Prologue
Mulier amicta sole, et luna sub pedibus ejus, et in capite ejus corona stellarum duodecim.—APOC. xii. 1.
Cloudless her early dawn, more pure, more bright Than the blue sapphire of the eastern sky Above her head. To the prophetic eye All the long future lay in folds of light. Her noontide sun thick darkness veiled from sight, Prelude of rushing storms that moan and sigh Among the forest-leaves, then fiercely fly In wrath and ruin, burying all in night— To die in silence. See! the light returns, A gathering splendor in its peaceful ray, And all the western heaven at sunset burns And kindles to a golden after-glow, Bidding the tender hearts that love her know The fuller glory of her perfect day.
JOYFUL MYSTERIES.
I.
LUKE i. 38.
And does the crownèd one ever look back On her long sojourn in the vale of tears? Whate’er of earth her simple home might lack, Her blissful Fiat filled those far-off years, Doubling their joys and calming all their fears. Her faithfulness to grace divine how great! In the early time as when the goal she nears, As the Lord’s handmaid, or in queenly state, Content on his command expectantly to wait.
II.
LUKE i. 43.
Bride of the Holy One! of all his grace, At the beginning, full! God’s Mother blest! Hope of the world, the glory of her race! When Be it done was said, awhile to rest Within her quiet home were it not best? She her aged kinswoman a kindness owes; Nor daunted by the desolate mountain-crest, To sanctify the unborn infant goes: Better to love and serve than holiest repose.
III.
LUKE ii. 16.
Long ago full of grace, what is she now? Her time has come, her God upon her knee— Reward how rich for her all-perfect vow! Fountain of grace unlimited to be; Every heart-pulse an act of worship free To Him who visited his world forlorn. Mother of his divinest infancy, Bid our dull souls be as the Newly-Born, Living henceforth his life who came that Christmas morn.
IV.
HEBR. x. 7.
With lowly willingness and simple awe The sinless Mother and her sinless Child Offered themselves at bidding of the law: She to be purified, the Undefiled! While he on his redemption-offering smiled. Obedience! never did thy secret power Brood calmer o’er a world of passions wild Than to God’s temple, in that silent hour, When Son and Mother came, wearing thy lowly flower.
V.
LUKE ii. 48.
Three days and nights the Mother for her Son In sorrow sought and self-upbraidings meek; The joy of finding him her patience won: She sought, and he was found. But for the weak, The wandering, his patient love must seek ’Mong thorny by-ways of the world to find. Deign to the King for them a word to speak, Pray something for them of thy constant mind, For ever to his Heart all wayward souls to bind.
RELATIONS OF JUDAISM TO CHRISTIANITY. I.
The Catholic Church, founded by Christ to be the depositary, the guardian, and the interpreter of his word, was from all eternity in the mind of God, not in the same manner as the other things that were made by him, and which constitute the visible universe, but as a creation apart, far superior to the world that we see, the completion of the designs of love which he entertained for men, and the reason of the existence of everything else inferior to it. It is the sublime theology of St. Paul: “All things are yours,” he writes to the Corinthians—“the world, life, death, things present and things to come. And you are Christ’s, and Christ is God’s.” From this it is easy to see the rank which the church holds in the divine plan. Christ stands first in the scale; he is the link, the Supreme Pontiff by whom all creatures are united with God; the church, his spouse, is for him and forms one with him, and has been ordained for the good of the elect and the sanctification of souls; she is the mother of the living. As Christ is first in the intention of God, the church, which is so intimately connected with him, is conceived along with him in the Divine mind, and has in it the precedence over all other things. Thus she can apply to herself the words of the inspired writer: “The Lord possessed me at the beginning of his ways. I was set up from eternity, and of old before the earth was made. When he established the sky above, and poised the fountains of waters; when he compassed the sea with its bounds, and set a law to the waters that they should not pass their limits, I was with him forming all things.”
Such being the case, it is not astonishing to see the whole drama of human history turned towards a central figure, Christ and his church, which are the grand objects contemplated by God in the universe. Nations rise and fall, empires are founded which are succeeded by other empires, each having a special mission, that of preparing the way for the kingdom of God; and when that mission is accomplished they disappear from the scene. The barriers set up to divide nationalities are forcibly broken down; conquest, commerce, the sciences and arts form a link between them; languages are modified, ideas are interchanged, intellectual systems are brought in contact; efforts are made sometimes in the right, sometimes in the wrong, direction; men grope in the dark, but some ray of light, however faint it may have been, is still there to urge them in their researches after truth; views are conflicting, but their very conflict paves the way to a broader spirit and more universal conceptions. When we glance at the state of the human mind before the coming of Christ, it seems that all is confusion and a perfect chaos from which there is no possible issue; but an attentive observer will easily discern, even when obscurity is most intense, the Spirit of God, as of old, brooding over the vast abyss and ordering all things so as to make light finally shine out of darkness.
The providential action of God manifested in the gradual preparation of the world for the acceptance of Christianity has always been considered one of the most striking proofs of its supernatural character, and modern rationalism has completely failed in its attempt to destroy it. To confine ourselves to the theories invented for that purpose, and bearing on the subject which we have undertaken to treat in the present article, the relation of Judaism to Christianity, they may be briefly summed up as follows: they peremptorily deny all supernatural agency in the march of events recorded in the sacred writings; they equally deny the divine mission of Jesus Christ; the apostles were, it is affirmed, men of their age, and did not escape the influence of popular opinions, which they knew how to use for their own ends; as to Christian dogmas, they followed in their formation the law of progressive development and growth; Christianity is nothing else but an evolution of Judaism or its various sects by a natural process and under the pressure of circumstances and prevailing ideas. Now, every page of the Jewish history contains a refutation of these doctrines. There we see a people especially chosen by God, among all others, to be the authentic and accredited witness of the truth among the nations; to keep alive in the world the belief in one true God and the hope of a future Redeemer already promised to our first parents after the fall; to be the depositary of that promise and the organ of its promulgation. Judaism, therefore, is related to Christianity, not as the seed to the plant, but as the well-prepared soil to the harvest; as the figure to the reality, as the prophecy to its accomplishment; as the harbinger to the King whose coming he announces to the populations that are to receive him. It is, as Isaias expresses it, “the voice of one crying in the desert: Prepare ye the way of the Lord, make straight in the wilderness the paths of our God” (Isaias xl. 3).
From the early dawn of their history the destiny of the Hebrews is clearly defined. They are a nation set apart to be a living protest against the prevailing idolatry of the times. From the vocation of Abraham to the promulgation of the law on Mount Sinai, and throughout the succeeding periods of their existence, the fundamental dogma of their religion is monotheism: “I am the Lord thy God; thou shalt not have strange gods in my sight. Thou shalt not make to thyself a graven thing, nor the likeness of any thing that is in heaven above, or in the earth beneath, nor of those things that are in the waters under the earth. Thou shalt not adore them, nor serve them.” Another article of their creed equally pre-eminent as their belief in one God is their expectation of One who was to be sent for the restoration of mankind. To Abraham, the progenitor of that race, it was revealed that “his posterity should be as the stars for multitude, and that from them a blessing should go forth to all other nations.” Later God had said to Isaac: “I will multiply thy seed as the stars of heaven, and I will give to thy posterity all these countries (that is, the land of Chanaan), and in thy seed shall all the nations of the earth be blessed.” Jacob had heard a voice from heaven, saying: “I am the most mighty God of thy father: fear not, go down into Egypt, for I will make a great nation of thee there. I will go down with thee thither, and will bring thee back again from thence”; and when the aged patriarch is on the point of death, God bids him fix his eyes upon the lion of Juda, and shows him all the nations blessed in a prince who is to come out from his lineage. Moses, raised by the Almighty to deliver the numerous posterity of Jacob from the bondage of Egypt, had led to the threshold of the promised land that nation which God had chosen to give birth to the Redeemer, and to maintain upon earth faithful worshippers of his name. He also was divinely apprised that a prophet would rise from his nation and from among his brethren whose voice all should hear. Hence it is that the Old Testament religion was prophetic in its whole nature. “The guides of the Hebrew people,” says Dr. Fisher,[75] “were ever pointing to the future. There, and not in the past, lay the golden age. The Jew might revert with pride to the victories of David and the splendor of Solomon, but these vanished glories only served to remind him of the lofty destiny in store for his nation, and to inspire his imagination to picture the day when the ideal of the kingdom should be realized and the whole earth be submissive to the monarch of Sion. The hopes of all patriotic Jews centred upon a personage who was to appear upon the earth and take in his hands universal dominion.” It is a most interesting study to follow the Hebrew prophets in delineating so many centuries in advance the history of the Messias, and the principal features of that kingdom which is to embrace the earth under its sway. The time and place of his birth, the circumstances by which it is accompanied, his character, life, sufferings, and humiliations, his death and final triumph—all is described with astonishing precision. They openly speak of the object of the kingdom he is to establish, which is the regeneration of man, of his mind as well as of his heart, the destruction of idol worship, the adoration of the true God, and the reign of holiness; and this at a time when all was God except God himself, when Greece deified nature and Egypt changed gods into beasts, whilst Babylon, more corrupt, fabricated impure monsters which they adored, and Gaul, more ignorant, saw the Deity on the summits of mountains and in the depths of forests. It was in this age of darkness that Isaias sang the glory of the new Jerusalem, the church like to a mountain on which will be broken the chain of iniquity that bound all nations and the web that had been woven around them. The universal diffusion of the Messianic kingdom is also foretold by the prophets. There is nothing more clearly expressed in the prophecies and so much insisted upon as this: that the new alliance is not to be local and limited to one nation, but that it will be extended to all nations. We have already alluded to the prophecy of Abraham and to that of Jacob. Later David proclaims all nations of the earth to be the inheritance of Christ. Isaias contemplates from afar a new sign, the standard of the cross raised before the eyes of all nations; he sees them bringing their children in their arms—that is, those barbarian tribes that come to prostrate themselves at the foot of the cross and present their sons to the baptism of the church; he announces the conversion of the kings of the earth and their submission to the spouse of Christ; he follows the apostles carrying the good tidings to the farthest ends of the world. “Who are those,” he exclaims, “who fly like clouds? The far distant islands are in expectation, and ships are waiting to carry them. I shall choose from among my people men whom I shall send to the Gentiles that are beyond the seas, in Africa, in Lydia, in Italy, in Greece, to the islands afar off, to them that have not heard of me and have not seen my glory.” Again, the reign of the Messias is everywhere represented as having no end; it is to endure for ever. We shall only mention the prediction of the Messianic kingdom contained in the book of Daniel, which was familiar to the Jews, and one in which they trusted. After a description of the four kingdoms, the last of which the Roman, as iron, breaketh in pieces and subdueth all things, the writer says that in the days of these kings shall the God of heaven set up a kingdom which shall never be destroyed.
These doctrines were not to remain the exclusive appanage of the Hebrews. Divine Providence willed that they should be diffused among the nations, and moulded the destinies of the chosen people for the furtherance of this design. It is a remark of Ritter that the Supreme Wisdom has allotted to nations their place on the globe in view of their destination. It was by such a providential disposition that Palestine was singled out as the habitation of God’s chosen people. Assyria, Babylonia, and Persia on the east and north; Egypt and Ethiopia on the south; Greece and Rome on the west—all the great empires of antiquity will successively come in contact with it. It is there, at the confluence of human affairs, in the centre of ancient civilization, that the sacerdotal race is placed, called to spread everywhere the true religion, the knowledge of God and of Christ the Redeemer. From that central point it will be easy to send messengers of the eternal truth to the most flourishing cities, establish prosperous colonies in the important states by which it is surrounded, and thus accomplish its mission to be “a light for the Gentiles.”
The prodigies which, under Josue, Heaven had wrought in favor of the children of Jacob, had already fixed the attention of the other nations upon Israel, and had predisposed them to adore the God whom that people worshipped. Bossuet, speaking of those miracles, which were occasionally renewed, and of the effect they produced among the heathens, says that they undoubtedly brought about numerous conversions; so that the number of individuals who worshipped the true God among the Gentiles is perhaps much greater than is generally supposed. In the times of the Judges the frequent incursions of the neighboring tribes, their partial occupation of Judea, their repeated strifes with the Hebrews on the one hand, and on the other intervals of peace, commercial relations, the advantages offered to those who were willing to embrace the Jewish religion, contributed to propagate with that religion the expectation of a Messias. Under the Kings, the wars of Saul, the conquests of David reaching as far as the Euphrates, his domination over the country of the Moabites, of the Ammonites, the Philistines, spread among those nations the knowledge and fear of the true God. From the prosperous reign of Solomon to the glorious days of the Machabees, the alliances contracted with Egypt, Phœnicia, and the neighboring kingdoms, the great number of workmen whom those states placed at the disposal of Israel for the cultivation of the soil, the construction of its cities and fortresses—all contributes to the propagation of the sacred truth. The Israelites who repair to other countries for the sake of commerce speak of their traditions and leave after them the notion of their worship. Whilst the ships of Israel go and deposit on far distant shores its consoling hopes, travellers, attracted by the beauty of the country, the richness of its vegetation, the mildness of its climate come to visit the hospitable people by whom it is inhabited, and return initiated in the true faith. They recount to other nations the magnificence of the monarchs of Juda, the justice of their laws, the splendor of the solemnities of Jerusalem. Kings, legislators, philosophers come to the holy city from all parts; and Solomon, in the census he took of foreign proselytes, found that their number amounted to more than a hundred and fifty thousand.
But it is not enough that the name of the Lord should be known by the nations in the vicinity of Judea; the most distant tribes must be brought to adore him. To this effect Assyria, whose domination extends to the remotest regions of Asia, successively subjugates the kingdoms of Israel and of Juda, and disperses their inhabitants over the whole of its vast provinces. It is expressly forbidden to the captives of Israel to concentrate themselves on one point; for Providence intends that they should spread all over the East the light of truth and the earnest of salvation. Hala, Habor, Rages in Media, Ara on the river Gozan, are made the residence of the Jews of the ten tribes. They advance beyond the Tigris and the Euphrates, through Armenia as far as Colchis and Georgia, where they continue to dwell after the captivity, unwilling to abandon their new home. Numerous families fix their abode in Khaboul, in the most important cities of Chorasan and in Herat. Others established at first at the sources of the Indus, descending that river, reach India, and give rise to the tribe of the Afghans. Some even will cross the mountains of Central Asia, and will found establishments in Tartary, and chiefly in China, where later their descendants, raised to the first dignities of the empire, will teach the Chinese the Jewish religion. Some fragments of the books of Genesis and of Kings, passages of the prophets, written in the characters of that remote epoch, sufficiently indicate that those exiles transmitted to their children and propagated the revealed truth in that country. Confucius, the legislator of China, in his travels towards the west, derived from one of those colonies his ideas on the Supreme Being, whom he designates by the Hebrew name of Jehovah, scarcely altered, as Abel Rémusat tells us. At a later period the Persian reformer Zoroaster derived from the same source those flashes of truth which shine in the Zend-Avesta by the side of glimpses of primitive revelation. The Jews of the kingdom of Juda, grouped, on the contrary, in the centre of Chaldea, establish colonies at Sova, at Nahar, and in other places as far as the confines of the desert; and likewise at Teredon, at the confluence of the Tigris and the Euphrates; at Machusa, Annebar, Nisibis, and on the spot where later Bagdad shall rise. All these colonies, and many others, which after the restoration will still remain in those countries, will open schools to become centres of light to the heathens. That permanent contact with the Chaldeans shall allow the latter to recover a portion of the treasure of primitive truths which they had lost. Also do all agree in considering the Chaldeans as the men of antiquity the most conversant with theological science. Whilst the Jews of Israel are carrying their faith to the extremities of the vast empire, those of Juda, assisted by the translation of their sacred books into Chaldaic, diffuse it abundantly in the thickly-populated provinces of the centre. Assyria had fallen before the superior valor and military skill of the Persians. It was the time of the deliverance of the Jews. The most zealous among them availed themselves of the edict of Cyrus to return to Palestine and to rebuild the sacred places. But their destiny was not altered; they still went on fulfilling their sacred mission among the Gentiles. Under the Persian domination Hebrew princes tell the monarchs of Persia of the future divine Liberator, and these have sacrifices and prayers offered in the Temple at Jerusalem for the prosperity of their reign. Providence makes use of the high functions they exercise at the imperial court to lead those princes of Juda to Ecbatana, to Persepolis and Suza, that they might initiate the nobility of those important cities in the knowledge of the true God, to speak to them of the Messias whom the Magi shall from that time expect. Distinguished Jews are entrusted with the archives of Ecbatana. A great number of priests continue after the restoration to live among the Persians, and are disseminated all over the empire. They spread their traditions and their dogmas among the heathen populations. That sojourn of Jewish priests in the land of exile, after liberty had been restored to them, and when honors awaited them in their own country, evidently shows that it is the effect of a merciful design on the part of God, who devises means for those populations to receive the light of truth. Ochus, one of the last Persian monarchs, irritated against the children of Israel, sends a certain number of them in exile into Hyrcania and on to the shores of the Caspian Sea, and by this he unwittingly helps in spreading among those abandoned tribes the consoling promises of salvation; for those violent measures, as Hecatæus remarks in Josephus Against Apion, far from discouraging the Jews, serve to revive their patriotism, their attachment to the faith of their fathers, and their religious zeal.
If Asia, the land of great empires, was favored in a special manner, Africa was not forgotten. The Hebrews had long before initiated Egypt in the knowledge of the one true God and of a Redeemer whose birth in future ages had been revealed to it by Jacob in his last moments. This first initiation had produced its fruits; we know by the testimony of Holy Writ that when the Hebrews went out of Egypt a considerable number of Egyptians followed them in the desert. In the reign of Solomon a small Jewish colony followed the Queen of Saba to Abyssinia. According to Bruce, in his travels, not only do the kings of that country claim to descend from Solomon, but, furthermore, the annals of Abyssinia are full of details about the voyage which the Queen of Saba made to Judea. Ethiopia thus received the sacred books and the religion of the Israelites—a religion which they kept afterwards, as the Jewish Ethiopian treasurer of the Queen of Candace, whom St. Philip found reading Isaias and whom he converted to Christianity, seems to prove. At the time of the Assyrian wars and of the great captivity a number of Jews took refuge in Egypt. Some went to Abyssinia and other parts of Ethiopia, where they established powerful colonies by the side of those which already existed. At a later period Ptolemæus I. brought two hundred thousand Jews into Egypt, where they established in all directions colonies which soon became prosperous under the protection of his successors. Numerous schools for the propagation of sound doctrine; houses of prayer in cities; a Sanhedrim at Alexandria, the residence of learned Greeks; a temple near Bubaste, in which the ordinary sacrifices prescribed by the Mosaic law were offered—all contributed to make of Egypt a second native land for the Jews. The name of the Lord was publicly revered and the worship of the true God practised everywhere. The infidels had consequently full opportunity afforded them of knowing him and serving him; and Isaias affirms that, in fact, a great number embraced the true religion.
As the times approach for the coming of the Messias, the nation chosen to announce him to the world and to prepare his way multiplies its colonies and its schools. During the whole period of the Greek domination the Hebrews avail themselves of the protection accorded them by Alexander and his successors to extend in the east and west their beneficial influence, and spread their salutary doctrines, which shall predispose the Grecian mind to receive the light of the Gospel. We find them in Seleucia, at Ctesiphon, and at Chalcis, where St. Jerome subsequently repaired to take lessons in the Hebrew language; at Berea, where he met with Jews converted to Christianity. We find them at Antioch, where they shall soon suffer martyrdom for their faith; at Damascus, a city in which they are in continual intercourse with the Greeks who flock around the celebrated teachers of its schools; at Emesus, Nisibis, and Edessa. In the principal cities of Asia Minor: Ephesus, Smyrna, Pergamus, Sardis, Philadelphia, Laodicea possess Jewish colonies. Delos, Miletus, Halicarnassus, Iconium have their synagogues. At Philippi, in Macedonia, there are houses of prayer for the Israelites. Athens, Corinth, Salamis, Paphos count such a considerable number of Jews mixed with their populations that, as it is stated in the Acts of the Apostles, synagogues are to be found in those places. Now, synagogues were not only used for prayer but also for the interpretation of the sacred books, and consequently as public chairs from which the revelation and hope of a divine Redeemer were announced to the inhabitants. The prophet Abdias tells us that after the destruction of Jerusalem by the Chaldeans Jews had sought refuge in Sparta; and Arius, King of the Spartans, writes to the pontiff Onias that “it was found in writing concerning the Spartans and the Jews that they are brethren, and that they are of the stock of Abraham.”
During the period of the Roman domination Judea had colonies in all countries—in Parthia, among the Medes and Elamites, in Mesopotamia, Cappadocia, Pontus, Phrygia, Pamphylia, Egypt, Libya, Arabia, in the island of Crete, and at Rome. It is an opinion which found credit with several learned men that some Hebrews, at the time of the Assyrian invasions, came to Rome in the reign of Numa and suggested to him what is best in his laws; and, in fact, several of them seem to be modelled upon the Hebrew legislation. But it is certain that one hundred and forty years before Christ the Jews had erected public altars in Rome, and that a decree banished them from Italy; which is an indication that they must have been there in great numbers for a long time previous. In the days of the Machabees, when the Jewish nation, to use the expression of the Scriptures and of Cicero, was the friend of the Romans, the senate, at the solicitation of Jewish ambassadors, wrote letters in favor of the Jews of Lampsacus, Sparta, Delos, Myndos, Sicyonia; of those who inhabited Gortyna, Cnidis, Caria, Pamphylia, Lycia, Samos, Cos, Sidon, Rhodes, Avadon, the island of Cyprus, and Cyrene. No nation escaped the action of their zeal; and the Acts of the Apostles, enumerating the Hebrews assembled at Jerusalem on the occasion of the solemnity of Pentecost, tell us that “there were Jews, devout men, out of every nation under heaven.”
