sorra a haporth else. The people over there must be regular naygurs afther all,” reluctantly preparing to pocket the coin.
“It will never do to let the American flag go by the board,” whispered Bertie. “Here, my man, here is half a crown for the stars, and here’s half a crown for the stripes.”
“An’ won’t yer honor stand somethin’ for the flagstaff?” with a grin of such unspeakable drollery that both the Americans burst into a fit of laughter.
Mr. Kirwan had been provided with a letter of introduction to a family residing in Merrion Square.
“Shall we look up the Darcys, Bertie?” he asked one morning shortly after their arrival.
“Cui bono?”
“The Joyces were so anxious about it. It would never do to go back to New York without calling, at all events.”
“At it, then. Let’s get it over, and on to Killarney.”
The Darcy mansion in Merrion Square was muffled in its summer wraps. The shutters were closed, the windows barricaded with newspapers, the knocker removed, while a profound air of dust and melancholy hung over it like a pall—this though the scarlet and white hawthorn, the lilac and laburnum, were shedding their delicious odors from the enclosure of the square opposite.
“The famly is out av town,” responded a very dilapidated-looking old woman to Kirwan’s query.
“Indeed! I shall leave a card.”
“Av ye plaze; but shure where’s the use? They’ll not get it this three months.”
“Where are they travelling?”
“In furrin parts.”
“I shall write a line.”
“Step in, sir, and welkim.”
This elderly damsel ushered them into an apartment from which the carpet had been removed, the curtains taken down, the gasalier and pictures muffled, and the furniture piled up and partly concealed by matting. Kirwan took out his letter of introduction, and, opening it, proceeded to write a line of regret upon missing Mr. Darcy. The young doctor moved about the room, amusing himself by listlessly gazing out through the half-opened shutter. Presently he approached a massive book-case, and endeavored to peer through the interstices afforded by the gaping of the brown paper that concealed the books.
Little did he imagine what an influence this simple action was destined to bear upon his near future! His wandering gaze suddenly merged into earnestness, then it became fascinated, then fixed.
“Come here!” he said to the attendant, his voice hoarse from suppressed emotion.
The woman came to his side.
“Do you see that carte de visite?”
“Cart o’ what?”
“That photograph there, lying on its side,” the words coming in hot gasps.
“Yes, sir.”
“Whose is it?”
“Misther Darcy’s, I suppose.”
“Whose likeness is it?” clutching her by the wrist.
“I dunno, sir.”
“You don’t know! Is it one of the family?”
“I dunno, sir.”
“Is—is there a Miss Darcy? Has Mr. Darcy a daughter?” his impatience wrestling with a desire to throttle the caretaker.
“I heerd that he has wan.”
“Heard! Don’t you know it?”
“I do not, sir. I’m a sthranger. I come from Stoneybatther, beyant the wather, but I heerd that Misther Darcy has a daughter, and that she is married—”
“Married!” reeling as if he had been struck a heavy blow.
“What’s all this, Bertie?” asked Kirwan uneasily.
“That photo there.”
“Yes, I see it.”
“It’s the photo of the girl I saw at the opening of the Paris Exhibition.”
“And a pretty girl she is!” exclaimed Kirwan, indulging in a prolonged whistle as he gazed at it sideways like a bird.
“I must have it,” said Bertram, a dogged resolution in his tone.
“How is that to be done? You can’t steal it, Bertie.”
“It shall be done fairly and squarely if possible; if not, I shall smash the glass.”
“Tut! tut! man, you’re not thinking.”
The wound had been nearly healed, the memory of that girlish face was fast becoming a sweet treasure of a by-gone time, to be lingered over at fitful intervals, and always with rapture, when this unlooked-for freak of destiny caused the wound to bleed afresh, and memory to burst into rich and fragrant blossom.
During each of the three days that he remained in Dublin Bertram Martin visited the deserted mansion in Merrion Square, to gaze at that photograph, all so near and yet so far. Could he have but obtained a solitary clue to the whereabouts of the Darcys no earthly power would have prevented his following them; but clue there was none.
* * * * *
The train clanked into the station at Killarney in a mist as thick as a ladies’ tulle-illusion veil.
“If this sort of thing is going to last we sha’n’t see much of Kate Kearney,” laughed Kirwan.
“I wish I had never left New York,” said Bertie. “I did my very uttermost not to come, but you set your trap, all of you, and I go back—what?”
“You can run over again.”
“Never! Once back, my profession shall have all my energy, all my hope—my life.”