Such, then, was the mission of the Jews; they constitute the true church before Christ for the preaching of God’s future kingdom that shall have no end. We see them dispersed throughout the world; we meet them on all the highroads of humanity, confessing the only Lord of heaven and earth, and holding in their hands their sacred writings, showing to all that a peaceful Ruler would rise from the land of Juda and would restore all things. And when the times were accomplished, and the earth was to behold its Saviour, all nations were held in expectation of the mighty event.
We have here endeavored to give a brief sketch of the Jewish history. No one can deny that the very raison d’être of the Hebrew nation was the hope of a Messias who was to restore all things and establish upon earth the kingdom of God. The prophets speak of him and of his glorious reign; they predict his universal dominion; it will have no end in time, and its boundaries will be those of the universe. The destiny of the Jews is unique. After a comparatively short period of splendor which the conquests of David and Solomon shed upon Palestine, they lose their political independence, and henceforth they shall be forced to mingle with the Gentiles, whose social habits they will adopt, but at the same time unflinchingly adhering to their own religious tenets. The result is also an historical fact: a Liberator of the human race is expected by all nations, et erit expectatio gentium. Is it possible for an unprejudiced mind, for one who does not read history in the light of preconceived systems, not to see in that well-connected whole a design of Providence which ordains means to the obtaining of a clearly-defined end? Historical atheism refuses to recognize any such design, as atheism, in the conception of nature, refuses to recognize an intelligent Creator. It gives us, instead of life, dry bones and ashes, barren and unmeaning facts in history, and in nature phenomena with no intelligible cause for their production, and tending to no assignable end. In every sphere of knowledge atheism does nothing else but spread darkness and desolation all around. But as one who is not wilfully blinded will always discern by a kind of rational instinct the action of an infinitely wise and omnipotent Being in the order displayed in the world, so will he admit the action of God in the direction of human events in which a divine intelligence is no less clearly manifested. The ever popular argument of St. Paul with its consequence, against those men that detain the truth of God in injustice, holds good in both cases: “That which is known of God is manifest in them; for God hath manifested it unto them. For the invisible things of him, from the creation of the world, are clearly seen, being understood by the things that are made: his eternal power also and divinity: so that they are inexcusable” (Rom. i. 18-20).
Footnote 75:
Beginnings of Christianity.
THE LESSONS OF THE CAXTON CELEBRATION OF 1877.[76]
England’s first printer was a Catholic. He lived and died in communion with the Holy See. He established his press in England beneath the shadow and on the grounds of the Abbey of Westminster, protected and encouraged by its monks. He translated and printed books of Catholic piety, and seems especially given to devotions for a happy death. He made bequests to the church, and the Requiem was said at his death.
Among all incunabula Caxton’s issues rank among the scarcest. Why? The Reformation made war upon them, so that many have perished utterly; six are known only by some scanty fragment preserved by being used to form part of a book-cover; of thirty-two more only a single copy has been preserved to our day. How many have perished and left no trace whatever, no man can tell.
“Be it therefore enacted by the king, our sovereign lord, the lords spiritual and temporal, and the commons in this present parliament assembled, that all books called antiphoners, missals, grailes (graduals), processionals, manuals, legends, piès, portuasses (breviaries), primers in Latin and English,[77] couchers, journals (diurnals), ordinals, or other books or writings whatsoever, heretofore used for service of the church, written or printed, in the English or Latin tongue, other than such as shall be set forth by the king’s majesty, shall be by authority of his present act clearly and utterly abolished, extinguished and forbidden for ever to be used or kept in this realm, or elsewhere within any of the king’s dominions.
“And be it further enacted by the authority aforesaid that if any person or persons, of what estate, degree, or condition soever he, she, or they be, bodies politic or corporate, that now have, or hereafter shall have, in his, her, or their custody any the books or writings of the sorts aforesaid, or any images of stone, timber, alabaster, or earth, graven, carved, or painted, which heretofore have been taken out of any church or chapel, or yet stand in any church or chapel, and do not, before the last day of June next ensuing, deface and destroy or cause to be defaced and destroyed, the same images and every of them, and deliver or cause to be delivered all and every the same books to the mayor, bailiff, constable, or church wardens of the town where such books then shall be, to be by them delivered over openly, within three months next following after the said delivery, to the archbishop, bishop, chancellor, or commissary of the same diocese (to the intent the said archbishop, bishop, chancellor, or commissary, and every of them, cause them, immediately after, either to be openly burnt or otherwise defaced and destroyed), shall for every such book or books willingly retained ... forfeit for the first offence ten shillings, and for the second offence shall forfeit and lose four pounds, and for the third offence shall suffer imprisonment at the king’s will” (Statute 3 and 4 Edward VI. c. x.)
Neglect on the part of the archbishops and the others named to burn the books involved a penalty of forty pounds.
Thus Protestantism destroyed Caxtons. “A glance at the titles of the uniques will show that the books most liable to destruction, probably owing in part to their being much used, and in part to the destructiveness of religious sectarianism,”[78] says Blades, “are those directly or indirectly of an ecclesiastical character—such as ‘Horæ,’ ‘Psalters,’ ‘Meditacions,’ etc.”
Last year, 1877, being, it was believed, the fourth centenary of the first book printed by Caxton at Westminster, a Caxton celebration, proposed by Mr. Hodson, was carried out in London with no little pomp and display. Caxton imprints were brought together from many choice collections, with incunabula of all countries, and especially editions of the Bible, from Gutenberg’s to one printed for the occasion at Oxford.
The celebration was curious in the utter exclusion of any Catholic element, and in the machinery brought to bear to make the whole affair a glorification of the Reformation and of the stale prejudices against Catholicity. In the face of the books brought together and the lessons they told, this use of the first English printer, a Catholic, whose Catholic books the gentlemen of the Reformation had under severe penalties consigned to the flames, required in the managers no little assurance, or perhaps a well-founded knowledge of the voluntary blindness of the masses. They seem to have felt some sense of difficulty, or English exclusiveness never would have called in the Yankee adroitness of one of our countrymen rather inclined to play the buffoon in bibliography.
The English Catholic body seems to have felt some compassion for their Protestant fellow-countrymen in the strange attempt on which the latter were engaged. They did not seek to force themselves into the affair, nor greet them with merited ridicule. We do not know whether they acted under a sense of pity or were merely apathetic. Yet we wish they had celebrated the anniversary of Caxton’s death or deposition, or some day selected, by a solemn Mass of Requiem in the ancient church of St. Etheldreda, now happily restored to Catholic worship. The Holy See would perhaps have sanctioned pro hac vice the use on that occasion of the Mass for the Dead in the ancient Sarum Missal, such as was used at the obsequies of the good printer, whose translation of the Lives of the Fathers of the Desert was completed on the day of his death.[79] We do not know but that we should have applied to Parliament for permission to celebrate a Mass of Requiem for Caxton in Westminster Abbey church, such as was said at his death. The proposition would probably have struck some dumb from sheer amazement; but Parliament would either have granted it, and permitted the funeral service of 1491 to be repeated just as it was said after his death, or they would have refused the request of the Catholic body, and made their bigotry one of the memorabilia of the Caxton celebration.
No such step was taken; and the managers of the Caxton anniversary were left at full liberty to give all the false color they could, to combine, suppress, distort as they chose, in order to give the public an impression that printing was one of the boons conferred on mankind by the Reformation. This was actually done directly and indirectly; and as Kaulbach, the painter, in his great canvas of the heroes of the Reformation, introduces Gutenberg and Christopher Columbus, so these gentlemen in England used the good, pious Catholic Caxton as the central figure in their tableau of the apotheosis of Protestantism.
Caxton left no dubious evidence of his practical faith as a Catholic. His Four Last Things, in French, ends with an exhortation to good works, “by which we attain to eternal life.”[80] The English Cordyale, or The Four Last Things, ends: “Which Werke present I began the morn after the saide Purificacion of our blissid Lady, Whiche was the daye of Seint Blase, Bisshop and Martir. And fiinisshed on the even of thannunciacion of our said bilissid Lady fallyng on the wednesday the xxiiij daye of Marche. In the xix yeer of Kyng Edwarde the fourthe.” The Festial opens: “The helpe and grace of almyghty god thrugh the beseechynge of his blessed moder saynt mary.” It ends thus: “By the helpe of his blessid moder mary and his holy spowsesse saynt brygytte and all sayntes. Amen. Caxton me fieri fecit.” Then there is “the lyf of the holy and blessed vyrgyn saynt Wenefryde ... reduced in to Englysshe by me, William Caxton.” “A short treatyce of the hyhest and most worthy sacramente of crystes blessid body and the merueylles therof” certainly sounds orthodox. And the picture of the Crucifixion, inscribed: “To them that before this ymage of pyte deuoutly saye v Pr nr v Aues & a Credo pyteuously beholdyng these ar of Xps passio ar granted xxxij M. vii. C. & lv yeres of pardon,” shows a belief in the power of the church to grant indulgences.
We know that the attempt has been made to persuade those eager to be deceived that Caxton must have had Lollard sympathies. Thus, the editor of the reprint of the Fifteen Os says: “This collection is noticed by Dr. Thomas Fuller as being the first book of prayers tending to promote the Reformation.” And again: “It is more than probable that this is the first book of prayers in English issued by the followers of Wickliffe, and cannot but be interesting as having prepared the way for the great moral and spiritual changes that ended in the Reformation.” Now, the volume closes thus: “Thiese prayers tofore wreton ben enprited bi the comaūdementes of the moste hye & vertuous pryncesse our liege ladi Elizabeth, by the grace of god Quene of Englonde and of Fraūce & also of the right hye & most noble pryncesse Margarete, moder unto our soverayn lorde the kyng, &c. By their most humble subget and seruaūt, William Caxton.”
There is certainly no suspicion of Lollardism attaching to these ladies. Now let us examine the prayers. The title Fifteen Os will not suggest to Catholics now any familiar devotion; but when we state that they are nothing more nor less than St. Bridget’s Prayers or Meditations on the Passion of our Lord, which have retained their place in our Catholic prayer-books to this day, they will utter at least fifteen “ohs” and be certainly hyely amused at the idea of their savoring of Wickliffe.
CAXTON.
“O Jhesu, endless swetnes of louyng soules. O Jhesu, gostly ioye passing & excedyng all gladnes and desires. O Jhesu, helth and tendre louer of al repentaūt sinners that likest to dwelle, as thou saydest thy selfe, with the children of men. For that was the cause why thou were incarnate and made man in the ende of the worlde. Haue mynde, blessed Jhesu, of all the sorrowes that thou sufferedest in thy māhode, drawing nyhe to thy blessed passion.”
GARDEN OF THE SOUL.
“O most sweet Lord Jesus Christ, eternal sweetness of those who love thee, joy above all desire, firm hope of the hopeless, solace of the sorrowful, and most merciful lover of all penitent sinners, who hast said thy delight is to be with the children of men, for the love of whom thou didst assume human nature in the fulness of time. Remember, most sweet Jesus, all those sharp sorrows which then pierced thy sacred soul from the first instant of thy incarnation until the time of thy solitary passion,” etc.
Among the prayers following those of St. Bridget is this:
“O blessid lady, moder of Jhesu and virgyne immaculate, that art wel of comforte and moder of mercy, singuler helpe to all that trust to the, be now, gracyous lady, medyatryce and meane unto thy blessid sone our sauyour Jhesu for me, that by thy intercessions I may opteyne my desires, ever to be your seruaunt in all humylite. And by the helpe and socour of al holy sayntes herafter in perpetuell ioye euer to liue with the. Amen.”
Evidently Caxton would have had no difficulty in submitting to Pope Pius IX.’s definition of the Immaculate Conception.
The next prayer is one “To the propre angell”—guardian angel, as we now say. Further on we find a prayer to which indulgences for the souls in purgatory are attached. These prayers certainly show no trace of Wickliffe’s doctrines. The little book is one that any Catholic would use now, and which no Protestant would or could use.
Protestantism can lay no claim to the worthy, upright, laborious, and learned Catholic merchant who introduced printing into England, and chose the precincts of her finest abbey for his labors. His surviving friends shared his faith, as witness this note in a very old hand on a copy of the Fructus Temporum:
“Of your charitee pray for the soul of Mayster Wyllyam Caxton, that in hys time was a man of moche ornate and moche renommed wysdome and connyng, and decessed ful crystenly the yere of our Lord MCCCCLXXXXJ.
“Moder of Merci, shyld him fro thorribul fynd, And bryng hym to lyff eternall that neuyr hath ynd.”[81]
On the 17th of February, 1877, a meeting was held in the Jerusalem Chamber of the old Catholic abbey, not far from the presumed printing-office occupied by Caxton in the Almonry. Dean Stanley presided, and preparations were made for the exhibition. The Stationers’ Company offered their hall, but it was deemed too small, and a request was made for the Western Galleries at South Kensington. These were granted, and every facility given to arrange and display properly the works collected. One great object was to bring together and exhibit to the public as many copies as possible of works from Caxton’s press as could be obtained for the brief period from the public and private libraries, with such other books, especially of early date, as would tend to show the progress of printing from its discovery. The appeal was generously answered. No less than one hundred and ninety copies of books printed by the good Catholic William Caxton were contributed to the exhibition—a greater number, probably, than have ever been seen together since the Reformers made war on them, and greater than are at all likely to be again collected. They represented one hundred and four distinct works.
Lord Spencer sent fifty-seven Caxtons, early Block Books, a Gutenberg Bible, a Mentz Psalter; the Duke of Devonshire eighteen Caxtons; the Earl of Jersey and the Bodleian Library each seven; Sion College six, and the University of Göttingen six; Queen Victoria sent four and a Mentz Psalter.
The books were arranged in classes: (a) William Caxton and the Development of the Art of Printing in England and Scotland. (b) The Development of the Art of Printing in other Countries. (c) The Comparative Development of the Art in England and Foreign Countries, illustrated by specimens of the Holy Scripture and Liturgies. (d) Specimens noticeable for Rarity or for Beauty and Excellence of Typography. (e) Specimens of Printing. (f) Printed Music. (g) Book Illustrations. (h) Portraits and Autographs of Distinguished Authors, etc. (i) Books relating to Printing. (k) Curiosities and Miscellanies. (l) Type and Printing Materials. (m) Stereotyping and Electrotyping. (n) Copper-plate Printing, Lithography, etc. (o) Paper and Paper-making.
The great effort of the exhibition seems to have been directed to Class C. Noble collectors and commoners, universities and libraries, the British and Foreign Bible Society, archbishops and bishops, all contributed, and it was this department above the others that was to invest Protestantism with a peculiar halo. Yet the case presented difficulties of no ordinary character. Men like Stevens rant about “priestly dross and gloss” and similar claptrap expressions to keep alive old myths, but it required enormous assurance to advance these myths in the face of the collection gathered at London in 1877. They may talk of monkish legends and fables, but Protestantism rests on legends and fables which men who know better still continue to circulate in defiance of bibliography and common sense.
In the present case they desired to present to the public a glowing picture. There is a foreground in every picture, and there is a background also; there are clear lights which bring out the chief figures into bold relief, and there are shadows where figures lie almost unnoticed. The artists here knew well what to throw into the background and the shade.
Fable the first was that the Catholic Church had ever been the enemy of the Bible, opposed to its circulation. How is it, then, that when printing was invented the first book printed was the Bible? The church must have made the Bible known, or the early printers, who were not priests or monks, would have known nothing of such a book, would not have known where to get copies to print from, would not have known that anybody would know enough about the work to buy it if they printed it. But the fact is that people knew about the Bible, manuscripts were easily obtained, and many wanted them who could not afford to buy them. The fact that the Bible was selected to print shows that there was no impediment to its circulation, that there existed a well-known demand for it, and a call for cheaper copies.
Stevens reluctantly gives us aid to demolish this fable of Catholic darkness as to the Bible: “The Bible was the first book printed.” “Biblical bibliography proves that during the first forty years, at least, the Bible exceeded in amount of printing all other books put together; nor were its quality, style, and variety a whit behind its quantity.” And be it remembered that these forty years do not cover the whole period from the invention of printing to the commencement of the Reformation.
Bibles preceded all the Latin and Greek classic authors and all vernacular works, not in one place but in almost every place where a printing-press was set up.
“In a word,” says Stevens, “up to the discovery of America in 1492 Columbus might have counted upon his fingers all the old classic authors (including Ptolemy and Strabo in their unbecoming Latin dress) who could throw any geographical light on the questions which the great discoverer was discussing with the theologians of Spain; while, covering the same period, the editions of the Bible alone, and the parts thereof, in many languages and countries, will sum up not far less than one thousand, and the most of these of the largest and costliest kind.”
This, it must be remembered, is no rash assertion, but the truth wrung from this writer by the fact that the collection exhibited before his eyes at least three hundred out of the thousand to which he refers; and this thousand—not thousand copies of the Bible, but thousand editions of the Bible, or parts such as New Testament, Psalms, etc.—includes only to 1492, thirty years before Luther issued his Bible. Yet the monstrous figment is kept up to this day that in those dark and benighted ages the people were kept in ignorance of the Bible, that the Catholic Church suppressed it and kept it hid away, and that it was only the “glorious Reformation” which brought it from its obscurity. Stevens, with all his assurance, must have blushed as he wrote the words: “The church managed to have small call for the Scriptures in the vulgar tongues which the people could read and comprehend.” He does not cite, and knew that he could not cite, any authority to show that the church did anything that could be construed into any such management. The Bible had come down in her keeping; she preserved it, diffused it, and handed it down from generation to generation, jealous of its purity and its traditional interpretation.
Next to the fable of the hostility of the church to the Bible, and connected with it, is the myth of Luther’s discovering an old copy of the Bible when he was a priest and a monk, that he thereupon set to work to translate it, and that he first gave the Scriptures to the people in the vernacular. It was a very pretty story, told down to our day by authors like D’Aubigné. The Caxton celebration, though it did not contain specimens of all the editions of the Scriptures printed before the Reformation, had enough to show how shamefully the Protestant public had been deceived and imposed upon by this fable.
Mr. Stevens’ list begins with the Gutenberg Bible, printed at Mentz between 1450 and 1455—for a copy of that magnificent work was there, lent by Earl Spencer, perfect, entire, with its six hundred and forty-one leaves, double column, “the earliest book known printed with movable metal type.” Then follows the Psalms, printed by Fust and Schöffer at Mentz in 1457, Queen Victoria lending a copy. Next comes the 1459 Psalter, the second, third, and fourth Latin Bibles, another Psalter, and then a complete Bible in German, printed, Mr. Stevens assumes, at Strassburg, by Mendelin, in 1466. Queen Victoria’s magnificent copy, richly illuminated in gold and colors, was there for all to admire, and beside it Earl Spencer’s, nearly as beautiful. Either by accident or design Caxton’s Psalter was not obtained, and this first known separate book of Holy Scripture issued in England between 1480 and 1483 was represented only by a fac-simile of a page of the copy in the British Museum. The various Books of Hours printed by Caxton were similarly unrepresented.[82] Then with other Latin editions came the second German Bible, also in 1466; the third, Augsburg, 1470; and so on through the list, fourth, fifth, sixth, to the twelfth German,[83] printed at Augspurg in 1490 by Henry Schonsperger; and two editions in Low German, Cologne, 1480, Lubec, 1491. There was also a German Psalter printed in 1492, described by Stevens as “a fine specimen of an early pocket edition of the Psalms in the language of the people.”
Thus the Caxton collection presented no less than sixteen Catholic Bibles and Psalters in German printed before Luther’s time; and as translations were not made on the spur of the moment, there must have been in existence many translations in manuscript, some of which never found their way into print at all. These sixteen volumes, publicly exhibited at once and together in London, are as many refutations of the Protestant fables and legends.
“Prior to the discovery of America,” says Stevens, “no less than twelve grand patriarchal editions of the entire Bible, being of several different translations, appeared from time to time in the German language; to which add the two editions by the Otmars of Augsburg, of 1507 and 1518, and we have the total number of no less than fourteen distinct large folio pre-Reformation or ante-Lutheran Bibles. No other language except the Latin can boast of anything like this number.”
The collection shows, too, that Bibles in the vernacular were not confined to Germany. It could show some in other languages:
628, Bible, Italian, 316, 331 folios. Venice, N. Jenson. 1471. 649, Bible, Italian. Venice, Bolognese, 1477. 652, New Testament, French. Lyons, Buyer, 1477. 653-4, Old Testament, Dutch. Delf, Zoen, 1477. 669, Psalms, Dutch, Delf. 1480. 688, Bible, Italian. Venice, 1487. 690, Bible, Bohemian. 1488. 706, Psalms, French (Polyglot). Paris, 1509. 725, Bible, French. Paris, Petit, 1520.
The language of Sir Thomas More leads us to believe that some one of the Catholic versions of the New Testament at least was printed; but if so, the copies were suppressed so completely that none has reached our times. The mere fact that no copy is now known does not prove that none ever existed, when we consider the wholesale destruction by law of all Catholic books of devotion.
These are not all the vernacular Bibles issued in that period, but, as they stood there in the South Kensington Loan Collection, they furnished an irrefragable proof that printing originated in Catholic times; that the church was the first to use and encourage it; that she multiplied editions of the Bible in Latin, the habitual language of the church, then the language of learning and science, as well as in German, Italian, Dutch, French, and Bohemian; she printed, too, as a copy here showed, the Bible, Pentateuch, and Psalms in Hebrew, the Bible and Psalter in Greek and Chaldee, and an Arabic Psalter. (See 682, 691, 706, 711, 718, 720, 721.) Catholic writers have frequently referred to these early-printed Bibles and portions of Scripture in the vernacular; but to cite Panzer or some other bibliographer is far different from referring to a copy of the book. Here in the Caxton collection the very volumes stood to speak for themselves, and the catalogue attests the fact that they were there, tells us who owns each copy, its condition and state. What as a Catholic argument seemed vague and hazy thus took solid form, and became too substantial to doubt.
Now, how does Mr. Stevens endeavor to elude the force of this array of solid proofs? It is absolutely comical to see to what straits he is put. The following platitude, false statement, and false deduction is about as curious as the Caxton celebration itself:
“As the discovery of America was the greatest of all discoveries, so the invention of the art of printing may be called the greatest of all inventions. But no sooner had Columbus reported his grand discovery through the press than the pope assumed the whole property in the unknown parts of the earth, and divided it (sic) all at once between the two little powers in the Peninsula, wholly disregarding the rights and titles of the other nations of Europe. The same little game of assumption has been tried, from time to time, with regard to this great invention, but the press has a protective power within itself which the church can smother only with ignorance and mental darkness.”
The figures are somewhat confused, and we cannot exactly picture to our minds the church, with the two pillows of ignorance and mental darkness which Mr. Stevens can doubtless supply from his well-furnished store, trying to smother a protective power. The smothering of the children in the Tower was nothing compared to it. As for the “little game of assumption,” we think the gentlemen of the Reformation have played it long and successfully. But we admit that we do not see what right and title the nations of Europe had in the unknown parts of the earth, or whence they derived any right and title. So far as we have read, no right or title was claimed except when based on discovery, and then it was in the known and not in the unknown. Spain and Portugal carried their rival claims to the Holy See as a recognized tribunal, and the line of demarkation in their attempts at exploration was a wise and peace-establishing provision. It did not operate, and was not intended, to exclude the subjects of the pope, France, Germany, Denmark, or England from exploring.
The whole question is foreign to the subject of printing—so foreign that none of the Columbus letters, or the bull of Alexander VI., was thought worth obtaining for the Caxton exhibition. We have looked carefully through the catalogue, and, if they are there, they have certainly escaped us.
The array of books presented here shows that Luther could not have received the education he really did in his monastery, making him conversant with Latin, Greek, and Hebrew, without being aware of the existence in print of many of the more than a thousand editions in all languages that had already issued from the press. It is not pretended that Luther obtained his knowledge of languages by a miraculous gift; he acquired them in the monastic schools, and his attainments are a proof of the extent of their curriculum.
One of the great objects of the exhibition was to show the earliest English Protestant editions. Tyndale’s New Testament, supposed to have been printed at Worms by Peter Schöffer in 1526, was represented by the very imperfect copy owned by the dean and chapter of St. Paul’s Cathedral, and by the Antwerp edition of 1534; by the London edition of 1536, which had also at the end the “Epystles taken out of the Olde Testament what are red in the church after the use of Salsburye upon certen dayes of the year.”
But the great pride of the exhibition was a series of Coverdale’s Bibles and Testaments, over which Mr. Stevens indulges in most rhapsodical eulogy. “Let no Englishman or American,” he exclaims, “view this (765) and the six following Bibles without first lifting his hat, for they are seven extraordinary copies of the Coverdale Bible, containing, with one important exception (the Marquis of Northampton’s copy), all the variations known of the most precious volume in our language.” We cannot altogether share his raptures over this Bible, “faithfully and truly translated out of Douche and Latyn into English.” Stevens sneers at the Rhemish Testament as “a secondary translation from the Vulgate,” but Coverdale’s, translated out of “Douche and Latyn” into English, elicits no such sneer. According to his theory, set forth at great length, this edition is due to “Jacob van Meteren, of Antwerp, printer and proprietor, and probably the translator, by whom Coverdale was employed to edit and see the work through the press,” and he gives Antwerp as the place of publication. The edition was bought by James Nicolson, of Southwark. Though Mr. Stevens elsewhere represents the English people at this time as hungering and famished for an English Bible, he admits “that the English printer and publisher seems to have had as much trouble in working off his books as Simmons had in selling Milton’s Paradise Lost, if we may judge by the number of new titles and preliminary leaves found in different copies.” It contains a long and fulsome dedication to Henry VIII. and his dearest just-wife, in some copies “Anne” (Boleyn), in others “Jane” (Seymour). The Bible bearing the name of Thomas Mathew as translator (London: Grafton & Whitchurch, 1537) he ascribes to the famous John Rogers, and maintains that it too was printed by Van Meteren at Antwerp.
The Latin-English Testament bearing Coverdale’s name (London 1538), which he repudiated on account of its errors, or perhaps the correction of some of his errors, and that really issued by him at Paris in the same year, were both in the exhibition, as well as that issued also in 1538 at London bearing the name of Johan Hollybushe as translator. These are very curious as being, we think, the only Latin-English Testaments ever issued, giving the Vulgate and a translation based upon it. No other has, to our knowledge, ever appeared in the lapse of more than three centuries since that year, 1538. As Caxton’s Psalter was perhaps the first book of the Vulgate printed in England, these Testaments of Nicolson were the last portion of the Vulgate printed there for more than two hundred and fifty years, when the edition printed for the exiled clergy of France made its appearance. Unfortunately we do not find a copy of that edition in the list of those included in the exhibition.[84]
The first Testament professing to be translated directly from the Greek is that numbered in the catalogue 864, issued by Gaultier, 1550; and the first Bible from the Hebrew and Greek is that printed at Geneva by Rowland Hall in 1560. This shows how the people in England clung to the Vulgate. On the Continent Luther had abandoned it for such Hebrew and Greek texts as he could find, and so led the way to the host of errors that prevail to this day; but in England the versions were all based on the Vulgate, occasionally represented as compared with the Greek. It was not, indeed, till 1611 that the Church of England, by the translation then issued, formally abandoned the Vulgate, as the Calvinists had previously done. Mr. Stevens’ sneer at the Rhemish Testament of 1583, as being a secondary translation, applies with equal force to nearly all the English Protestant editions then in the hands of the people. Now that the Greek and Hebrew texts have by the aid of the best manuscripts been restored to some degree of purity and accuracy, Protestant scholars are revising the translation of 1611, and the one remarkable fact appears constantly that every change made to bring them to correspond to correct texts brings them back to the early translations from the Vulgate.[85]
This fact of English adherence to the Vulgate shown in the collection of Bibles at the Caxton celebration goes far towards exploding another Protestant myth and legend; and that is that England welcomed the Reformation with open arms, that the whole nation went over to the new ideas, and that Catholicity was generally abandoned. This is inculcated in a thousand ways in all the histories and popular literature of the day, if not squarely asserted. The Caxton collection shows that for nearly a century the people of England clung to the old Latin Vulgate as a standard, and that translations from it alone were read officially in the churches. And to this day the Book of Common Prayer is based on the Vulgate. Although Henry VIII. broke off from Rome, he knew the temper of the people. The English nation was in a manner bereft of its wonted leaders. The civil wars of the Roses had swept away most of the old nobility, and had brought to the surface the worst, most unscrupulous and grasping adventurers. What this class was who clustered around the spendthrift Henry VIII. we can easily see by a study of our times, after our experience of civil war. They were men to whom nothing was sacred; men determined to grasp and hold rank and wealth at any cost to the state or conscience. The people, bereft of their old leaders, of the time-honored noble families, could not effectively resist the set of new men. To these the church offered a splendid field for plunder. The ill-concerted insurrections against them were put down with merciless severity. Yet the attachment of the people to the old faith remained. Every step of Henry VIII. was gradual. In his reign the Mass and other offices of the church were maintained. Even in the reign of his boy son the unscrupulous men who coined a new faith and worship did not venture to go too far from the old forms. Like the Chinese emperor, they sought to destroy all trace of Catholic worship by committing to the flame every book in England that could keep it alive. What havoc they made we can learn and imagine from a view of the Caxton collection. Mary’s reign was too short to undo the mischief, and Elizabeth threw her whole influence into the scale against the church, and, against her own convictions, upheld the Anglican establishment as organized in her brother’s name, and finally gave it form and power; but even she did not dare to bring it to the standard of the French, Swiss, Dutch, and Scotch Protestants. The Church of England, in obedience to the old Catholic instincts of even those who submitted to force, retained much of the old form, and non-jurors, Puseyites, Tractarians, Ritualists are simply natural products of this old element.
Yet, with all the power of Henry, Somerset, Elizabeth, the mass of the English people had not become Protestant or ceased to be Catholic. One of Harper’s Half-Hour Series is not likely to over-state the Catholic side; yet Dr. Guernsey, in his Spanish Armada, says:
“At the middle of the reign of Elizabeth the population of England numbered something less than five millions. Of these, according to the estimate of Rushton, one-third were Protestants and two-thirds Catholics. Lingard, with less probability, thinks that about one-half were Catholic. The Italian Cardinal Bentivoglio reckoned the zealous Catholics at only one-thirtieth part of the nation, while those who would without the least scruple have become Catholics, if the Catholic religion should be established by law, were at least four-fifths of the whole; and Macaulay thinks this statement very near the truth. We think a more accurate apportionment would be that one-fourth of the population were decided Protestants, another fourth decided Catholics, while the remaining half—the majority of them with a leaning to the old faith—were quite content with whatever form of religion should be ordained by the civil authorities for the time being.”
If this was the state of England in the middle of Elizabeth’s reign, after all connection with Rome had been broken off for two generations, all Catholic books committed to the flames, the Mass and the priesthood outlawed, how impossible to believe that the English people went as a body into the Reformation! If only one-fourth were then decided Protestants, how many were Protestants when Coverdale’s Bible was issued?
If England became Protestant, it was simply because the English people were dragooned into it by penal laws steadily and persistently applied. The decided Protestants from choice were few and their descendants are comparatively few. The mass of English Protestants are the descendants of cowards who yielded up their faith and their convictions to save property, liberty, or life. The poorest Irish Catholic has a noble ancestry of men who suffered confiscation, imprisonment, hunting like wild beasts, death itself, rather than abandon the faith they sincerely believed, and it is certainly not for the sons of poltroons to despise them.
The Caxton collection thus, by showing the adherence to the Vulgate till a Presbyterian king came to the throne, shows how reluctantly England accepted Protestantism, and dispels many of the fine theories with which Mr. Stevens mystifies the subject.
The collection had some editions of special interest to us Catholics, yet it lacked many which we would expect to find in so pretentious a series of books. The Gutenberg Bible, that glory of the church, we have already noted. Few of our readers were or could well be present at the London exhibition, but when the Lenox Library opens in New York they will be able to see a fine copy of this first of printed books—proof that in Catholic times, when the church was undisputed mistress of Europe, the first work deemed entitled to the honor of being reproduced by the new invention was the Bible. A Catholic can point to it, and say: “That is the first book ever printed; it is our Catholic Bible, printed by the Catholic men who invented the art of printing.”
The Caxton collection contained also the first edition issued in the city of Rome in 1471, as well as the wonderful Polyglot of the great Cardinal Ximenes, and the Polyglot Psalter of Bishop Giustiniani with the first sketch of the life of Columbus. The Bible issued as a standard by Pope Sixtus V. in 1590 is represented by Mr. Stevens, most strangely, as “the first complete Latin edition published by papal authority.” He does not tell us in what respect the previous Latin Bibles were incomplete, or explain how none of them had any papal authority. This Sistine edition was contributed by Earl Spencer, as well as a copy of the edition issued under Pope Clement VIII., 1592, and the edition of the Septuagint from the Codex Vaticanus, issued at Rome in 1586. The Rhemish New Testament, 1582, and the Old Testament printed at Douay in 1609-10, were also there, but Mr. Stevens is clearly in error in saying: “It is a remarkable circumstance that, though these volumes bear the dates of 1609 and 1610 they had not reached the hands of the translators of the 1611 version when their long preface was written. There is distinct allusion to this work, as if to disclaim any knowledge of it.” Yet there is intrinsic evidence that they availed themselves of it before they put their own to press. Readings both in the Old and New Testament which had been preserved through the series of Protestant translations were abandoned in the King James Bible, and Douay renderings substantially, if not literally, adopted.
The King James Bible, of course, figures in the collection. But the question as to which is the editio princeps, the standard for those who bow down to that version, is a knotty one. There is a “Great He Bible” and a “Great She Bible”—two issues of the same year 1611 distinct through every leaf. Catholics will wonder at this distinction of sex in Bibles, and it may be well to state that in the endeavor to determine which of the two was the one originally issued by the translators, scholars found a discrepancy in Ruth iii. 15, one reading: “He measured six measures of barley, and laid it on her, and He went into the city,” while the other reads, “She went into the city”; and as each of these, although varying from each other in many places, was taken as a standard for subsequent editions, these Protestant Bibles are all He and She Bibles to those who wish to know from which of the two 1611 editions they sprang. Mr. Stevens decides that the He Bible, evidently incorrect in its rendering, was the original one.
He sets at rest another point in regard to this King James Bible, and that is the myth or fable of calling it “The Authorized Version.” He says: “We do not find any authority for calling it the Authorized Version, the words ‘appointed to be read in churches’ meaning not authorized, but, as explained in the preliminary matter, simply how the Scriptures were pointed out or ‘appointed’ for public reading.” In other words, to make the Bible go down with the people of England, who still clung to many old Catholic ideas, the epistles and gospels for the Sundays and many of the holidays of the year, as read from time immemorial in the Mass, were indicated or appointed in this Bible. This makes the King James Bible, whether a “Great He Bible” or a “Great She Bible,” a document to prove how slow the English people were to go over to the Reformers, and how they clung to what little they could grasp of their old Catholic faith and devotion. Mr. Stevens does not like it for this very reason, and wants the title purified by leaving out “appointed to be read in churches”; but leaving it out now will not destroy the force of the phrase as it stands on both the He and She Bible of 1611. He claims the King James as the Bible of all English Protestant churches. It has become so; but it was not so originally. He is historically wrong when he says: “It never was any more the Bible of the Church (i.e., of England) than of the Puritans.” It certainly was. Unfortunately there was no copy in this Caxton celebration of “The Souldier’s Pocket Bible: Printed at London by G. B. and R. W. for G. C., 1643,” or we could refer him to that constant companion of Cromwell’s soldiers to show that the Puritans stuck to the Geneva Bible as late as the time of the Commonwealth, and left the King James and the Bishop’s Bibles to the malignants. He knows the early writings of his own New England divines too well not to be aware that their sermons and tracts quote the Geneva and not the King James. The incorrect editions of the Geneva, and the appointment of king’s printers in the reign of Charles II. with the exclusive right of printing Bibles, stopped the issue of any but the King James, and it thus superseded the Geneva, and people took it as a matter of necessity, not of choice or preference. It is simply absurd to make it appear that the King James version was at once accepted and adopted generally.
The collection did very little in showing the various modifications of the Douay Bible. After the edition of 1635 there was scarcely anything in the Caxton exhibition—no copy of Nary’s New Testament, which is certainly remarkable enough. The first edition of the Protestant Bible printed in Ireland dates only from 1714, and certainly a Catholic Testament printed, in spite of penal laws and persecution, in 1719, only five years later, ought to have found a place there. There was no copy of Witham’s New Testament or of Challoner’s first Testament, or of the first edition of his Bible. Nor does Geddes appear. America is not at all represented. Not a copy of Eliot’s Indian Bible, or of Sauer’s German Bible, or the Congress Bible, or the first Catholic Bible of 1790; the Bay Psalm Book stands almost alone.
The Bibles sought for on account of curious renderings or strange blunders were pretty well represented, such as Matthews’ Bug Bible: “Thou shalt not nede to be afraid for any bugges by nyghte,” Ps. xci. 5. The second Genevan, 1562: “Blessed are the place-makers,” Matt. v. 9. Bishop’s Bible, 1568: “Is there no tryacle in Gilead?” Jerem. viii. 22. The Wicked Bible, London, 1631: “Thou shalt commit adultery.” Cambridge Bible, 1638: “Whom ye may appoint,” Acts vi. 3, for we. The Vinegar Bible, 1717: “The Parable of the Vinegar.” Oxford Bible, 1807: “Purge your conscience from good works,” instead of “dead,” Heb. ix. 14. Oxford Bible, 1810: “Hate not ... his own wife,” for life, Luke xiv. 26. Still these are of no value except as cautions against typographical blunders. But among the curious Bibles and Testaments we were surprised to see no copy of the now rare negro English Testament, published in London in 1829, Da Njoe Testament va wi Masra en Helpiman Jesus Christus. The Rev. Sydney Smith immortalized it, and Notes and Queries in 1864 devoted some space to it. Renderings like these from a copy before us: St. Matthew, vi. 7, “En effi oeni beggi, oene no meki soso takkitakki, leki dem Heiden, bikasi dem membre, effi dem meki foeloe takkitakki, Gado so harki dem,” or vi. 11, “Gi wi tideh da jamjam va wi,”[86] are certainly as curious as anything exhibited.
An ingenious gentleman like Mr. Stevens might perhaps have deduced from it a proof that Caxton was a follower of Wickliffe, or that the Catholic Church showed no respect for the Word of God.
A catalogue of books such as we have taken up seems to afford little scope for any but dry bibliographical notes, but the Caxton celebration has its lessons that can be gleaned even from a catalogue, and if our readers have followed us we think that they will admit that the attempt to make Caxton other than a pious Catholic was a delusion; and the exclusion of the Catholic element, and the attempt to make Caxton a fulcrum for the exaltation of Protestantism, a failure.[87] As Catholics we may be grateful for the unintentional evidence the collection afforded of the fact that the Catholic Church protected and preserved the Bible, made men esteem and desire it, gave it to the newly-invented art of printing as the first work to issue, fostered the publication of the original texts, the authentic Vulgate, and of translations in the vernacular; as well as incidentally of proof that the Luther romance was a figment, and proof that the Reformation was forced on the English people, that they clung to the Bible, liturgy, and dogmas of the Catholic Church with the utmost tenacity, and that they lacked only the courage of Ireland and Poland to have maintained their country Catholic.
Footnote 76:
Caxton Celebration, 1877. Catalogue of the Loan Collection of Antiquities, Curiosities, and Appliances connected with the art of Printing, South Kensington. Edited by George Bullen, Esq., F.S.A., Keeper of the Printed Books, British Museum. London, Trübner; xix.-472 pp.
The Bibles in the Caxton Exhibition. MDCCCLXXVII.; or, A Bibliographical Description of nearly one thousand representative Bibles in various languages chronologically from the first Bible printed by Gutenberg in 1450-1456 to the last Bible printed at the Oxford University Press the 30th June, 1877.... By Henry Stevens G.M.B., F.S.A., M.A., etc. London: H. Stevens. 1877. 8vo, pp. 151.
Footnote 77:
Office of the Blessed Virgin, with other prayers.
Footnote 78:
The clown appears early in “What you Will.” It has become the fashion to call our Catholic institutions, schools, etc., sectarian, because apparently the sects are bitterly opposed to them; and institutions in which the Protestant sects have complete control and enforce their views are called non-sectarian. No one would imagine that “religious sectarianism” here is a euphemism for “Protestant intolerance.”
Footnote 79:
We have always indulged the hope that the use of the Sarum Missal on some patronal feast will be permitted in the primatial church of England, as the Ambrosian and Mozarabic are in Italy and Spain, to show conclusively that we are the identical body who used that liturgy before the Reformation.
Footnote 80:
While writing we read the following from Blades’ Life of Caxton to a Catholic girl in her teens: “No. 57. Death-Bed Prayers. A Folio Broadside:
“From the language of these prayers it is evident that they were intended for use by the death-bed. They were probably printed in this portable form for priests and others to carry about with them. Although short, their interest is great, and the reader may not be displeased to read them in the following more modern dress than that of the original:
“‘O glorious Jesu! O meekest Jesu! O most sweetest Jesu! I pray thee that I may have true confession, contrition, and satisfaction ere I die; and that I may see and receive thy holy body, God and man, Saviour of all mankind. Christ Jesu without sin; and that thou wilt, my Lord God, forgive me all my sins, for thy glorious wounds and Passion; and that I may end my life in the true faith of all holy church.’”
“What a stupid man!” exclaimed my young hearer. “That is not any prayer for a priest to say by a dying person; it’s a prayer for a happy death, and is it not a beautiful one?’” She was certainly right, and a Catholic child could teach many of these people.
Footnote 81:
To the same purport is this colophon on Bartholomæus’ De Proprietatibus Rerum, issued by Wynken de Worde about 1495:
“And also of your charyte call to remembraunce The soule of William Caxton, first prynter of this boke, In laten tongue at Coleyn, hymself to auance That every wel disposyd man may theron loke.”
Footnote 82:
Stevens admits that there was no necessity for actually doing the printing of Bibles in England. “The educated of England, however, were not ignorant of the Scriptures, for Coburger, of Nuremberg, and probably other Continental printers, had established warehouses in London for the sale of Latin Bibles as early as 1480, and perhaps earlier.”
Footnote 83:
The Paulist Library in New York might have sent a fine copy of the ninth edition, printed in 1482, the very year Luther was born.
Footnote 84:
We have never seen the Latin Bible printed by Norton at London, in 1680, but think that the text of the Vulgate was not followed.
Footnote 85:
The natural history and topography of the 1611 Bible are ludicrously incorrect, because they abandoned the Vulgate and translated at random. Yet the Vulgate was translated from the Septuagint, and revised in the Holy Land by St. Jerome with the aid of Jewish scholars who knew the geography and natural history of the country. The Septuagint was made in Egypt, while Hebrew was still the language of the nation, by men thoroughly acquainted with their native country. Was it not sheer madness for gentlemen in England in the seventeenth century, with a mere smattering of Hebrew, to think that they could render geographical and zoölogical terms more accurately? Is not their presumption the real matter to be sneered at?