They put up at the Railway Hotel, and after dinner strolled out as far as Ross Castle. The mist had cleared away, and the view of Innisfallen sleeping in the moonlight, of the cluster of dreamy islands, the soft outlines of the Mangerton, the purple mountain and the Toomies bathed in liquid pearl, the twinkling lights along the shore, the mirrored waters of the lake shimmering in silver glory, sent a wave of delicious reverie over the hearts of the two men, as, seated in silence on a ruined wall of the ivy-covered keep, they gazed in solemn rapture upon a scene exquisite, soothing, sublime.
“I wish to heaven your aunt was here to see this,” said Kirwan, lighting a fresh cigar.
“I wish—” but Bertie did not utter another word.
The following morning was one in ten thousand—fresh, sunny, breezy, inspiriting, laden with the languor of summer, rippling with the coquetry of spring; a primrose light, a violet shade. Our two friends joined a party bound for the Gap of Dunloe. The ponies were sent on, and a boat ordered to meet them at the upper lake with luncheon. Bertie was unusually depressed, and, despite the vigorous efforts of his uncle to pull him together, he clung, as it were, to himself, avoiding all intercourse with his fellow-man, and especially his fellow-woman, a buxom, blithe, hearty English lady, who laughed with anybody and at everything, and whose whole trouble lay in a morbid terror lest any accident should happen to the bitter beer. After a two hours’ drive through lovely and matchless scenery the carriage arrived at the entrance to the Gap, and here the party dismounted.
“Where do we meet the ponies?” asked Kirwan.
“A little bit up the Gap, sir.”
“Any bitter beer up there?” laughed the English lady.
“Troth, thin, there’s not, but Kate Kearney’ll give ye a dhrop o’ the mountain dew, me lady,” replied the driver.
Bertie strode on before. There was a something exhilarating in speeding up the craggy pass, in bounding from rock to rock like a mountain deer, in plunging through the purple heather, and in leaping saucy brooklets flashing their glittering waters in the glorious sunlight. In vain did Kate Kearney assail him with blarney, blandishments, and bog oak, with “a dhrop o’ the craythur” under the thin disguise of goat’s milk. In vain did arbutus-wood venders, and mendicants, and wild-flower girls trudge by his side and cling to his heels. He distanced them all, leaving them standing at different places in the middle of the road, baffled and worsted in the encounter. Up against the sky line stood the ponies. Up against a sheer wall of dull gray rock covered with ferns, and mosses, and lichens leant a wooden shanty, and for this shanty Bertram Martin made.
A party had ascended before him; they were from the Victoria Hotel—two gentlemen and two ladies. One gentleman was seated on a granite boulder as Bertie reached this coigne of vantage.
“Glorious day, sir,” exclaimed the tweed-covered excursionist.
“Superb,” replied Bertie, flinging himself on the purple heather to await the arrival of Kirwan.
“You’re from the other side of the pond. Have a cigar,” flinging over his case in a right royal manner.
Bertie selected a weed.
“Have a light,” shying a silver fusee-box which the doctor dexterously caught.
“From New York?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know any people of the name of Joyce?”
“Daniel Blake Joyce, of Gramercy Park?” asked Bertie.
“Yes.”
“I know him and his family intimately.”
The tweed-arrayed stranger jumped to his feet.
“I call this jolly. My name is O’Hara.”
“Not Tim O’Hara?”
“Yes, Tim.”
“Why, my dear sir,” cried Bertie, “I’ve heard the Joyces speak of you fifty times.”
“This is first-class. Have a card. You’ll come and stop with me a week, a month—six. I live in the County Wicklow.”
“I most seriously wish I could,” said the physician, exchanging cards, “but I leave by the Asia on Friday.”
“Not a bit of it. Hi, Dick! Dick! I say,” calling to a fat, jovial-faced, red-nosed elderly gentleman who had just emerged from the shanty. “Here’s a friend of Dan Joyce’s, of New York, who says he’s going to leave by the Asia on Friday. Will that fit?”
“I should say not,” said the other, approaching.
Where had Bertram Martin seen that face?
“Any friend of Dan Joyce’s is our friend, and shame be upon us if we let you leave Ireland without at least giving us the opportunity of having a gossip and a bottle over Dan.”
Where had Bertram Martin seen that face?
In a few words, even while this perplexing thought was whirling through his brain, Bertie informed the new-comer—for O’Hara had disappeared into the shanty in search of the ladies with his news—of his doings since he landed at Liverpool.
“At what time were you in Paris?” asked the stranger.
“On the opening day of the Exhibition,” replied the doctor with a deep sigh, as his thoughts flew back to the lovely girl he was destined never, oh! never, to behold again.