Footnote 86:
Written according to Dutch rather than English. This is very odd. Beggi is pray; takkitakki is much talkee (say); jamjam is yam (bread). “Give we to-day the yams for we!”
Footnote 87:
Like Caxton, a Catholic, the writer has, like Caxton, written, translated, edited, printed, and published, and has had for years behind his chair in his dining-room an engraving of Caxton examining his first proof-sheet. His interest in Caxton is, therefore, almost personal.
MALCOLM, KING OF SCOTLAND, TO HIS WIFE, ST. MARGARET.
I.
God speed thee, sweet, in all thy tasks of love, The daily round of thy heart’s majesty— Thy dear lips opened unto clemency— My Margaret, my pearl all price above; My little kingdom, where as king I reign O’er lands so fair I might with gladness give All earthly state in these alone to live Where nothing base doth holy ground profane. My queen, my Atheling, true noble one, That wearest on thy Saxon brow a grace Wherein all loyal hearts can true love trace To this north land the misty hills do crown. My rose-lipped daisy, lighting Scotland’s sod With happy faces lifted up to God.
II.
God speed thee, sweet; my heart so singeth e’er, As grows more dear among our poor thy fame With every day. O Lady, true of name, Giver of bread to all beneath thy care, My royal-hearted queen and flawless pearl, How shall my sin-stained prayers for thee avail, That dost least fault with innocent tears bewail? Meek daisy, whose white petals do unfurl From soul wherein all golden visions shine! So near to God thou seem’st, and pray’st so well, The book I kiss whereon thy pure eyes dwell, So grows my prayer the words that have been thine, So surely grows it sweeter in His ear, Tuned to the music of thy singing clear.
III.
May that brave saint, sweet wife, whose name is thine, Whose virgin feet unharmed on dragons fell, Keep thee in grace with Him thou lov’st so well Till that far day when shall thy beauty shine With that light glorified her features wear. Blessed light! fair even now encircling thee When, bowed thy soul in fond humility, Thou kneelest, of thy God possessed, at prayer. Ah! love, with Christ, our Lord, forget not me Who tread this tangled pathway here below With eyes more dim than thine and feet more slow; So, when in life eternal we are met, I still may wear my pearl, my Margaret!
HAVE WE A NOVELIST?
Scarcely fifty years have elapsed since Sydney Smith contemptuously asked: “Who reads an American book?” John Bull was delighted at this sneering query of the witty Dean of St. Paul’s. It was so agreeable an exposé of the literary poverty of a formidable rival. It was so very consoling to find a weak point in the young giant who had twice beaten him in war. Could Sydney Smith rise to-day from his grave in Kensal Green he would witness a marvellous change. The time has passed when he might triumphantly ask: “Who reads an American book?” The time has passed when John Bull might gloat over the poverty of American literature. We have a literature—a noble literature—of which any nation might be proud. We may confidently reverse the celebrated query of the wittiest of English divines, and ask: “Who does not read an American book?” Who does not read the histories of Prescott? Who does not read the charming writings of Irving? Who does not read the wonderful tales of Hawthorne, the poems of Longfellow, of Bryant, of Poe?
Our literary temple, like Aladdin’s palace, is glorious; but, like Aladdin’s palace, it is also incomplete. While our literature is full and splendid in poetry, in history, and in science, it has been strangely wanting in what Prescott calls “ornamental literature”: the romance. The deficiency is more particularly remarkable when we consider the magnificent field which this country offers to the novelist. Our government, our institutions, our society, our national manners, the vice and extravagance of our great cities, our political corruption, the enterprising spirit of our people, the rapid change of fortune in our commercial cities, where the born beggar often dies a millionaire, life at our watering-places—all present interesting and inexhaustible subjects for the romance-writer. No country in the world affords such strong and striking contrasts of character as the United States. Here we have the gay and mercurial Frenchman, the practical and plodding German, the generous and improvident Irishman, the reserved Englishman, the proud Spaniard, and last, but by no means least, the eager, calculating American, with his brain of fire and his heart of ice.
Certainly there is no lack of materials; the workers alone are wanting; the harvest is abundant, but the laborers are few. We want a Thackeray to expose the heartless extravagance of our best society; a Dickens to turn our hearts in generous sympathy towards the poor and suffering; a Bulwer to polish the manners of our people, and illustrate the noble truth that knowledge is power, money only its handmaiden. Within a dozen years this trio of novelists has passed away, and they have left no successors. Except a few chapters in Thackeray’s Virginians, and some absurdly nonsensical scenes in Dickens’ Martin Chuzzlewit, the works of the great English novelists are entirely foreign: the characters, manners, scenes—all foreign to us. But they are read here with as much pleasure as in England. The Americans are a nation of readers—men, women, and children, all read. The majority of our men read newspapers almost exclusively. Seven-eighths of the novel-reading of this country is done by women. The statistics of any popular library will show that three novels a week form the average of these fair readers.
With so great and constant a demand for novels, why have we no novelist among us?—a great novelist, a national novelist, an essentially American novelist, as Bulwer and Thackeray are essentially English. As there can be no effect without a cause, there must be a cause for this deficiency in our literature. There are two: American publishers and American readers. While an English magazine scarcely ever publishes an article by an American writer, there is not a great English novelist of the last quarter of a century who has not written for one or other of the American magazines. Dickens, Bulwer, Thackeray, Wilkie Collins, Charles Reade, George Eliot, Trollope, Miss Muloch, etc., etc., have written more or less for our periodicals. Literature, like love, must be encouraged or it languishes and dies. In addition to the want of encouragement given to American novelists by our publishers is the fact that American novel-readers affect to despise American novelists. The novel-reading ladies who frequent circulating libraries, demanding with one voice “something new,” who prefer Miss Braddon to George Eliot, and Mrs. Henry Wood to Thackeray, say they “cannot read American novels.” And yet three of the most popular novels of the last three years have been American, viz.: Infelice, One Summer, and A Question of Honor. We have seen an American lady take up The American, by Mr. Henry James, Jr., and throw it down, saying, “The name is enough.” We have seen ladies decline one of the charming stories of Mr. Aldrich or Mr. Howells, and carry off in triumph the last production of Mary Cecil Hay or the voluptuous “Ouida”! If Americans refuse to read American novels, who will read them?
The indiscriminate and almost universal novel-reading now practised is a striking and alarming feature of American life, when we consider the tone and character of so many of the modern novels. Judged by them, divorces, elopements, intrigues, and other crimes against society are the normal attendants of modern civilization. They play a conspicuous part in most of the “popular novels” of the day. Yet such books are eagerly devoured by young girls, whose minds are keenly susceptible to their dangerous influence. An insidious poison is thus infused which often fatally corrupts the youthful imagination. Bad books are the devil’s own instruments for the ruin of souls. As it is impossible to deny the fact that novels form the staple reading of a majority of the world, it is important that they should be not only pure but above suspicion.
The Catholic press cannot too strongly condemn the scope and influence of the novel of to-day. While Scott and Miss Edgeworth are neglected, the vile trash of Rhoda Broughton and Mrs. Forrester is eagerly sought. The good old habit of reading history, travels, biography, essays, etc., is almost entirely abandoned. “We want something new and exciting,” is the general cry; “history and biography are too deep.” And so they go on from week to week, from month to month, and from year to year, reading nothing but novels, and filling their minds with nonsense, if nothing worse. While we condemn indiscriminate novel-reading, we do not condemn novels indiscriminately. There are a few that can be read without detriment either to morals or religion, and these, we are sorry to say, are the novels that modern readers pronounce “flat.”
During the century of our national existence we have had three genuine American novelists: Charles Brockden Brown, James Fenimore Cooper, and William Gilmore Simms. The first of this trio possessed great natural gifts and enjoyed a liberal education. The singular advantages which nature so lavishly bestowed upon Brockden Brown prevented him from being a popular novelist. He was a pure idealist. He lived in a world of his own. His beautiful and fertile imagination created beings which never could exist in this world, and these he made the heroes and heroines of his strange stories. They may please the intellectual few, but they possess no interest for the uncultivated many. If Brown’s talents had been properly directed, if he could have kept his soaring imagination fixed on the earth, and been satisfied with describing men and things as they really exist, his would have been a lasting fame. But, as it is, he is not now read by one in ten thousand, nay, in ten times ten thousand. Cooper is second to Brown in point of time and superior to him in point of popularity. He threw a charm, a grace, and an interest around the life and character of the American Indians which appear inconsistent in the light of recent experience. In his sea-stories he succeeds where the greatest novelist signally failed. Cooper enjoyed a high reputation during life, but his novels now rank with the writings of Mayne Reid, and are almost exclusively read by boys. Simms’ stories of the Revolution and the border life in the South that succeeded the struggle for independence are excellent in their way. His Revolutionary romances afford glimpses of generous devotion to patriotism and an ardent zeal in the cause of liberty which Americans might read with profit at the present day.
But those novelists belong to the past—the dead and buried past. We want the present time described—the living, breathing, busy present. There never was an age, there never was a country, that afforded such scope for the novelist as this age and country. Our cities are swarming with an eager, reckless, enterprising population, presenting an infinite variety of characters, each occupied with his own particular pursuits of ambition, pleasure, or wealth. Take New York as the representative city of America. There are to be found the best and the worst features of our civilization; the most unbounded wealth and the most squalid poverty; the most exquisite culture and refinement and the most degraded and abandoned of the human race. Is not our society as vain, frivolous, false as that English society which Thackeray satirized so unmercifully? Have we no Vanity Fair, no heartless Becky Sharps, no selfish George Osbornes, no wicked old Steynes, no disreputable Rawdon Crawleys?
Our country is the last of nations in point of time, but the first in all material prosperity. Like Minerva, it sprang into existence fully equipped for a career unparalleled in the annals of the world. Other nations have taken a thousand years to reach the position which the United States took at one bound. We have more than realized the dream of Plato. But let us not imitate the philosopher of Greece, and banish poetry and pure fiction from our republic. Let us not hang the sword of Damocles over the imagination, but let it be purified. Let us not employ the scissors of Atropos to cut the threads of fictitious narrative, but let it be purged of its present loose and dangerous tendency. Sir Walter Scott declared novels to be “a luxury contrived for the amusement of polished life, and the gratification of that half-love of literature which pervades all ranks in an advanced stage of society, and are read much more for amusement than with the least hope of deriving instruction from them”; yet Ivanhoe throws more light upon the personal character of Richard Cœur de Lion, Kenilworth informs us more particularly about the court of Elizabeth, the Fortunes of Nigel gives us a better insight into the private life of King James, than we derive from Hume. By his poems and novels Scott threw a perpetual charm over the bleak hills of Scotland; he made its ruined abbeys as interesting as the ruined castles of Germany; he made its lakes the favorite resort of thousands of summer tourists. Author of the most celebrated novels that were ever written, Scott was unjust to the children of his mind when he spoke slightingly of novels. It should be remembered that he also spoke unfavorably of the literary profession—a profession by which he made a million dollars and an immortal name.
When the author of Waverley spoke disparagingly of novels that kind of literary composition was almost in its infancy, certainly in its childhood. Richardson, Fielding, Smollett, and Goldsmith were the only great names in that department of English literature. It was almost an uncultivated field, but the reaper was at hand, whose harvest should be abundant, whose reward great. The lordly halls of Abbotsford still stand, the magnificent result of novel-writing. For every novel written during the time of Scott there are at least one hundred written now. The novels published during the last fifty years are far more numerous than all the novels that had previously existed in the world. A hundred years since pamphlets were written to promote the success of a political measure, to show that “taxation” was “no tyranny,” to overthrow a minister, etc. Now, when Disraeli wants to convince the country of his political sagacity, he writes a novel; when Dickens wanted to show up a crying injustice to the poor he wrote a novel; when Thackeray wanted to expose the shams of English society he wrote a novel. The age of pamphlets is gone, the age of novels has succeeded. Statesmen write novels, soldiers write novels, clergymen, lawyers, doctors—all professions, all classes and both sexes, write novels, and still the novel-reading Olivers “ask for more.” Any person who visits a fashionable circulating library upon a Saturday afternoon will see how great is the demand for new novels.
Books which were, in the last century, read in mixed assemblages of young ladies and gentlemen could not now be read by old ladies in the privacy of their closets. Apropos of which is a story out of Lockhart’s Scott: “A grand-aunt of mine,” said Sir Walter, “was very fond of reading, and enjoyed it to the last of her long life. One day she asked me, when we happened to be alone together, whether I had ever seen Mrs. Behn’s novels. I confessed the charge. Whether I could get her a sight of them? I said, with some hesitation, I believed I could; but that I did not think she would like either the manners or the language, which approached too near that of Charles II.’s time to be quite proper reading. ‘Nevertheless,’ said the good old lady, ‘I remember them being so much admired, and being so much interested in them myself, that I wish to look at them again.’ To hear was to obey. So I sent Mrs. Aphra Behn, curiously sealed up, with ‘private and confidential’ on the packet, to my gay old grand-aunt. The next time I saw her afterwards she gave me back Aphra, properly wrapped up, with nearly these words: ‘Take back your bonny Mrs. Behn; and, if you will take my advice, put her in the fire, for I found it impossible to get through the very first novel. But is it not,’ said she, ‘a very odd thing that I, an old woman of eighty and upwards, sitting alone, feel myself ashamed to read a book which, sixty years ago, I have heard read aloud for the amusement of large circles, consisting of the first and most creditable society of London?’”
Although a vast improvement has taken place in the tone of novels generally, yet there are many still written which should not be read, and many are read which should not be written. It is a striking and lamentable fact that the worst novels of the day are written and read by women. The miss scarcely in her teens reads books which her grandmother would be ashamed to read. As the pampered palate of the epicure can only enjoy food highly seasoned, so the vitiated minds of modern readers can only enjoy highly seasoned novels; mysterious murders, mad marriages, runaway matches, terrible secrets, awful mysteries, hidden perils, etc., are required to stimulate their jaded taste. As a person who feeds only on dainties will soon have the dyspepsia, so a person who reads only highly-seasoned novels will have a sort of mental dyspepsia. Scenes are described, circumstances are mentioned, conversations retailed, vices introduced into modern novels which would cause any man to be banished from decent society who should so far forget himself as to allude to them. Yet such things are read without blushing by young ladies, such books are discussed by ladies and gentlemen without shame. If our young ladies are to read nothing but novels, in the name of modesty let not their literary food be corrupt and corrupting; let not their virgin minds be filled with foul images; let not their Christian souls be soiled with even a thought of vice.
Queen Anne could not enjoy her breakfast unless the Spectator was by her plate. Were Addison alive now and writing the Spectator, we doubt whether Queen Victoria would have it with her morning meal. Times change, and kings as well as commons must keep pace with their age. Gibbon’s vanity was gratified that his history was in every lady’s boudoir and discussed in every fashionable drawing-room in London. Were Gibbon writing in this present year of grace, we do not think the Decline and Fall would deprive the last novel of its “pride of place” in my lady’s boudoir. About twenty-two years ago Macaulay received that famous £20,000 check from the Messrs. Longman for a volume of his History of England, of which more than twenty-six thousand five hundred copies were sold in ten weeks. Macaulay’s History was even more popular than Gibbon’s. He said: “I shall not be satisfied unless I produce something which shall for a few days supersede the last fashionable novel on the tables of young ladies.” “For a few days” Macaulay’s history did “supersede the last fashionable novel,” but we think we are safe in saying that it will have fewer readers this year than a new novel by “Christian Reid” or Mrs. Alexander. Take the average girl of the period, question her about her reading, and what is the result? She averages six novels a week—three hundred a year. Certainly much in point of quantity, but how about the quality? Has she read the Spectator, the Vicar of Wakefield, Macaulay’s Essays? No. They would be as tiresome to her as the compliments of an old beau—as old-fashioned as last year’s bonnet.
Mme. Roland when a girl slept with a volume of Plutarch’s Lives under her pillow. Our girls, who are more interested in contemporary society than in the lives of illustrious Greeks and Romans, put the last novel under their pillow, that they may continue the first thing in the morning the entrancing story of Theo, which “tired nature” compelled them to relinquish at midnight. We trust they may never be called upon to display the lofty heroism of Mme. Roland—that their only tears may be those shed over the woes of imaginary heroines, their only sorrows as fictitious as those in the novels they love so well.
Being an unquestionable fact that the reading millions of this last quarter of the nineteenth century devote themselves to novels more than to any other class of literature, novels may be made the means of great and universal good. We all know how rapturously the third tier applauds lofty moral sentiments; how enthusiastically the “gods” of the gallery sympathize with virtue in distress; how the protector of innocence is cheered and the villain hooted. Let this natural feeling of the human heart be turned to account in novels. We have all laughed over that inimitable scene in The Rivals between Lydia Languish and Lucy, her maid, who has been sent to the circulating library for some late novels. Do not some of Lydia’s favorites suggest the names of popular novels that are in daily request at our fashionable circulating libraries?—the Reward of Constancy, the Fatal Connection, the Mysteries of a Heart, the Delicate Distress, the Tears of Sensibility. Have we not the Fatal Marriage, the Empty Heart, a Woman’s Heart, the Curse of Gold, the Mysterious Engagement, a Clandestine Marriage, etc.? Judging from the books they read, our girls must believe with Mrs. Malaprop that “thought does not become a young woman.”
A popular modern novel, one which nine out of every ten readers pronounce “so nice,” “so interesting,” “perfectly lovely,” is “made up” something after this manner: A young girl, one half of whose character entirely contradicts the other half, engages herself to some worthy but commonplace young man, who is more familiar with figures in his ledger than with figures of rhetoric, who is more apt at writing business letters than love letters, who is better acquainted with market quotations than poetical quotations, who knows more about the Corn Exchange than about Lucille—in short, a man who takes a practical, common-sense view of life. The love of this romantic girl and this practical young man is not very ardent. In the meantime there appears upon the scene a dark, mysterious, gloomy, blasé man of the world, believing in nothing, hoping for nothing, and who looks upon existence as a curse. He is as handsome as an angel, cynical as a fiend, sceptical as a modern philosopher. His “noble” brow is often disfigured by a scowl, his “chiselled” mouth is often marred by a sneer. In a word, he is a sort of fashionable Lara. This scowling, sneering, cynical gentleman has had an interesting history: he was the hero of an unfortunate love-affair. His heart is a burnt-out volcano. In his early youth he had loved—madly, wildly loved—a woman who was married to a brute. He tells this woman his love. She listens to his story, laments that she is not free, and bursts into tears. He takes her in his arms, swearing that she is the one idolized love of his heart. At length she says they must part, but bids him await her summons. He leaves her, goes abroad, and tries to forget his sorrows in the sparkling Lethe of dissipation. In vain. The sad form of his loved one is the skeleton at every feast, and changes every ball into a funeral. At last his long-expected summons comes: the being he loves more than ten thousand lives writes him to come to her at once; that her husband has struck her, she is sick, perhaps dying. He flies to revenge her wrongs. He finds her dead. Thus was his love lost, his hopes crushed, his life wrecked. Lara tells his story to our romantic girl one lovely June evening. They are seated on a moonlit piazza. The perfume of many flowers fills the air. The sound of a distant river is heard. It is a night and a scene meet for love. In tones, tender, sad, but sweet, he tells her his heart has long been ashes; that he never thought the fires of love could again be kindled there, but she has taught him that there is peace, happiness, love for even him. Will she raise this dead heart to life? She murmurs, softly but passionately, “I love you, Arthur.” This is a rather mild and innocent specimen of the food that modern novel-readers feed on. The object of fiction should be to represent life as it is—to “hold the mirror up to nature.”
Just one hundred years since all London went wild over a new novel by a nameless writer. The new novel was Evelina, the nameless writer was Miss Burney. The characters in the book were commonplace, the scenes uninteresting, the story unexciting, but it showed, what no other novel of the time showed, that a book could be lively without being licentious, readable without being immoral. Nothing more clearly proves the poverty of the fictitious literature of the last quarter of the eighteenth century than that such a statesman as Burke should sit up all night to read such a book as Evelina. Nothing better proves how prejudice can sway a strong mind than that Dr. Johnson should pronounce Miss Burney superior to Fielding. But it was extraordinary for a young lady to write a book one hundred years ago. It was still more extraordinary for a young lady to write a novel that could be read with pleasure. Hence the furore that it created and the interest that its author excited. Miss Burney did not (as too many of our lady writers do), upon the strength of one successful book, rush a half-dozen inferior novels upon the world. She waited more than four years before she published her next work, Cecilia. For Evelina she received £20, for Cecilia £2,000. We have mentioned Miss Burney, because we consider her as an excellent example for the imitation of modern novelists. She was willing to wait four years after publishing an unprecedentedly successful book before giving another to the world. But, when that other work did appear, it was placed by general consent among the few classical novels in the English language. Nowadays it is the fashion for a popular writer to deluge circulating libraries with rubbish which, in a few weeks, finds its way to the junk-shop. Those who write for posterity write slowly, correct carefully, and publish seldom.
When we remember that this is peculiarly the age of the novel, that more novels are now published in New York in one year than existed in the whole world one hundred years ago, that the demand is still greater than the supply, that we have long since broken the apron-strings that bound us to our literary mother, England, in every other department of letters, we feel convinced that, at no distant day, our novelist will come. But he must be true to his mission, and give a faithful representation of American life and manners, not a “counterfeit presentment.” He must not sacrifice virtue and honor to present popularity, he must not pander to the vicious tastes of a demoralized society, but, like Addison, he must purify the public taste by elevating it to his own high ideal. Such a writer would not violate the sanctities of domestic love or forget the obligations of social duty. He might be witty, but he would never be wanton; he might be lively, but he would never be licentious. Such a writer would be a benefactor to his country and to the world.
ANGLICAN DEVELOPMENT.
Development implies a germ. It is the growth of such qualities or characteristics as were inherent in the original principle. If the principle was bad the development will be bad—if, indeed, there be development at all. Perhaps it will be truer to say that bad principles do not develop; they rather generate fresh stages of decay. Corruption is the law of bad principles, as development is the law of good principles. The “survival of the fittest” is certainly true in the moral law, even if it be not certainly true in the material. Six thousand years of human history have proved that divine principles “survive”; and their survival has been their development, in respect to the sphere of their empire. The principles themselves do not grow, but the world grows, and with it divine government. Dr. Newman, in his work on developments, has drawn this distinction very luminously. The church grows, and its influence extends, and its machinery is in constant operation; yet its developments are not developments of its principles so much as of its qualities and capacities. They are also developments of its power. What the church was on the day of Pentecost she is to-day; it is her body which is grown, not her spirit. Divine principles are immutable; but because the world always changes the church must change too—not in her principles but in her action.
The converse of the development of Catholicism is seen in the development of Anglicanism. Whereas the church is more powerful in the proportion of antagonism, Anglicanism grows weaker and weaker. Whereas the church opposes dogma to heresy, Anglicanism suggests wider religious liberty. Whereas the church cuts off every withered branch, Anglicanism grafts the sticks on to its trunk. Thus the development of Anglicanism is in the direction of corruption; of the gravitation of new errors towards the parent one; of the union in one society of every element of dissolution, with a view to spasmodic vitality. The older Anglicanism grows the more decay it engrafts, trying hard to look vigorous with life by the process of galvanizing death. This is its general principle. But, particularly, the modes of its experiment are as instructive and as lamentable as is its principle. Let us take a late example. Nearly five thousand Anglicans have just petitioned their queen against the permitting confession in the Church of England. Their motives may be left to their own consciences, though they do allege, by way of seeming to be in earnest, that “confession is subversive of the principles of morality, social order, and of civil and religious liberty.” Among the petitioners are more than three thousand clergymen; but there are also a vast number of signatories who are set down as “Anglicans not classified.” Now, in what way are we to regard this grave petition as a development of the principles of Anglicanism? Be it remembered that confession, as practised by the Ritualists, was in itself a development of Tractarianism; that Tractarianism was a development of the reaction which followed on the decay of Evangelicalism; that Evangelicalism was a development of the reaction which followed on the decay of Dry-Churchism; and that Dry-Churchism was the development of that Erastianism which the house of Hanover firmly rooted in the state church. So that the huge gulf between confession and Georgeism has to be bridged over by successive revolutions, each perfectly natural in its reaction, yet each naturally leading to fresh change. Here we see the distinction between the development of church vitality and the development of heretical restlessness. As we have said, church principles cannot change; it is the action only of the church which becomes enlarged, Catholic principles not admitting of development save in the sense of extension of empire. But Anglican principles can be turned upside down, or can be turned inside out, a score of times. There is no more affinity between ritualism and Dry-Churchism than there was between Evangelicalism and Erastianism. There is no more concord between Dr. Pusey and Canon Ryle than there was between Bishop Butler and John Wesley. Not more opposite was Mr. Simeon to Canon Liddon than was Archbishop Whately to Lady Huntingdon. These Anglicans represent different churches. And yet they all belong to the same church. What, then, is the development of Anglican principles?
Obviously there is not development at all. The word cannot be used in a Christian sense. There is reaction, revolution, novel apostolate; there is not true Christian development. We may say of the great French Revolution that it was a development of (some of) the principles of Voltaire; or that D’Alembert and Diderot, with the Encyclopædists generally, planted seeds which sprang up into the guillotine. Yet the very point of such development was that it sprang not from principle but from the assertion that principle was not divine. And so in Anglicanism: though the assertion was quite distinct, there was no little affinity in the results. The theory of Anglicanism was that the Catholic Church was not divine, but that Church-of-Englandism had pretensions to be so; or rather, that the divine principles of the Catholic Church were purified to perfection in Church-of-Englandism. But a corollary of this theory was that the (divine) Catholic Church had no more authority than had “Reformers”—an assumption which was fatal, in argument and in fact, to the immutability of principles. Accordingly we find that mutability has been the law of the whole system of Anglican developments; in other words, that those developments have been as utterly contradictory as they have been numerous beyond computation. Is this a Christian or a Catholic development, or a development of even a philosophic kind? It is, on the contrary, proof positive that Anglican principles are not divine, for if they were divine they could not change. It is not discipline which has changed, nor external observance, nor the relations of the church to the state; such changes would be comparatively unimportant; it is Christian doctrine, Christian sacraments, priestly powers, and all that constitutes the idea of a church. It is not that new doctrines have been added to old doctrines; it is that old doctrines have been excised. A perfectly brand-new theology has supplanted a defunct system; and this not only once but fifty times. So that we have to deny most positively that there has been “Catholic” development in that institution which Queen Elizabeth founded; and we have to affirm that reaction and revolution have proved that institution to be human. It has been argued—and it is still argued in ritualistic organs—that ritualism must be a Catholic development; for its spirit is in the direction of Catholic truth, and its labor is to restore Catholic practice. The answer is that such reaction is not Catholic; it is the aspiration of heresy towards the church. We do not touch the delicate question—which belongs rather to spiritual science—the operation of divine grace outside the church; this question does not enter into our argument; we are speaking only of the distinctions between the development of true theories, and reaction and revolution from false. Development in the Catholic Church has meant expansion of empire, of inherent capacities of adaptation, of definition in proportion of need, and of anathema in proportion of desert; it has never meant the least change of principle. Development in Anglicanism—if we must still use the word—has meant new religions shooting up out of old, with a chaos of old and new together, and with no means of arguing from precedent to sequence what Anglicanism may become this day twenty years. This is certainly not Christian development. It may imply human energy, with restlessness of will and a constant eagerness to keep moving for life’s sake; but as to calling it supernatural development, the very suggestion appears profane. Those three thousand clergymen, with “Anglicans not classified,” who have just petitioned their queen against confession, have asserted three things, each of which is absolutely fatal to the assumption of Christian development. They have said that their sole head is the state; and this is pure paganism and impiety. They have said that they abhor a divine sacrament; and this is anti-Catholic, anti-Christian. But they have said, too, that, in the Church of England, there is to be both liberty of opinion and the forbidding of a Christian practice to the laity; and in saying this they have both cut short development and cut short its root and its principle. Development can only mean one of two things: either the extension of the empire of one principle, or the extension of the rights of religious liberty. That it does not mean the first in the Church of England we think that we have sufficiently shown; and that it does not mean the second these memorialists against liberty have taken their best pains to demonstrate. What development, then, is left to the Church of England? Obviously there can be none, save the increase of wrangling and the natural effort to crush one another’s liberty.
Yet there is one new development—to use the word conventionally, and not in its scientific meaning—which has proved perhaps more shocking and more thoroughly unchristian than any which has ever gone before. That development is modern Broad-Churchism. It is distinct from its antecedent in the Georgian era, being necessitated by totally different issues. It is a compound of three things, all kindred in kind and all mutually assisting one another: repugnance to sacerdotal pretension; indifference about dogmatic truth; and a fondness for scientific infidelity. This last is the worst of the three, but it is in most men the parent of the other two. It is an element of Broad-Churchism which had positively no existence until after the full development of Tractarianism. Curiously enough, the return to the supernatural, and the rejection of whatever is not natural, have been almost twin movements in the Church of England. Ritualism having failed to hold the intellects of shrewd men, there were only two courses left open: the one was to, logically, become Catholics, the other to deny the supernatural. The birth of a new school of so-called scientists, which school has sought to question revelation, took place at the very crisis when Anglicans were hesitating whether they ought to become Catholics or not. It furnished the exact pretext desired. If there was doubt about the evidence for revelation, it was useless to adopt all its consequences. Yet it was felt that it would not do to throw overboard Christianity, as at least the most admirable of ethic systems; so the moral part of Christianity was retained, while the dogmatic part was put on one side. Hence a Broad-Churchism which, while being really quite sceptical, covered itself with the mantle of Christian morals. “I deeply regret,” said an ecclesiastic of this school, when he came to the last hours of his life, “that I ever preached anything but morals.” This was paganism, virtuous paganism, but it passed current for respectable Broad-Churchism. What it meant, and what Broad-Churchism now means in almost every one of its adherents, was scepticism in regard to the Incarnation, but a natural admiration for natural virtues. Dean Stanley is one of the doctors of this school, and preaches rationalism in Westminster Abbey. “Christian rationalism” is that last new abortion which has been born of the failure of previous systems. It had no existence in England until twenty years ago; that is, it was not formulated into a system. In these days it is openly taught. In the magazines there constantly appear brilliant articles which are directed against the Christian revelation, while yet advocating the beauty of Christian sentiments, of Christian ethics and philosophy. It is pure rationalism, under the cloak of respectability. “We would not shock your pious prejudices,” these novel theorists seem to say, “by telling you that Christianity is false; on the contrary, we believe that there was a Christ, but he was not the Son of God, he did not rise from the dead, he was only a most admirable doctor. Therefore hold fast to his philosophy, which was amiable in the extreme, and exquisitely adapted to social wants; and, if you like, remain an Anglican or a Dissenter, or even please your fancies with ritualism. You cannot do better than remain a Christian. The Christian system is full of beauty. It is not divine; it was not revealed; it has not one shred of the supernatural; but so useful a system has never before been developed; indeed, it includes the best philosophies. Therefore we advise you to stick to your Christianity, as you would stick to your domestic canons of harmony.” This kind of counsel has been given in the Fortnightly and in answer to recent Catholic publications. Its authors are obviously proud of their discovery. “Christian rationalism” will just suit a leisure age, which is too intellectual yet too indifferent to be Christian.
A recent writer has called modern Broad-Churchism “a fortuitous concourse of indifferentisms.” So it is in its acceptance by the majority. But there is a very large section which goes far beyond indifference, and which aggressively attacks Christianity. Whately has the credit of having started the principle that intellectual inquiry is above faith. The first duty of man is to be intellectual; and he must never stand still in his inquiries. When convinced that he has found out the truth, he must proceed to inquire still more earnestly; always despising the very issues of those inquiries which he places below inquiries themselves. Euclid, when it says Q. E. D., ought to have made Q. E. D. an hypothesis. Reasoning is not intended to conduct to truth, but should be pursued as in itself the chief good. Argument is above demonstration, and search is far superior to discovery. This is the theory of many modernists. But it has only lately raised its votaries into a school. Mr. Kingsley, when he said, “I am nothing if not a priest,” had no notion of eliminating Christianity. Even the Oxford essayists and reviewers shrank from this. Dr. Arnold, who wished to remove the Athanasian Creed, did not wish to remove Christianity. Bishop Butler, whom some call the founder of Broad-Churchism, certainly never dreamed of rank scepticism. The theory of Frederic Dennison Maurice, that revelation may be given differently to different centuries, did not exclude revelation. There was always, until quite lately, a clinging fast to the fond truth that Christianity was a divine dispensation. The last generation were quite sure of this. But their grandchildren, if they happen to live in England, may be brought up to adopt the new religion. They may proclaim frankly that Christianity is a myth, or that pagan virtue is the best Christianity. To such a depth has Anglican “development” now sunk. Fathers fear not to talk cold-blooded scepticism before their little ones gathered round their knees, and to poison their young natures with that most dreadful of inclinations—the doubting the pure instincts of their own souls. Sons of clergymen teach their sons that Christianity may be true, just as a particular political theory may be so; but that to ally Christian faith with the honor of God is a sign of feeble intellect or enthusiasm. Many thousands of English children, sons of educated “Anglicans,” now prattle their scepticism over their toys.
One hideous consequence of this growth of English rationalism—and Broad-Churchism is practically rationalism—is that it has lowered the standard of personal aspiration by removing the certainties of objects. Protestantism had much of the sentiment of Catholicity, though it had little of its dogma or discipline; but Broad-Churchism is absolutely without sentiment, save such as is common to pagans. What the children of Cicero may have been the children of Broad-Churchmen may be. The divine instinct of faith is reasoned down. Indeed, Cicero or Terence, Plato or Sophocles, had a much higher object than the Broad-Churchman; for they professed that to know would be the chief good, whereas Broad-Churchmen pronounce knowing the chief evil. It matters not by what name we call these men, whether free-thinkers, rationalists, sceptics, their aspiration is to be content with not knowing, instead of regarding knowing as the chief good. “I think,” said an English gentleman a few weeks ago, who had graduated at Oxford, and who has six children, and whose father was a distinguished ecclesiastic, “that the best way is to try to live honorably, and not occupy one’s mind with inquiry.” Thus he and his six children have gone back two thousand years in intellectual—that is, eternal—aspiration, minus this advantage which the ancients had over them: that the ancients wished to know what was true. Now, it is manifest that the death of aspiration is the death of the finest qualities of the human mind; and this is specially seen in the rising generation of English young men and young women. Where doubt takes the place of conviction, and cold content of an animating faith; where natural longings are the sole governing principles, and all that is beyond the grave is dark cloud; where the illumination of the intellect by the full knowledge of God—which is alone possible within the Catholic Church—is deferred to the petty quibblings of speculation, it must follow that a lower type of men and women must succeed to our profound Catholic ancestors. There is no need to refer here to Christian morals; they are the exercise of obedience to particular laws. Nor is there any need to speak of mere worldliness, which is often incidental, circumstantial. Nor, again, need we allude to the immense varieties of natural temperament which bias people’s lives, people’s loves. Let all questions of perfection or imperfection be set aside; they are not the immediate points we are considering. Human nature is human nature in every one, be he a Catholic or a free-thinker; and the extent to which human nature may be brought under control is a distinct question from “Anglican development.” The sole point which we are now arguing is the intellectual consequences of the theory and practice of pure Anglicanism, and the conclusion we arrive at is that, intellectually speaking, Anglicanism degrades the human mind. The development of Anglicanism is deterioration. This is its intellectual development. But when we speak of the intellect we are not speaking of talent, of any natural gift, or of industry. We are speaking of intellectual aspiration; for the true dignity of intellect is its object. To separate the intellect from its object, the dignity of the end from the means, is impossible for any really earnest mind, as, indeed, it is rationally impossible. If, then, the object of an intellect be to not believe, to eliminate the supernatural out of the world, or to narrow the compass of aspirations, it follows that the greater is the ignorance, the greater is the dignity, of the human mind. This theory has been advocated by Mr. Spencer. “Our highest wisdom and our highest duty,” says this scientist, “is to regard that through which all things exist as the unknowable.” So that not only to know nothing, but to wish to know nothing, of the will of our Creator in regard to us is the highest aspiration of the trained intellect, whether professedly Christian or pagan. Now, (popular) Broad-Churchism does not go so far as this, for it would not be “Christian” to do so. Broad-Churchism affects to be Christian, though it includes within its pale many sceptics. Yet practically the assertion that opposite truths are the same truths, or that no truth is a truth save to its votary, is the assertion that there has not been a revelation, or that if there has been it cannot be understood. Regard it as we will, there is no escaping from the conclusion that Broad-Churchism is inimical to Christianity. It is inimical to divine faith, to divine love; to the interior exercise of Christian virtues; to the perfecting those graces of character which are formed on the pattern of a divine Lord. In short, it is fatal to sanctity. Instability of Christian faith and stability of Christian life are mutually opposed to one another. The Broad-Churchman may be an excellent man, but he cannot be supernaturally a Christian. Christianity is the divine life of man, and it presupposes many postulates and axioms. And since divine faith in the whole range of divine truth is the first requisite of the intellectual Christian, it follows that a Christian who is intellectually not Christian cannot spiritually advance to perfection. Thus intellectually and spiritually the Broad-Churchman is at fault in regard to the Christian life. And this deterioration is the prevalent “development” of the later stages of Anglican change. Broad-Churchism is the profession of most Anglicans. And in one degree or another it is the ruin of aspiration, and therefore of the intellectual Anglican. But young people, whose intellects are undeveloped, are of necessity chiefly nourished by their affections; and unhappily the enfeebling of their faith is the enfeebling the objects of those affections. Thus parents ruin children by enfeebling the objects, and with them the affections which need objects. Intellectually and spiritually, sensitively and instinctively, Broad-Churchism is the ruin of children. And that huge waste of object, of affection, of sentiment, which the disease of Broad-Churchism necessitates, stints the growth, both religious and natural, of the majority of the rising generation. This is the last Anglican development. And it threatens to breed a race of pagans. There is the profession, of course, of some sort of Christian life—for ethically every Englishman must be Christian—but the Christianity is a natural sentiment, it is not a supernatural life. And must we not call this the intellectual degradation of the heirs of two thousand years of truth? The spasmodic attempts of the Ritualist sect to revive certain fragments of Catholic truth, or the earnest aspirations of warm-hearted puritans to love all that they know how to believe, are both admirable efforts, though not true successes; and they are the efforts of a comparatively small number. Nationally England is Broad-Church, and the majority of Broad-Churchmen are sceptical. What stage of development can come next? If in Westminster Abbey “Christian rationalism” is triumphant, what will become triumphant in country parishes? And if the feeble reasonings of Dean Stanley, his serene platitudes or pretty sentiments, are pabulum sufficient for the well educated, what descent into weakness, into indifference or impiety, may we not look for among the poorer classes? Scepticism among the poor means simple grossness, unrelieved by the scholarliness of the rich, and uncomforted by even the ease of this life. Yet there is an immense spread of scepticism among the poor. There is even blatant hostility to all religion. Broad-Churchism is the parent of this evil. The final harvest has not yet been reaped. Yet it seems certain that in the next quarter of a century we must either see the English multitude become Catholics, or we shall see them go down into a state of irreligion which will be simply paganism minus its gods.
SAINT FRANCIS OF ASSISI. A SKETCH FROM THE PARADISO OF DANTE.
Between Tupino’s wave and that which sends Its flood from blest Ubaldo’s chosen seat, A fertile mount an airy coast extends, Wherefrom Perugia feels both cold and heat Through Porta Sole, and behind it weep Gualdo and Nòcera their grievous yoke. There, on that side of it where most the steep In its declivity is sharply broke, Unto the world another Sun was born, Like this, our daily planet, whose glad face Beams forth from Ganges, bringing Europe’s morn. Therefore let no man speaking of that place Ascèsi say—too briefly by that name Describing it; but let him say the East! If he would properly enforce its claim.[88] Not much his light had from its dawn increased, When he began throughout his land to inspire Some comfort from a purity so great; Since yet a youth he fought with his own sire For sake of her against whom Pleasure’s gate Men bar, of her face as of death afraid: And so before his Father, and the Court Spiritual, with her a marriage made, And grew in love the more they did consort. She, slighted widow! reft of her first spouse, More than eleven hundred years remained Despised, obscure—no lover paid his vows To her till this one her affection gained; It naught availed (to move men in their choice) To read how Cæsar found her undismayed With poor Amyclas, hearing his dread voice; Nor aught availed the courage she displayed, And the fierce constancy which so sufficed, That while below heart-broken Mary prayed Her lofty spirit climbed the cross with Christ. But, lest my sense I too obscurely screen, Take for these lovers of my large discourse Francis and Poverty, for them I mean. Their concord and glad looks, the gentle force Of love and wonder, their demeanor sweet, Were cause that holy thoughts did much increase; Bernard first bared his venerable feet To run behind him, after so great peace, And in his running felt himself too slow: O unknown riches! O thou good most true! After the spouse whose bride enchanteth so Egidius bares his feet, Silvester too.
Footnote 88:
Dante does not overestimate the importance of this little town of middle Italy to a religious mind. Every Christian must be piously impressed by the subjoined inscription over the gate of Assisi which greets a traveller coming from Rome.
These words are believed to have been the dying benediction of St. Francis as he looked out from his pallet over the roofs of the mountain city which has become through him a place of pilgrimage:
Benedicta tu civitas a Domino: Quia in te multi servi Altissimi habitabunt: Et a te multi animi salvabuntur: Et de te multi eligentur in regna æterna.
Blessed be thou, O city! by the Lord! For in thee many servants there shall dwell Of the Most High; and many souls, restored Through thee to grace, shall be redeemed from hell; And many shall be called to their reward, In everlasting kingdoms, ... from a cell.
THE SOCIALIST IDEA.[89]
A moderate degree of attention bestowed on the signs of the times apparent in society, and a consideration of the social convulsions which among ourselves seem only to end that they may begin again, will make it impossible not to perceive, within the bosom of this society, some permanent, chronic evil, seated at its very core, and ready to bring to the surface the seething elements from below by a series of eruptions recurring at shorter and shorter intervals. This social evil, which for nearly a century has subjected us to periodical revolutions, as certain diseases subject a patient to periodical fits or crises; this evil, whose many roots reach back to causes more or less remote and more or less appreciable; this evil, which marches through the world of to-day like the hurricane that sweeps over cities and plains, and which we see uprooting principles in its passage, corrupting morals, and undermining society—for society is directly and particularly threatened by its stormy progress; this social evil—I give it the name it gives itself—is socialism: socialism—that is, a body of doctrines, passions, and plots that attack and would fain uproot the actual social system, or, if you prefer this definition, armed, passionate, and doctrinal aggression against society; socialism, which forty years ago the mass of earnest thinkers scarcely thought it worth while to take into account, so hidden was it then in the depths of mere theorizing, and so dimly perceived by a few thoughtful men, who saw it half covered by the veil of utopianism; socialism, which practical men of that time, in their Olympic repose, deemed too self-condemned by its obvious extravagance to be capable of doing harm; socialism, which even now still finds a few self-styled conservatives so blinded as to join hands and conspire politically with it for the furtherance of their own plans; socialism, which, emancipated from the region of dreams and speculations, and realized for a moment on the burning stage of contemporary history, has shown us its hideous form by the light of incendiary fires, and still points out to us, by the light of a threatening present, the possibility of a frightful future.