“I was in Paris on that day,” said the stranger.
Bertie seized him by the wrist.
“You were? I have it all now. Now I know where I saw you,” speaking with fearful rapidity. “It was at the entrance C——. There was a fearful crush. You were not alone. You were with a young lady. Who is that girl? Where is she?” And he stopped, a world of excited earnestness in his eyes.
“That young lady is my daughter.”
“Where is she?”
“She is here.”
“Here?” a mad throb at his heart.
At this moment O’Hara emerged from the shanty, accompanied by two ladies, one of them, young and fresh and lovely, hanging fondly on his arm.
Bertie saw it all now. One wild glance told him that she was as far from him as the fleecy cloud sailing above his head—that she was the wife of Tim O’Hara.
“I don’t think, Dick, that I introduced you to my young friend, Dr. Martin. Doctor, this is Dick Darcy, one of the gayest fellows in all Ireland. Get your legs under his mahogany in Merrion Square and——”
“I have been in your house in Merrion Square. I have a letter of introduction to you from Mr. Joyce,” burst in Bertie.
“And you shall be again, my young friend,” wringing his hand warmly. “Mary,” to the elder lady, “this is Dr. Martin, a friend of Dan Joyce’s. Doctor, this is my wife. And this,” turning to the girl, “is my daughter.”
Bertie took her courteously-proffered hand, and held it for one instant in his. He looked down, down into those Irish gray eyes, where truth and innocence and purity lay like gems beneath crystal waters; he gazed with a wild rapture upon the beauteous face that had haunted him day and night in its rosy radiance, and then with a muttered exclamation was about to turn away when O’Hara exclaimed:
“Miss Darcy looks as if she had seen you before.”
“Miss Darcy?” cried Bertie.
“Yes; you wouldn’t have her Mrs. Darcy, would you?”
Oh! the weight lifted off his heart. Oh! how gloriously shone out the sun, how blue was the sky, how radiant the flowers, how sweet the song of the mountain thrush, how delightful everything. The great black shadow which had hung over him like a pall had passed away before the dayshine of her presence, and, borne on that sunlight, came the message to his heart that Kitty Darcy was to be wooed, and—possibly to be won.
Kirwan’s pleasure knew no bounds as he clasped the hand of Dick Darcy.
“What a sorry opinion you would have had of the old country if you had only known its hospitality through the medium of a hotel, Mr. Kirwan!” laughed Darcy as the party mounted their shaggy mountain ponies.
Of course Bertie rode beside Miss Darcy, and descanted not as eloquently as he could have wished upon the glorious bits of scenery that revealed themselves at every turn in the Gap. He spoke glowingly of home, of the lordly Hudson, the dreamy Catskills, the White Mountains, and the Yosemite.
“Oh! isn’t that gloriously gloomy,” cried Miss Darcy, as they emerged from the granite-walled Gap to the ridge overlooking the Black Valley to the right, stretching away in gray sadness, locked in the embraces of mountains standing in ebon relief against the blue yet lustreless sky.
“Not unlike my own reflections for the last six weeks,” laughed the doctor; “they were gloriously gloomy.”
“See the sunshine over the upper lake.”
“I accept the omen.”
“And the Eagle’s Nest, how superbly it towers over the water! What greens!—from white to russet. How charmingly the foliage of the arbutus seems to suit this lovely scenery!”
And what a scene in its brilliance, its repose, its poetry! Verdure-clad mountains dreaming in the haze of summer, lifting themselves to the blue vault of heaven, the tender green mixing with the cerulean, as a spring leaf with the forget-me-not; mirror-like lakes reflecting every crag, every tree, every bud with that fidelity only known to nature’s mirrors; the path winding tortuously down to the lake, now disappearing in a patch of wood, now meandering through a waving meadow as yet uninvaded by the ruthless scythe. Away stretched the lakes, away the old Weir Bridge—away in shimmering loveliness all too lovely to describe, all too lovely save to gaze and gaze upon, until heart and soul absorbed it in a thirsty greed.
Three days spent in Kitty Darcy’s society—three days in wandering through the ruins of Muckross Abbey, that home of silent prayer, that “congealed Pater Noster,” by the low, dulcet murmur of O’Sullivan’s Cascade, amid the leafy dells of “Sweet Innisfallen,” up the steep ascent of Mangerton, on the fern-caressed road to the police barracks, stopping at the exquisite little chapel perched like an eerie up in its wooded nest and uttering an Ave, always by Kitty’s side, always inhaling the subtle perfume of her presence—three centuries compressed into three days.