Let us begin at the beginning, and ask ourselves the question, What is Socialism? I hasten, at the outset of a subject which touches on such delicate ground, to state that I intend taking my stand above politics or party spirit. I fight only under two flags, that of society and that of Christianity. Even in the harshest strictures I may make I shall attack things, not men—things which we are bound to oppose, not men, whom we are bound to love.
To come to a full understanding of contemporary socialism it is necessary to look at it under a triple aspect—as an idea, as a passion, and as an action; as an idea which gains ground, a passion which kindles itself, an action which organizes itself more and more under our eyes; as an idea which gains ground by every channel controlled by the contemporary press; as a passion which is enkindled by every phase of contemporary realities; as an action which organizes itself and conspires by every lever known to contemporary revolutionism—that is, in three words, the socialist idea, the socialist passion, the socialist action. It is these that we must fathom and examine, if we would understand what socialism is and means. I shall be satisfied if I succeed in developing this time what is socialism as an idea, and what is the scope of this idea; in what does the socialist idea consist, and what are its immediate consequences.
It is necessary to grasp the nature of the parent idea which nursed socialism in its bosom, and has brought it forth as it appears to-day. Such a movement in the world of reality would be inexplicable without a corresponding, anterior movement in the world of thought. Ideas, in the social system, are as germs in the animal and vegetable systems, and germs in a very practical sense, for they are the seed of things that come to light later on, and grow according to the kind of soil and the degree of heat with which they come in contact. Socialism, as a whole, though intelligible as the result of causes not belonging to the world of ideas, is, however, the product of an idea which has grown and thriven long before it came to the surface. I do not mean by this the body of ideas which has helped to create it, but its own parent idea, that which, if I may say so, constitutes the socialist credo. It is true that, if we consider socialism in what appears its only living and real aspect, we are brought face to face with something quite alien to the world of ideas. What we see is not unlike a lion or a tiger obeying its instincts and roaring in the desert for its prey. We have no longer to face a doctrinal socialism with pretensions to a plausible theory, but a brutal socialism claiming no right save that of might; not a dreamy socialism such as forty years ago still carried away generous enthusiasts, but an aggressive socialism hurrying by force to the fulfilment of its programme; not a contemplative socialism parading through the world of ideas a Platonic love for humankind, but a destructive socialism eager to carry through the ruins of the world of realities the bloody banner of its brotherhood. What we see before us might be more fitly called the socialism of torch and dagger than the socialism of ideas and doctrines.
Still, it cannot be denied that socialism heralded itself above all as an idea which was to make the mightiest revolution in the midst of humanity that the world had ever seen. What was this idea, and what, in this era of social revolution, were its starting-point, its path, and its goal? I have long attentively followed the course of this new planet, and marked in the changing sky of our social world its chief appearances. I saw it rise as in the dawn of a bright morning, then grow amid the clouds of a thousand systems more or less important or obscure, then at last reach its zenith, and throw over our modern society the baneful light in which we see it arrayed at present.
At first the socialist idea gave itself out as the idea of social reform; later on in its progressive movement it became the idea of social transformation; and now that it has fully developed itself, it stands forth as the idea of social destruction. If we follow up the stream of theories which distinguished the beginning of this century and the end of the last, we shall find that the parent idea of socialism first embodied the longing for social reform, and tended to restore universal harmony to the new world. To listen to our pretended prophets and Messiahs, one would be led to believe that the great law of universal harmony in the social world had been lost amid conflicting human interests, and needed to be restored or re-enacted; while the systems of philosophy of that period insisted that within the near future a regeneration of human nature and a social reform would take place such as the world had never seen or history chronicled—a greater reform, indeed, than that accomplished by the divine Reformer in behalf of poor humanity. These philosophical systems, full of a dreamy poetry, were nothing but humanitarian idyls, delightful pastorals, pointing in the future, through a tinted medium, to a rose-colored humanity smiling under blue skies and an unclouded sun—a humanity free from all the contradictions and antagonisms of the past, and, like the planets, or better even than they, revolving round its centre in the undisturbed and beatific equilibrium of universal harmony. Harmony was everywhere in these fair dreams and easy utopias: there was the harmony of all minds in truth, the harmony of all hearts in love, the harmony of will in liberty, the harmony of passions in pleasure, the harmony of interests in community, the harmony of labor in organization, the harmony of men in brotherhood, the harmony of families in the state, and, finally, the harmony of all peoples and nations in the unity of a government that should rule all alike. The omniarch, or universal monarch, of this universal society appeared in the distance, in the centre of the human world, as the moderator and ruler of this gigantic harmony of brotherly nations. In a word, there was nothing but harmony, everywhere and in all things, harmony easy and spontaneous, springing up from, and flourishing naturally in, the regular play of all human forces, replaced as they would be, so said this new language, in their normal motion around their harmonious centre. This alluring theory, sung by all the bards of the social philosophy, or rather poetry, of that time, marched triumphantly along its flower-strewn path, escorted by all the errors and negations of which it was the result and the essence, and proclaiming to the gaping world: “I am the revelation of the new world. I am Social Reform.”
It is worth noticing that while the working of so many unhealthy doctrines gave birth, as to its natural product, to this growing socialist idea, so the new world of men seemed to grow towards it by every breath it emitted, to call for it and drink it in by the diseased organs of its own unhealthy body. The idea of reform is always and will always be captivating to humanity, because there is in humanity always something to be reformed; but at that time the state of the popular mind, by enhancing its prestige, was preparing for this notion a greater influence over the rising and future generations than it had ever won in foregoing ages.
Humanity was then bleeding from the pitiless wounds made by the doctrines of the eighteenth century. Men’s souls, especially in the lower strata of society, cruelly felt the void created by the Voltairian creed of individualism. These generations, cut adrift from Christianity, felt themselves smothered by the monster of human selfishness. Humanity, literally disinherited of the love of God, was dying of the selfishness of Voltaire. From the heart of this diseased society came a despairing cry for love, brotherhood, association. Then started up innovators on all sides to turn this great need of the human soul to their own account. They proclaimed universal association through universal love; and as Newton had reconciled by the discovery of gravitation the forces of earth and air, so they pretended to build on the attraction of love a permanent harmony between human nature and society. Such was the first appearance on our stage of this comparatively new element, socialism—i.e., the general and yet undetermined formula of social reform. Its claims, thus put forward in public, with a popularity they had never reached before, startled many men, even those thinkers who had scarcely suspected the existence of such ideas. It was, however, no new notion, and had lain undeveloped in society certainly as far back as the beginning of this century. It glimmered forth among the fogs of socialist metaphysics wherein Fourier and Saint-Simon groped after their ideal of universal reform; it grew under the pens of writers in reviews and newspapers celebrated in their day—rash innovators who carelessly questioned every basis of human society, and propounded theories whose fulfilment involved nothing less than a radical change of the organic conditions of society, in the magical name and under the shield of social reform.
The world of ideas had never witnessed such a confusion of mind, such an upsetting of fixed landmarks, such a perversion of language. An intellectual orgy gravely took its seat in the social world under the name and disguise of science; absurdities dubbed themselves philosophies, folly called itself reform; indeed, the passage of these eccentric theories and these grotesque utopias was one of the great surprises that attended my curious and truth-seeking youth. They were a source of pure stupefaction to me. The socialist idea hitherto had been almost confined to the exclusive domain of philosophical abstractions and social ideology. After long wandering through the twilight of various conflicting systems, it emerged from these doubtful regions, where only a few innovators perceived its presence, and came down to the level of the people, stirred as the latter were by new aspirations and hopes. From henceforward the socialist idea, the idea of social reform, was not only a theory broached by philanthropists, discussed by scientists and philosophers, and taught by intellectual apostles from tribune and printing-office, but it became a living, acting reality, a watchword of the laboring classes, a personal question among workmen. Once there, ripening as ideas do quickly in the fervid soul of the people, and pushing on towards its development, it strode forward apace, its evolution only waiting an opportunity to perfect itself abundantly. The people, little used to the hair-splitting of socialist metaphysicians, soon saw either that all this talk meant nothing or that it meant a fundamental transformation of actual social life, and consequently the road to, or, as it was grandiloquently called, the new birth of, a state of comfort and power hitherto unknown. Each one made the dazzling formula, “Society must be reformed,” cover his own special grievances or aspirations, his pet theories, his individual hopes and dreams. It soon became patent to all that even the apostles of the new idea meant not only that the new world should be a reformed one, in the common acceptation of the word, but a radically reformed—that is, a transformed—world. The fathers of the socialist idea had already become aware that the present organization of society presented insurmountable obstacles to the realization of their favorite law of harmony as applied to their theory of a future society; they felt that the organic conditions of society as it is were invincibly opposed to their idea, which, in order to triumph in the end, must become not only a reform, nay, not only a transformation, but such a transformation as should change from the very roots all existing vital conditions of society. To reform was not enough; they determined to transform. One idea had thus quickly displaced or succeeded the other. Stripped of the wordy disguises in which it still affected to wrap itself, it was simply a theoretical denial of society, such as society has been since men have lived together; a radical change of the social mechanism adopted in principle and in practice by all nations and acknowledged in all ages; a triumphal progress of revolution—indeed, social revolution itself.
Up to that period men who worked on the passions of the masses to compass their own ambitious ends had contented themselves with handling political problems, stirring up political revolutions. The game played by leaders of riots or leaders of parties consisted in changing a monarchy for a republic, a republic for an empire, an empire for a monarchy, and one species of monarchy for another; but this was child’s play to the growing power and genius of socialism. Social revolution, as set forth by the socialist idea, had far other ends in view; it did not care to stir the surface only of things, but to undermine, or, as we say now, revolutionize, their foundations. This is the difference between socialism, or social revolution, and political revolutionism, properly so-called; the former seeks to disembowel society itself. Common—that is, purely political—revolutionism only affects the surface of society; it strides over the ruins of governments shattered by the popular arm; it overturns a throne, then another; drives out one dynasty, then a second; creates a republic, then another; improvises a constitution; plays, if I may use the expression, among the dust of institutions, whether demolished thrones, torn constitutions, broken governments or legislatures; it grows excited and drunk with enthusiasm and ambition in the midst of these shifting scenes of the political world, on whose stage actors, now hissed, now applauded, by no rule but the arbitrary passion of the multitude, play ever-varying parts—parts barren and ephemeral, and the common result of which is to wear out those who play them, to sicken them of men and things, to make them drop from the stage stripped of their prestige, and too often covered with popular derision, as despairing actors are wont to fly from the theatre where they have hopelessly “broken down.” It was thus that between the tides of opinion and action political revolution pursued its course, leaving ruin and bloodshed in its track.
But after the flood of these monarchies and republics, these constitutions and governments, these kings and emperors, these presidents and dictators, these ministers and lawgivers; after all these sledgehammer blows of force, these coups d’état, or these sensational changes on a stage where revolution had long since decreed that no government, no constitution, no statesman should ever remain permanently; behind what we may call the political phenomenon, one thing remained firm—namely, society. It was always fundamentally the same, and stood on a substantial, unalterable basis, above which, but not reaching it nor attempting to injure it, flowed the tide of political revolution; it had mechanisms more or less different in appearance in each century, but the same vital permanent conditions; it kept its necessary balance between authority and liberty, between progress and stability; it guarded its three treasures, which to destroy is to kill society—i.e., the family, religion, and property.
This is the secret that explains why, after so many ruins heaped up and so many battles won, the genius of revolution could not rest content. It soon perceived that in spite of its gigantic efforts, and even after the immensity of its triumphs, it had only achieved a surface work. Its dreams of governments more or less constitutional and representative, more or less monarchical or republican, had collapsed with the ruins of these governments, thrown down by its own hand; it felt the emptiness and disappointment of these political revolutions, whose commonest result was an increase of wretchedness and a decrease of peace. Then it said to itself: I will go further; I will dig below the very foundations of this society, which I find everlastingly the same, with its old vices, its incurable abuses, and its obstinately recurring tyrannies. I will reach its heart, the very source of its life, the very core of its being. There I shall discover the true vital principle of human society, and, whether it will or no, I will force it to take part in outer actions, and take its place among the realities of history. I will not only reform but transform this rotten and disorganized society.
Thus the idea of transformation quickly superseded that of reform; but even a transformation of the conditions of social life, in the ordinary acceptation of the term, would not have contented the thoroughgoingness of the socialist idea. No doubt it was better than reform, for it was a fuller development of the socialist principle, but it did not constitute a perfect development, it was not the ultimatum of the idea. Transformation was not enough in the eyes of radical socialism, or, if you like the term better, socialist radicalism; destruction was better, and, to speak plainly, its conception of the former was equivalent to the latter. Socialism had dissected the body of society, examined and analyzed it in all directions, and then pronounced its verdict in these words, brimful of supreme contempt: “Rottenness! Let the corpse perish, and the true social body, moulded by our hands, spring from its remains.” Socialism had examined and probed the still standing building of our past and present social polity, and had said: “It is evident to all that the building is bad; better rebuild it, from cellar to attic. The human abode is not stable; to buttress it is useless; let us destroy it. This is no longer the time to reform, or even transform; nothing short of destruction is of any avail. Let the old social Babylon crumble and decay, and from her fruitful ruins, if needful even watered with blood, let the new Jerusalem of society come forth. Social reform was the dream of our fathers; social transformation is but another dream, a generous fallacy, but still a fallacy, attempting impossibilities and ending in nothingness. A ruin cannot be reformed nor a crumbling shed transformed; we see only a building to pull down and a building to put up. What I will do is this: I will use the popular arm to destroy, and on the ruins of the past I will erect the edifice of the future.”
The socialist idea, in its logical march irresistible as fate, had reached its inevitable goal. It began by deciding to reform, then it said, “I will transform,” and finally it announced boldly, “I will destroy, shatter, and demolish.” The beginning was reform with its alluring utopias of social unity and harmony; the middle stage was transformation, with specious promises of improvement and hopes of a renewed social youth; the ending is destruction, with open threats of anarchy and social annihilation. It is impossible to cherish illusions any longer on this subject: the reformers glided into transformers and the transformers coolly turned destroyers, not in haste and passion, but in cold blood, theoretically, we might almost say dogmatically; for radical destruction, or the uprooting of the existing social order, is the foremost doctrine of the syllabus of the socialist idea, which is itself the most perfect outcome of the revolutionary idea.
Living socialism—that is, socialism personified in its real representatives—no longer makes any mystery as to this, and cannot pretend to feel itself injured or calumniated if we reproduce and lay bare its own formulas. It is its own voice that cries aloud over the world: “Society as it is must perish, and from its ruins a new social system shall and must spring forth.” The first prophets and teachers of the socialist idea had hoped that the idea in itself, and for its own sake, would be accepted at once, and that humanity would spontaneously open its heart to it, as it does its eyes to the rays of the sun. The disciples have far outrun the programme of their masters; they no longer mention the ideal revolution, and if the ideal alone, preached by word of mouth, should not be strong enough to fulfil the programme at any given time, they mean to back it with the strong hand, and force it by violence to become a fact and hasten towards its definitive triumph. Social destruction is at present the latest phase of the socialist idea, which boldly comes forward, programme in hand, and bids us accept it and help to build up its rule as an inevitable necessity. It summons living society publicly and contemptuously to its bar, and bids it be ready to be demolished and afterwards re-established according to the fancy of this evil spirit, powerful indeed to destroy, but helpless to create.
Thus it is that this doctrine—if it can be called a doctrine—so philanthropic at the outset, so peaceful, so brotherly; this doctrine, which announced itself as a new gospel of peace, freedom, and brotherhood, has come to speak sternly of war, of massacre, of destruction; has sworn that no matter what opposition it raises and what blood it costs, the socialist idea shall triumph, and has decided that if it be necessary to reach the throne at which it aims over ruins and over corpses, it will stride over ruins and over corpses! Let the human sacrifices seal, if need be, the bloody covenant of the new social order.
It will scarcely be believed that this work of social destruction has been compared to the work of Christ, the reformer and transformer of society. It is so, however; and this new era which is before us has actually been likened to the social transformation, or rather restoration, achieved by Christianity—as if anything could be more flagrantly antagonistic to the great transformation worked by the Christian idea than this pretended transformation dreamed of and sung by the prophets of the socialist idea; as if a revolution brought about by force and violence could ever be compared to a restoration accomplished through love and self-sacrifice!
You reformers and innovators, do you forget that Jesus Christ attacked nothing by force and destroyed nothing by violence; that in his divine wisdom he was content to sow truth in men’s souls and love in their hearts as the husbandman casts seed into the furrow; and that truth and love have done their work among humankind as germs in the earth, as the blood in our veins, as electricity throughout nature—that is, in mysterious silence, with a strength full of gentleness and patience, yet with unerring certainty? You forget that if Christ cursed the unjust rich man—that is, wealth abusing its privileges, wealth without love, compassion, or sympathy for others—yet he never dreamt of leading the poor against the rich, but simply placed between the two the powerful but sweet link of charity. You forget that if he delivered captives from their bonds and slaves from their chains, he never incited master or slave to wage fratricidal war on each other, and that it was only as his teaching sank into the heart of the master that the fetters of the slave set free through love dropped of themselves, as ripe fruit drops from the tree in its good time and season. You forget that if the divine Reformer came to found a new society, it was by a new creation, and not through destruction; that he came to rehabilitate even bodily society while he created the true kingdom of souls; and that, far from breathing into it the spirit of social hatred and jealousy, he came to restore, or rather found within it, the rule of love and social self-denial. The very goal which the socialist idea has reached by identifying itself with the idea of social destruction is itself the best proof of the irreconcilable antagonism between socialism and Christianity.
I do not say that each individual in the ranks of contemporary socialism defines and adopts this programme of destruction so clearly and so resolutely as I have stated. Under all standards there are many men who neither see nor understand where the chiefs whose orders they obey are leading them—honest, upright men, duped by villains; passionate lovers of good, while strayed and lost in the great army of evil. I fully admit these exceptions, possible, nay, probable, everywhere; and, indeed, why deny their existence? Nevertheless, the mainspring of socialist action in our day lies in the idea of destruction, and the problem which contemporary socialism no longer seeks to veil is simply this: “What are the speediest means for completely demolishing the old structure of society, which is already bursting asunder in all its parts; and when down, what is to be done to rebuild from its ruins the edifice of the new social order?” Yes, such is the problem whose solution socialism boasts of finding, even though it be through rivers of blood and mountains of corpses; and yet this social body, rotten as it is said to be, still rests on strong foundations as old as humanity itself.
Property is its material foundation, the family its human foundation, and religion its divine foundation; and therefore the logical march of the socialist idea drives it, like fate, to clamor not only for the reform and transformation but for the ruin and destruction of these three things on which rests the whole of society, religion, family, and property. I do not hesitate to declare it, in spite of the vehement denials of men still unaccountably blinded to facts: the real scope of the socialist idea when pursued to its logical conclusion is the radical transformation or the utter uprooting of these stable and ancient institutions, as old as human society itself—property, family, and religion—and thereby the fall of our whole social system, as of a building on its shattered foundations and its broken supports. There are many theoretical socialists who do not dare to exhibit their theory in terms whose brutality seems to exceed even the grotesqueness of the idea they embody, and many who still cling to a few illusions and have a regard for decency. Such as these protest against what they call our calumnies and exaggerations. Destroy? they exclaim; we do not wish to destroy, we only long to transform. There was a time when, with mistaken faith in the honesty of purpose I loved to find or imagine everywhere, I, and you perchance, were deceived by this specious excuse, these alluring formulas; but to-day it is impossible to mistake the sense of this former mystery; it has too disastrously been revealed to us.
The socialist idea directly attacks the principle of property—that is, individual possession of one’s fields, house, capital, or patrimony, so happily called the domain; property—that is, in the common order of things, the fruit of individual labor or of the labor and self-denial of one’s forefathers; property—that is, the pledge of man’s independence, and the sign of his kingship in his own home, small as it may be; property, which in all nations and ages has been sheltered under the triple shield of nature, justice, and religion; property, the material basis of society—indeed, its necessary condition and the link by which the family is bound to its native soil as the tree by its roots; property, always and everywhere looked upon as sacred and inviolable among nations who have claimed the honors of civilization; property, which all societies have acknowledged even while appearing to deny its rights, violating them by force; property, in a word, which is a thing so familiar to us that the least infraction of its laws would cause us a remorse only to be allayed by reparation. Such is the nature of property; and shall we believe the teaching of this new jurisprudence, the propagators of these new laws, who maintain that there is no question of destroying but only of reforming, or at most transforming, the nature of property?
In what does this miraculous, proposed transformation consist? The expedient is very simple—namely, to strip the mass of owners in order to constitute one sole and supreme owner; for it is obvious, after all, that some one must still possess the earth. This legal spoliation, no doubt, will be a work of time, but it will be sure. And who is the new owner to be, in whom the right of universal property shall be vested, and on whose shoulders will be flung the burden of universal wealth? The state, forsooth; the god-state, the “state” which may be an honest man to-day, but to-morrow may be a rogue; the god-state, whom infatuated philosophers are constantly working to aggrandize, to make all-powerful, and for which they strive night and day to win more worshippers. This is to be the one owner and possessor of all; the state shall have all, organize and work all, distribute and apportion all, be the centre, the fountain head, and the goal of all; while in this universal domain where the state controls all, this huge arsenal where the state produces, executes, or orders all, society shall become a human hive, vast as the earth itself, but in which every individual shall be reduced, as a terse writer has put it, to the size and functions of a bee. This is the masterpiece elaborated by the socialist idea—the dream of universal property, which is likewise a dream of universal levelling, universal stuntedness. Individual responsibility or initiative is swept away; human kingship and free-will disappear; domestic society is left without a material basis, and even public society without a foundation; the right of all is practically the right of none, and the result is universal slavery to universal despotism. Such is the miracle of this transformation of property, so glibly promised by the socialist theory to future generations; and though all who fight under the banner of legal spoliation do not carry thus far their social ideal, and do not look forward to such absolute communism, all are on the road to it by the very fact of vesting in their god-state the right of increasing and decreasing, making or unmaking, individual property under the name of taxes on the rich and rates for the poor. What astonishes me above all in this respect is to see in certain men, the most interested personally in the upholding of the conservative principle of property, a certain pandering to, or half-support of, this eminently anti-social idea.
The same socialism which attacks the immemorial constitution of property attacks likewise the immemorial constitution of the family. The socialist idea attacks specially in the family, together with the principle of property, the three things which are its pride, its strength, and its stability—namely, unity, indissolubility, and inheritance, which, it is needless to say, uphold its permanence and perpetuity. First of all, it attacks unity, and unity in trinity: one man, one woman, and one whole family springing from both; one life produced by two sources fused into one—a unity which, in the family as everywhere else, is the essential condition of harmony, order, beauty, and happiness. This unity does not please the socialist. An advocate of free morals and free love, he prefers polygamy, as allowed by the Koran and practised by Moslems, to the conjugal unity enjoined by the Gospel and sanctioned by the teaching and practice of Christendom. Socialism attacks the indissolubility—that is, the permanence—of the marriage tie. Such an indissolubility before God and before the state is in its eyes only the civil and religious endorsement of slavery, the legal and theological confiscation of liberty. The apostles of free love are unable to understand the principle which binds two human beings to each other for ever and under no matter what circumstances. What revolution allows to society socialism would fain make accessible to the family—that is, perpetual change and unlimited option concerning divorce and separation. Socialism claims unblushingly, in the name of nature and progress, the revolutionary right of a husband to send away his wife, and a wife to leave her husband, as easily as a nation disposes of its sovereigns and its governments—a right equivalent to a permanent revolution in the family and the state, and bearing as its fruit the abolition of inheritance. Inheritance means the tradition of a patrimony; it is the pledge of the stability and perpetuity of domestic or home society; bereft of it, the family, without moorings in the past or hopes in the future, becomes, like the individual, an ephemeral phenomenon, gone in a breath and holding to nothing but the present hour. This right of inheritance has its place in God’s plan and man’s laws; it represents to coming generations the labors, the benefits, the sacrifices of their forefathers; it extends the influence of the latter over their descendants. But socialism does not shrink from questioning it in theory and attacking it in practice. How, it asks, should the will of a dying man be able to transmit beyond his grave a domain to his posterity? Down with a privilege which gives man, when he is a corpse, a posthumous omnipotence in contradiction with the very condition of the dead, and injurious to the freedom of action of the living! Socialism thus saps every conservative family principle, and the spirit it instils into the human mind is destructive to the foundations of home society, in order that it may prepare a clearer path to the eventual destruction of public society.
It is scarcely necessary to follow the socialist idea throughout its destructive march in order to realize the havoc it makes of domestic society; a glance at its practice is enough. Look at the homes and hearths where this idea has seated itself and taken practical possession. What homes, great God! and what morals; they might astonish even a heathen. The acknowledged reign of license and disorder, sanctioned by a so-called doctrine, and careless of any outward badge of respectability, whether civil or religious; a boasting display of a foulness for which the very faculty of blushing is lost, for the socialist idea, breathing its poison over these hearths, has extinguished the lamp of domestic virtue, and tossed into the mire not only the ideal of Christian perfection but that of moral blamelessness. No wonder that men preaching such doctrine and practising such morals should be eager to transform the family; they do it, indeed, in a strange and appalling manner by turning the sanctuary of honor and virtue into a sink of corruption and vice.
Furthermore, I maintain that they would turn the home, the school of faith and religion, into a school of unbelief and impiety; for socialism, which detests the family and property, hates religion still worse, because it is the chief bulwark of property and the family. It hates religion as such—not only this or that religion, but the very principle of communication between God and man, and the main object of the socialist idea is to transform—that is, destroy—this element in mankind. The fiat has gone forth, the watchword is given, “No more religion in humanity”; and the ideal of progress, as pointed out to the world by the socialist, is simply the suppression of all religion, which he dubs with the unpopular names of fanaticism, superstition, clericalism. The cry is not only no more property, no more family, no more homestead, no more hearth; but the frantic cry takes up other matters and echoes to the ends of the world a more sweeping denunciation: No more religion, no more altars, no more priests, no more churches, no more ritual, no more oblation, no more ceremonies, no more religious festivals. The like has never before been seen in history; it could not have been even conceived. This public attempt to drive out all religion from humanity in the name of progress is an absolutely unparalleled phenomenon, not only within but beyond Christianity. It is a monster in human history, the deformity of the nineteenth century. Our age will appear before history with this shameful inscription on its forehead, which will sufficiently brand it in the opinion of after ages: “I, the nineteenth century, have proclaimed by the voice of a million of atheists, as the law and condition of all progress, the abolition of all religion.”
And yet you will find religion attending the birth of every new society; you will meet it at the source of every growing society, and will perceive it shining and triumphing when that society has reached its utmost greatness and perfection, for a great heathen writer has truly called it the motive force of all things: Omnia religione moventur. Religion is to the world of men what sap is to the plant, blood to the animal, electricity to the system of nature—an indispensable condition of life, of motion, of fruitfulness. Who would dare undertake to drive from the earth and uproot from the soul of man this divine link between God and human nature, this boundary of human life, this vivifying force which permeates all, fertilizes all, directs and controls all?
Why, I ask these frantic demolishers, why not pluck electricity from nature, sap from the plant, and blood from our veins? For it is true that it were easier for the tree to live without sap, the plant without root, the body without blood, than it is for the human soul to exist without religion—religion, that need of something divine, that longing after something durable, that step towards the infinite; religion, that natural breath of the soul, as the air is of the body, that attraction heavenwards which corresponds to the physical attraction earthwards of our body! A mysterious but very sensible force draws us towards our physical centre of gravity, but a force still more mysterious, more sensible, and, above all, more powerful draws us towards our heavenly, our spiritual centre; and while we are physically bound by a chain as strong as life to the stage of our earthly existence, yet spiritually we soar by as irresistible an impulse towards the place of spirits, the eternal and the infinite.
The flagrant antagonism between the socialist idea and the religious idea is easily explained. Socialism knows by instinct that in religion, and especially in Christianity, the religion above all others, exists the divine foundation of the world; that as long as this foundation is not shaken the social polity can never be thoroughly destroyed; that religion, even stripped of direct and, as it were, official influence in the political and social order, is still the last bulwark that interposes between socialism and its avowed object; in a word, that there rests the supreme force, the insurmountable obstacle to the new ideas, there the truth that repudiates the new errors, there the holiness that repudiates the new corruption, there the authority that repudiates the new anarchy, there the divine Might which says to the idea of devastation what God the Creator says to the ocean: “So far shalt thou go, and no further”—“huc usque venies.”
To sum up, there is a disastrous idea prowling through the modern world—the socialist idea. This idea, which at first was only that of social reform, and later became that of social transformation, has developed at present into that of social destruction.
And whereas every social structure rests on three foundations, property, the family, and religion, so the socialist idea more or less directly attacks these three foundations. The socialist idea, or socialism looked upon as a theory, pushes its anti-social aggression up to this climax; it stands there in radical and fearful opposition, threatening all that is most vital and most fundamental in society.
Therefore we are bound to resist it face to face, everywhere and always, and do battle against the socialist idea—that is, the idea of destruction, disaster, and ruin. I impress upon you the necessity of, and claim your help in, a doctrinal resistance to this idea, a defence of all it attacks, an assertion of all it denies; a sturdy repetition of the credo of universal affirmation, and not only a repetition, but a publication, a triumphant challenge, to the socialist idea which embodies in itself a universal negation.
Footnote 89:
From the French of Père Félix, published as an article in the Revue Catholique des Institutions et du Droit (April number, 1878). The article is a reproduction of one lecture out of a series, on the subject of socialism, given at Grenoble, and shortly to be published entire by Jouby-Roger, Rue des Grands Augustins, Paris.
A ROMAUNT OF THE ROSE.
A fairer light than ever since has shone Fell on that garden where Queen Eve’s sweet bower Was hid in roses and the jasmine flower, Curtained with eglantine, and overrun With morning-glories glowing in the sun Late into noon, unheeding of the hour When now they close: these were our mother’s dower; She lived and loved amid all flowers, save one. There was no red rose in the garden wide Of all her world, until its mistress went From out its gates with roses in her hand, Spoil of past joys; then, like a new-made bride, She blushed in shame, and that first blush has lent The rose its color over all our land.
HELEN LEE. A ROMANCE OF OLD MARYLAND.
“I maintain it is a glory for the Catholics of Maryland that, in this age of religious strife, our colony has been made a home for the persecuted, and that we are the first to proclaim the equal rights of all who profess to be Christians.”
These words were spoken by a young man named William Berkeley, who formed one of a group of five persons seated under the shade of an oak-tree one summer afternoon in the year 1636. His companions were Sir Charles Evelyn, who was of about his own age; an old gentleman, Sir Henry Lee; his daughter, a maiden of three-and-twenty; and, lastly, a way-worn traveller, whose sad, wan face and unkempt locks told that he had suffered much and been long in reaching a place of safety and repose.
“Yea, Mr. Berkeley, this colony hath set a glorious example,” answered the last-mentioned individual. “And I wish my worthy friend Roger Williams had accompanied me hither, instead of halting where he did on Narraganset Bay; for he hath a rigorous climate to contend with. Oh! how cold it was last winter, how bitter cold, as we journeyed through the wilderness. And, moreover, the Puritans of Massachusetts, not content with having exiled him once for his religious opinions, may claim jurisdiction over the haven where he is now resting, and drive him still further away.”
“Well, ours is indeed a charming country,” spoke Helen Lee. “It is now two years since we landed from the Ark and the Dove, and we have all enjoyed uninterrupted good health, while our numbers, which at first were only two hundred, are now much increased. Oh! St. Mary’s is a blessed spot.”
“And we shall very soon have our church finished,” observed the young baronet, who sat between Helen and her father. “The big wigwam which the Indians kindly gave us wherein to celebrate holy Mass is become a great deal too small and many are obliged to kneel outside.”
After a little further conversation, and after again praising the climate and people of Maryland, Roger Williams’ friend arose; then, having thanked Sir Henry for his hospitality—the latter had entertained him at dinner—he silently waved his hand to the others and bent his steps towards the town.
“I am glad that stranger has found his way here,” said Berkeley almost as soon as his back was turned; “and to-morrow I will try to get him employment.”
“I entertained the fellow at my table; I could not have done less,” growled Sir Henry, knitting his brow. “But I hope I have seen the last of him.”
At this remark Helen turned towards Berkeley, making him a sign with her finger, which unfortunately he did not perceive. She knew her parent’s hasty temper, his bitter feelings against Dissenters, and feared lest they might engage in a dispute over the question of religious toleration.
“The true glory of our charter,” went on Berkeley, “consists in—”
“’Tis precisely its weak point,” interrupted Sir Henry, who knew well what he was about to say. “Ay, this religious freedom which you so much admire will one day prove our ruin. Only let enough Puritans and fellows like him who has just quitted us settle here, and then you and I and Lord Baltimore, in fact every Catholic and Anglican, will be hurried out of the colony.”
“I do not believe it,” said Berkeley.
“But I do; and it shows what little sense you have,” continued Sir Henry, now quite red in the face.
We need not give the rest of the discussion between them, which waxed louder and hotter, until finally, at something the old gentleman said, Berkeley got up, made a silent bow to Helen, and walked away. In a moment Evelyn followed him.
“What! go back and make peace with Sir Henry?” exclaimed Berkeley, as the other took his arm—“after calling me low-born, and saying that was the reason I sympathized with common folk and Puritans? No, no, I cannot.”
To any one of a less generous nature than Evelyn this might have been a welcome announcement, for both he and Berkeley were suitors for Helen’s hand. But Evelyn did not let this fact for a moment lessen his desire to restore harmony between his rival and Helen’s father. “Look,” he said, “how pained his daughter is! She is weeping. Do return and be friends for her sake.”
“You are a noble fellow to speak thus,” answered Berkeley. “But I cannot; for, besides calling me what he did, he bade me henceforth hold aloof from him, and I will obey. As for Helen, she is too good, too meek, too patient; she is a martyr.”
After they had walked together a short distance, Evelyn, finding that his efforts to persuade Berkeley to retrace his steps were vain, let him go his way, and during the rest of the afternoon he had Helen all to himself.
These two had been friends from childhood, and their natures were much alike. Both were dreamers. Well-nigh as far back as their memories went they had built castles in the air; and after they had been strolling hand-in-hand, as they oftentimes used to do, amid the pleasant groves of Evelinton Park, Yorkshire, the boy would always bid his gentle comrade good-by with a kiss; then little Helen would betake herself to her father’s mansion, which was next to that of Sir Charles Evelyn’s, and pass the time until she was put to bed thinking about the pretty boy, who had made so many vows to be with her all through her life; and she closed her eyes with his words ringing in her ears: “If a giant comes to attack you, Helen, or a dragon, I will defend you; I will kill the horrid beast or wicked man.” And often in sleep she witnessed a desperate fight, wherein her knight, after many wounds received in her defence, always came off victorious.
Happy indeed were those days of childhood. And when in the course of time Helen grew to be a woman and Charles a man, it was wonderful how little they had changed, how like children still they were. Indeed, the only new thing which Helen observed in him was that he did not kiss her any more as he used; while the youth occasionally saw a flush steal over her cheek as she listened to some innocent speech of his—innocent yet full of rapture—wherein he said there might be maidens in heaven who were like herself, but only in heaven. And so they continued to be much in each other’s company; and when at length Helen’s father fell into debt—for old blood is spendthrift blood—and determined to cross the sea with the hope of retrieving his credit and decayed fortune in the New World, Evelyn would not stay behind.
Sir Henry Lee, let us here remark, was a cavalier of the truest stamp; chivalrous, devoted heart and soul to his king, utterly careless of money. “And never was there a queen like Queen Henrietta Maria,”[90] he would say. Her being a Catholic mattered not a jot; for, although he himself belonged to the Church of England, he had married a Catholic wife and allowed his daughter to be brought up a Catholic. The only people he hated were Presbyterians, and his beau ideal of the devil was John Knox.
As soon as Sir Henry had resolved to join the company of Lord Baltimore he sent for a surveyor to make a map of his encumbered estate, which he could no longer afford to hold; and the surveyor’s name was William Berkeley. While the latter was engaged on this work Lady Lee would often go and talk with him; and among the last words which this excellent woman spoke to her daughter before she died were these: “Helen, you are now of an age to marry. Yonder is a man who would be of great help in mending our shattered fortune. William Berkeley is a Catholic, and he tells me that he too intends to go with Lord Baltimore. As for his having no title, think none the less of him for that; he hath a pedigree—’tis even said he comes down from Robin Hood. Child, you might do worse than wed that honest, able yeoman.” And the girl treasured up these words; and now this summer evening, while Evelyn is alone with her in Sir Henry Lee’s new home in Maryland, trying to console her for the harsh language which the old gentleman had used towards Berkeley, her mother’s advice came back upon Helen’s memory with very great force, and she asked herself: “What should we do if Mr. Berkeley were henceforth to hold aloof from us?” For he was a worker, not a dreamer. He gave Sir Henry good counsel which might in time be listened to; and if a day of urgent need ever came, he would be a useful friend. Whereas since they had been at St. Mary’s what had the gentle Evelyn done to better his condition? And his father, like her own, was overwhelmed with debt: old blood is spendthrift blood. True, his morals were correct; he was the very soul of honor, well educated, and of distinguished mien and manners. But as time wore on Helen felt more and more convinced that there was something wanting in Evelyn’s character, and, were she to give him her hand, was it not only too probable that they would grow poorer and poorer? “For, alas!” she would sigh, “I am too much of a dreamer myself, and we cannot live on dreams.”
Moreover, Helen believed that Evelyn’s love for her partook too much of a religious devotion; what he had told her years before he kept telling her still—she was his angel; and Helen shrank from taking a step which might undeceive him: “For I fear if I became his wife I should cease to be his angel.”
The room, where they now sat conversing together was the one known as the queen’s room; for, besides the portraits of the family, it contained a picture of Queen Henrietta Maria by Van Dyck. Nothing in the world did Sir Henry treasure more than this work of art by the great master, unless, perhaps, his own daughter. Yet even this priceless gem he might ere long be obliged to part with, as he had already parted with his old wine, in order to pay off fresh debts.
“In a day or two,” spoke Evelyn, “I will make another effort to reconcile your father to Berkeley. I do hope I shall succeed.”
“I pray that you may,” answered Helen.
Then, as he toyed with one of her rich chestnut curls, “Helen,” he added, “I am going to paint a grand picture—St. George delivering St. Margaret from the Dragon—and I want you to sit for my model of St. Margaret. Will you?”
“I fear I am not worthy of such an honor,” replied Helen. “Poor me! What am I?”
“You are the inspiration of my life,” pursued Evelyn. “Yes, the little I have accomplished is all owing to you. But for you I should never have touched a brush.”
“Well, well, I’ll be St. Margaret; but who is to be St. George?”
“Myself. And now, when may I begin?”
“To-morrow, if you like.”
“To-morrow? Good!”
With this Evelyn withdrew, leaving Helen meditating on his words: “You are the inspiration of my life”; and she said to herself: “Alas! would that I had known how to inspire you better, good, kind Evelyn, my earliest friend. But all I have taught you to do is to play artist; and you would starve on the proceeds of your brush.”
Then presently her thoughts turned to her other lover, the strong, active, practical Berkeley, who never fell into rhapsodies over her eyes—her eyes, deep as the sea, blue as the sky, bright as the stars—as Evelyn did, nor said that his prayers were little worth unless she were kneeling near him.
Berkeley showed his feelings in a plain, healthy way by a hearty squeeze of the hand, and by now and again begging her to mend his buckskin gloves. “Because no girl in St. Mary’s can sew like you, Helen.” And, as might be expected, the young surveyor was bettering his condition every year, and had always something to give away to those who were not so well off as himself. Helen knew, too, how he had bestirred himself to find a purchaser for her father’s wine, and it was through him she had disposed of several jewels—precious heirlooms from her mother. In fact, Berkeley seemed able to do everything; and few people in St. Mary’s began anything important without first consulting him. Then Helen recalled one of the old fairy tales which Evelyn had told her when they were children, and wished that she were a fairy. “For then,” she said, “I would quickly wave my magic wand over Evelyn’s head and change him into Berkeley, and so make everything smooth, and my poor heart would be at peace.”
She was beginning, moreover, to agree with Berkeley that it was not wise to undertake to build a castle; a simple log-house would be much better. Already her father was involved in fresh trouble on account of this folly. Yet, even after selling his wine, and she her jewels, there was still money owing; and only one tower was finished.
Evelyn, on the contrary, had praised the undertaking, and told Sir Henry that as soon as the edifice was completed he would make a fine painting of it. Thus from musing over days gone by—the happy days in England, when her dear, prudent mother was living, who always had urged economy—and the sad present, tears came to Helen’s eyes, while the chamber grew darker and darker, until she could no longer distinguish Queen Henrietta Maria’s face looking down upon her from the wall. By and by she groped her way to her harpsichord, and began to play a mournful tune which was in harmony with the shadows and her own thoughts.
“Well, really, child!” exclaimed Sir Henry, entering presently with a light, “as if this abode were not cheerless enough with only you and me to inhabit it, you must needs give me melancholy music.”
Quick Helen changed the air and struck up something full of life and gladness, “A Carol to the Sun” ’twas called; and when he asked where she had got this delightful music—for it was new to him—and she answered, “From Evelyn,” her father seemed much pleased. “But, child,” he said, “why do you hesitate so long about accepting Sir Charles? Is it because Berkeley is courting you too? Why, one has a title and is of gentle blood; the other is a plebeian, and I hope will make his visits less frequent in future. I spoke sharply to Berkeley to-day—did I not?—and if he comes again I’ll speak more sharply still.”
Seeing that Helen made no response, Sir Henry continued: “Why, the fellow actually had the impudence to advise me not to go on with this castle, which I intend to make the finest structure in the colony. But Evelyn has better taste; blood tells in everything, and he agrees with me that Lord Baltimore will be highly gratified when it is finished, and will write to the king about it.”
“Well, there is indeed a magnificent view from the top of the tower,” observed Helen timidly. Then, plucking up a little courage, “But, father,” she added, “think of the money it will cost; think of the future.”
“A view! A magnificent view!” cried Sir Henry. “God-a-Mercy! is that all you have to say in praise of this tower? A magnificent view! Would you have the portrait of our gracious queen hanging in a log-cabin? And that suit of armor which your ancestor wore at Agincourt, which bears upon it the dents of a battle-axe—would you wish to see it in a log-cabin? Child, you are not worthy of your name.” Then, after a pause, during which he strode excitedly back and forth, Sir Henry continued: “As for money, I never trouble my head about money. But when you bid me think of the future—well, I have indeed bitter thoughts when I allow my mind to dwell on the future.”
This was true enough. Helen’s father was no longer young. Helen had not yet chosen a husband; would he live to see a male descendant of his house? “Oh! it wrings my heart,” he murmured half aloud—and his daughter heard the lament—“it wrings my heart to think of the old stock dying out.” After giving vent to his sorrow even by tears, the old gentleman bade Helen commence the usual evening reading. And let us here observe that the only book he cared for was Don Quixote, which Helen read to him in the original; for he had been in Spain and had taught her Spanish. Accordingly, she opened the volume—’twas the third time she had gone through it—and began to read in a loud, clear voice, while Sir Henry sat with his back towards her and his eyes resting on the ancient suit of armor, whence they never strayed, except for a moment to glance at the portrait of the queen.
Helen had found Don Quixote quite entertaining the first time she had perused it; but now the interest was all gone, and only the dread of offending her father kept her from often pausing and nodding her head. But this she durst not do; and so on and on she read through five chapters, without so much as lifting her eyes off the page, after which Sir Henry told her to put the volume aside, then withdrew in what for him was a very genial humor.
The night which closed this summer day was a restless one for Helen Lee. She lay awake several hours listening to a whip-poor-will perched on a tree by her window. She got thinking about her father, whom, despite his acerbity of temper, she dearly loved; she thought of the rash way he was squandering his means, and said to herself: “Dear mother was right: in order to save ourselves from utter ruin we should live as economically as possible. But, alas! he will not do it, and we may be forced ere long to sell our new home here, as we did our old home in England.” And when at length she fell asleep, these mournful thoughts followed her in a dream.
The next morning Helen repaired to Evelyn’s abode, which stood on the outskirts of the town, and found him all ready to begin the painting of which he had spoken the day before.
“You look a little pale, Helen,” he said as she entered his studio. “You are always as blooming as a rose. Are you not well?”
The girl did not answer, and presently her countenance brightened, for by nature she was of a cheery disposition, ever hoping for the best, even when the sky looked darkest; and, besides, it was never difficult for the companion of her earliest years to interest her.
“Look,” continued Evelyn, “look at that oriole singing on the elm-tree yonder; his mate is hidden in the deep pear-shaped nest, with a tiny door on the side, which you see dangling from the end of the limb. Well, I have given that beautiful bird a new name; I have christened it the Baltimore bird, because we find in its golden plumage, mixed with deep black, the colors of Lord Baltimore’s arms. And his lordship was highly pleased yesterday when he heard the new name.”
“What a fanciful boy you are!” answered Helen, smiling.
“And, Helen,” he went on, “I am composing a new song for your harpsichord. You see you have inspired me to become a poet as well as an artist.”
“I sometimes fear that I have caused you to dwell too much in Cloud-land,” said Helen. Then, a little abruptly, “Evelyn,” she added, “did you ever cut down a tree?”
Ere the young baronet could make reply Berkeley, with an axe strapped across his shoulders, galloped up to the open window of the studio.
“Good morning! good-morning!” cried the surveyor. “Why, Helen, I am lucky to catch you here; I was going as nigh the tower as I durst venture, in order to bid you good-by.”
“Good-by! What mean you?” exclaimed Helen, betraying in her voice and looks the anxiety she felt.
“I am going forty miles up the Potomac, in order to lay out a new settlement,” answered Berkeley; “for our colony is growing, you know, and I am kept pretty busy.” Then, bending down from the saddle and taking her hand, “Helen,” he added, “please tell Sir Henry how sorry I am that I showed so much temper yesterday. I ought to have held my tongue, or not spoken out so openly, for I might have known that we should not agree. Tell him I ask his pardon.”
Helen gazed up in Berkeley’s face a moment, then her eyes dropped and she murmured: “Yes, I will tell him.”
“But of course,” pursued her lover, “I do not change my opinion. I still firmly believe that the example of religious toleration which Maryland has set will in time be followed by the other colonies; and who knows what a century may bring forth? Why, I believe the day is coming when all North America will be occupied by English-speaking commonwealths, where there will be no religious wars as in Europe; Catholics and Protestants will dwell in harmony together, and then it will be said: ‘Maryland began it. God bless Maryland!’”
“You have quite won me over to your way of thinking,” interposed Evelyn. “A man may be tolerant of the views of others without being himself indifferent.”
“Why, Roger Williams’ friend, whom we saw yesterday,” spoke Helen, “was drawn hither by our very toleration. Yes, we have outstripped the Puritans in common sense, and who knows but this poor exile may end by embracing the true faith?”
“But now, to change the subject,” went on Berkeley, who saw a fresh canvas spread out and a crayon in his friendly rival’s hand, “are you about to begin a new picture?”
“Yes,” said Evelyn; “a picture of St. George rescuing St. Margaret from the Dragon, and Helen is to sit for St. Margaret.”
“Indeed!” Here Berkeley meditated a moment in silence. The fact is, he feared lest he might be absent from St. Mary’s three or four months—perhaps longer: would it not, therefore, be wise, if he wished to secure Helen for his bride, to ask her forthwith to plight him her troth? Had he not already deferred it long enough? He could now afford to marry; and if he still put off the weighty question, might not Evelyn during his absence become the chosen one? “Why wait,” he asked himself, “until I have made friends with Sir Henry? He never would look with a favoring eye on our union, for I have no title; I am plain William Berkeley. Yet Helen is of age, she is not a slave, I love her dearly; and if she loves me enough to accept me, why, in God’s name, let us be married.”
Then aloud he said: “Evelyn, before I go I must pass a few minutes in your studio, just to see you commence the picture.”
“Yes, do; and let me call a servant to take your horse to the stable,” said Evelyn.
“Thanks. I’ll take him there myself,” answered Berkeley, who was now determined not to set out for the wilderness without knowing his fate.
“How well he rides!” observed the artist. “What a soldierly bearing he has!”
Then, gazing earnestly in Helen’s face, he added:
“Berkeley would make a capital St. George. Would he not? Shall I put him in the painting instead of myself?”
At this question Helen’s cheek crimsoned, and without making any response she awaited Berkeley’s return; while Evelyn murmured to himself: “Alas! alas! I see I should do well enough for a picture; but he would be her real St. George.”
In a few minutes Berkeley reappeared, and as he entered the room he seemed to read Helen’s thoughts at a glance; for the first words he uttered were:
“Evelyn, may I enquire who is to sit for St. George?”
Here Evelyn turned to Helen, upon whom Berkeley’s eyes were fastened, saying: “Dear Helen, please answer for me.”
This was a cruel moment for the girl—most cruel! What a throng of memories rushed upon her!—memories of far-off, sunny days, when she and the pretty boy used to saunter and dream hand-in-hand together along the shady paths that lay between her native home and his. And now all these memories became so many voices pleading powerfully in Evelyn’s behalf; he had loved her from the beginning, and she had only met Berkeley when she was grown up to womanhood.
But when she thought of the latter, she remembered her dead mother and what she had said of him—of his inner worth, his talents, his energy. Then, too, since Helen had been in Maryland, Berkeley had shown in many ways that he was attached to her; and, moreover, he was a man in the truest sense of the word—a man on whom she and her heedless father might lean and find support. His every waking hour was devoted to some useful employment. Far and wide he was known as an able, active, daring man; and at this very moment he stood before her all equipped to plunge into the trackless forest to pioneer the way for another settlement. His views, too, of the future had won Helen’s heart; she believed, as he did, that in America the church was destined to spread and to glean a more golden harvest than in old, worn-out Europe. And so, after a painful inward struggle, which revealed itself not faintly in her countenance, Helen’s response came, and, turning with tearful eyes to Berkeley, she said:
“William, do you be my St. George.”
“For life, Helen?”
“Yes, for life.”
At these words of doom poor Evelyn, who had felt what was coming, averted his face and stared on the vacant wall. Then, presently, bidding them remain a short while in his studio, that he would not be gone long, the heart-broken man hurriedly quitted the house.
The church whither he went was close by; and there at the foot of the altar he flung himself, bowed down his head, and tried hard to breathe a prayer. But he had never suffered before as he was suffering now, and it was not easy for him to be resigned, to have a Christian spirit, to say, “God’s will be done.” For a moment even a rebellious, devil-sent word quivered on his lips; and thus did he kneel dumbstricken before the altar, until by and by—brought to him, perhaps, by his guardian angel—came a sweet, holy calm; the storm passed away, and, spreading forth his arms, he gazed upon the ever-burning lamp which told of the Blessed Presence of his Saviour truly near him. And as he gazed upon it Evelyn took a high resolve; the words of the Psalmist came to him: “When my heart was in anguish, thou hast exalted me on a rock. Thou hast conducted me; for thou hast been my hope.... In thy tabernacle I shall dwell for ever.”[91]
Then straightway followed a flood of joy; like a bright, sunshiny wave it flowed over his soul. In his rapture he sang aloud the Gloria, the Magnificat, the Te Deum Laudamus. After which, rising up off his knees, he went back to his friends, who were wonder-stricken at the change that had come over him in the brief space since he had left them. Evelyn’s whole countenance beamed with a fire that was in striking contrast with his former listless self; and in a voice wherein was no tone of sadness he addressed Berkeley, saying: “Now to work! Let me quick begin St. George; I will draw rapidly, and in a couple of hours you shall be free to depart.”
Accordingly the picture was commenced, nor had the artist’s crayon ever touched the canvas so deftly before; indeed, so swiftly did he work that by the time the Angelus bell told them it was noon the rough sketch was finished.
Nor did the parting betwixt Berkeley and Evelyn bear the least trace of coldness; they seemed like two brothers, and Helen like an affectionate sister between them.
“And now,” spoke Evelyn, when the other was gone, and as he and Helen turned towards the tower—“now I’ll go see your father, and try my best to appease his anger against your betrothed.”
“Oh! how kind, how good you are,” answered Helen, who would fain have said more; but how could she? What language could express her gratitude to Evelyn for being so forgiving? And she inwardly owned that, whatever his weak points were, he was a rare, high-minded man—a man the like of whom this world had few indeed.
“Sister,” pursued Evelyn, in the tender accents she knew so well, “I am only too happy to serve you; and you know it is now more important than ever to soften Sir Henry’s heart towards Berkeley.”
“Yes,” said Helen, “otherwise I foresee great trouble in store for me.”
“But if I do not succeed, why, then you must speak to him yourself,” added Evelyn.
A half-hour later the young baronet and Helen’s father were closeted in the queen’s room, engaged in earnest talk.
“Well, I have known many good Papists in the course of my life,” spoke the old gentleman, “but upon my word you are the best one of all. Why, you ought rather to rejoice to have Berkeley hold aloof; yet here you are pleading his cause.”
“Berkeley is a most honorable, excellent fellow,” rejoined Evelyn, “and—”
“Oh! there you go again,” interrupted Sir Henry. “Your charity gets the better of your common sense. Why, what is he if you strip him of all disguises—what is he but the son of a forester, who, having turned surveyor, is no doubt earning money? But does that make him a gentleman—a fit one to be your rival for my daughter’s hand?” Then, after pausing and wiping his brow, Helen’s father continued: “No, indeed! And I would be really thankful, Sir Charles, if you would prevent him from ever coming again within a mile of my castle.”
“How might I accomplish that?” inquired Evelyn, inwardly smiling.
“How? Why, by asking Helen’s hand. From her cradle she has known you, and you her; she cannot help but love you if she has any heart at all—and she has a heart; oh! yes, a warm, loving heart.”
“Sir Henry,” replied Evelyn, with a faint tremor in his voice, “Helen can never be more than a dear friend, a sister, to me; I intend to become a priest.”
“What! a priest?” cried Sir Henry, utterly amazed. “A priest! O Evelyn! Evelyn!” Then, dropping his forehead in his hands, he began to sigh and wail. “I counted upon you,” he said in accents of unfeigned grief. “I counted upon you. But now, alas! all my bright hopes are vanished—all! all!” Then presently, clenching the hilt of his rapier—the old cavalier always carried a rapier—“But Berkeley shall not have her,” he thundered, working himself up to a violent passion. “No! by heaven, he sha’n’t! Never! never! I swear by—”
Leaving Sir Henry storming and invoking anything but blessings on poor Berkeley’s head, Evelyn withdrew to seek Helen, whom he found waiting outside the door. The girl trembled when she learnt the result of his interview with her father, and scarcely had courage to enter the latter’s presence. Urged, however, by Evelyn, she overcame her timidity and passed into the room; then, in as firm a voice as she could command, she told Sir Henry that Berkeley had requested her to beg his pardon for having angered him. Helen told him, too, that the surveyor was gone off forty or fifty miles from St. Mary’s; and concluded by reminding her father of the high opinion which her mother had entertained of the young man, of his industry, honor, manly courage.
“And dear mother was not given to praising people unless they were really good and worthy of praise. So, father, I implore you, do not harbor any ill-feeling against William Berkeley. Indeed, I am quite sure my mother would have agreed with him.”
Here Helen paused to hear her father’s answer; if he relented—and she hoped that he might, for, despite the rage he was in, he had listened without interrupting—if he relented, she intended immediately to reveal her engagement. But if he did not relent—what then? With heart violently beating she watched him; his hand was still upon his sword, and after waiting a good minute, as if to see whether she had aught else to say, Sir Henry replied:
“You tell me Berkeley has quitted St. Mary’s for a while; well, I hope he will remain away. As for what Lady Lee may have thought of him—alas! your mother held certain very unseemly opinions, which more befitted Wat Tyler’s wench than a nobleman’s spouse. Why, she once even denied to my face the divine right of kings; and she was obstinate—most obstinate. But, nevertheless, I little doubt that the Almighty hath already granted her forgiveness. O child! although I am not a Papist, I own there is much consolation in your doctrine of purgatory; it is a most consoling doctrine.”
Knowing that to stay and argue with her father in his present mood would only make the matter worse, Helen was about to withdraw when she was startled by a loud groan which escaped him:
“Evelyn a priest! a priest! a priest!” ejaculated the old knight.
“What! is he going to become a priest?” exclaimed Helen, turning back from the door. “Oh! then he has chosen wisely. Father, do not deplore it. Let us say rather, ‘God be praised!’”
“Then you did not know this? It is news to you?” inquired Sir Henry, eyeing her closely.
“Upon my honor I knew it not,” replied Helen, trembling, for she feared lest he might follow up his question by another, which she would dread to answer.
“Well, now leave me,” continued her father, waving her off. “Leave me alone a space. Go! I am heart-sick.”
For well-nigh a week Sir Henry remained inconsolable; even Don Quixote’s adventures failed to entertain him, nor his daughter’s cheeriest music and blithest songs move him to mirth. The workmen, too, whom he was fond of superintending and thus whiling away some hours each day, did not come any more to labor at the castle walls; for Sir Henry’s funds were running low and he had not wherewithal to pay their wages.
His favorite haunt was a small island christened the Island of Tranquil Delight. It was named after a pretty isle in a lovely stream which flowed hard by Sir Henry’s old home in England. But in several respects the two islands differed greatly: one was shaded by the wide-spreading branches of an oak—an oak planted in the days of William the Conqueror—and at the foot of this venerable tree lay the ruins of what once had been a hermit’s cell. The other island had a persimmon-tree growing in the middle of it, and every time Sir Henry approached this retired corner of his domain he espied an opossum waddling off; and the name of both tree and animal sounded exceedingly vulgar to his ears. But, as we have remarked, this was his favorite spot. Here he loved to come and listen to the murmuring brook, to see the trout jump up, and watch some beautiful lilies, the bulbs of which he had brought over from his native land.
One day Helen determined to go down to the Island of Tranquil Delight and make another attempt to soften her father’s heart towards her future husband. “And then,” she said to herself, “I’ll tell him that I am William’s betrothed; and oh! what a weight will be lifted off my heart.”
Accordingly, she repaired thither. But Sir Henry quickly checked her, saying: “Why, child, one might think from the interest you take in Berkeley that you were fast in love with him. Good God! child, I hope not. I—”
What else he might have spoken we cannot tell, for just at this critical moment who should be seen advancing towards them but one of Sir Henry’s oldest and best friends, a boon companion of his youth, who had just arrived from England; and in the hearty greeting and long talk that followed all thought of Berkeley was happily driven out of the old gentleman’s mind.
We may imagine what a Godsend this proved to be for Helen. And, moreover, her father’s friend was invited to make the castle his home as long as he remained at St. Mary’s, so that his visit afforded the girl not a little spare time; for Sir Henry did not oblige her to read to him a couple of hours daily nor sing and play for him on the harpsichord. Indeed, he took his watchful eye off her movements entirely; neither asked whither she was going when she went out, nor where she had been when she returned home; and language can but faintly express the blessings which Helen breathed on her father’s guest for thus unwittingly procuring her so much liberty.
Every day she spent some time in Evelyn’s company, whose newborn energy gave her as much wonder as delight. Nothing he had ever painted before was so instinct with life, showed such marks of genius, as the painting he was now engaged upon. And seeing her there so often, and hearing them converse together so familiarly, caused more than one gossip to say: “There will be a wedding ere long at the Tower.”
But Sir Charles did something else besides ply his crayon and brush: he was up every morning as early as the oriole whose nest hung close by his window, studying and otherwise preparing himself for his new life; and the stars were long twinkling in the heavens when he retired to rest at night. And if sometimes in the still hours a vision of what might have been passed before him—a vision of home, of a hearthstone of his own, of wife and children gathered around him—the sweet vision vanished, nor left a pang behind, as soon as he opened his eyes and murmured a prayer.
Thus passed away August, September, October, and Sir Henry began to hope that Evelyn had got over his folly—for such he called the notion of becoming a priest; and this hope, together with the companionship of his friend (who Helen prayed might never go away, and who had brought over from London a pipe of Canary, which he insisted on sharing with his host), caused Sir Henry’s spirits to revive greatly; and one morning he kissed Helen, and said in what for him was a very mild voice: “Child, when will you bring me the glad tidings I am yearning to hear?”
Whereupon she smiled, rubbed her cheek against his grizzly beard, and without answering thought to herself: “The fantastic plan which came last night in a dream will succeed; I feel sure it will. And though I shall have to brave your wrath once more, in the end, father, you will forgive me.”
And now was ushered in the loveliest season of the year—Indian Summer. Of an early morning on one of these lovely days Helen mounted a pillion behind Evelyn, and, accompanied by her waiting-woman, set out for St. Joseph’s, which was the name Berkeley had given to the new settlement, and where report said he was become the chief man. Her father made no objection to her taking this trip, for he knew there was a widow lady, with whom Helen had been once exceedingly intimate, who was now living at St. Joseph’s, and it was quite natural that the girl should wish to visit her.
Moreover, good Father McElroy—formerly Helen’s confessor—was living there too; so that the old gentleman, as guileless as he was proud, did not suspect the real object of this journey, for he had not heard Helen breathe Berkeley’s name in several months.
As for Helen daring to wed him, nay, even to plight Berkeley her troth—this Sir Henry could have sworn that his meek, obedient child never would do.
Accordingly, as we have said, Helen departed for St. Joseph’s, her father wishing her “God speed! and come back soon,” and she waving her hand to him until the forest hid him from view. Then Sir Henry turned to his old comrade, saying: “’Tis well I have you with me, Dick, otherwise this castle would be horribly dull now”; on which the other answered: “Depend upon it, Harry, there’s a match brewing ’tween Miss Helen and Sir Charles. Ay, I can tell by the sparkle of a lassie’s eye when she’s in love; nor is there any thought of priesthood in Evelyn. And at the wedding feast we’ll drain dry my cask of Canary and set the whole town in a roar.”
“May the Lord hasten that day!” returned Sir Henry. “Oh! I long with a longing words cannot express to see a grandchild ere I die.”
TO BE CONCLUDED NEXT MONTH.
Footnote 90:
Queen of Charles I., and in whose honor the colony was called Maryland.
Footnote 91:
Ps. lx. 3-5.
THE FUTURE OF FAITH.
“Looking, then, at the Church of Rome from a strictly logical stand-point, it is hard to see how, if we believe in free will and morality in the face of these modern discoveries, which, as far as they go, show us all life as nothing but a vast machine—it is hard to see how we can consider the Church of Rome as logically in any way wounded, or crippled, or in a condition, should occasion offer, to be less active than she was in the days of her most undisputed ascendency. I conceive of her as a ship that seems now unable to go upon any voyage, or to carry men anywhere, but that this is not because, as was said not long since, that her ‘hull was riddled by logic,’ or that she is dismasted or has lost her sails, but merely because she has no wind to fill them. In other words, with regard to supernatural religion, and Catholicism as its one form that still survives unshattered, I conceive that the imagination of the world has been to a great measure paralyzed; but that it may be seen eventually that it never was in any way convinced; and that nothing is wanting to revive the Roman Church into stronger life than ever but a craving amongst men for the certainty, the guidance, and the consolation that she alone offers them.
“The only question is whether such an outburst of feeling is in any way probable. It is possible that the world may be outgrowing such a craving as that I speak of; or that it may find some new way of appeasing it.”
Such is the conclusion of an article on “The Future of Faith,” by W. H. Mallock, in the London Contemporary Review, March, 1878. It goes without saying that the writer is not a Catholic; his very phraseology sufficiently shows this. His testimony, therefore, to the truth, the strength, and the stability of the Catholic Church is the more important as being that of an outsider. He is a man, judging by such of his writings as we have seen, who in a time of intellectual doubt and questioning, almost of despair, is searching honestly and earnestly for some truth on which to rest, if truth there be. He examines all things, shirks nothing, shrinks from nothing. He is not terrified by phrases; he is not to be put off with jargon, scientific or otherwise. If a man descants to him on “the great Unknown and Unknowable,” he listens with calm politeness, and then asks quietly, What is the great Unknown or the great Unknowable? And so with any other term and real or alleged fact. He sifts and sifts until he gets at the bottom. If the bottom is emptiness he says so; if he finds something there he says so. He acknowledges established facts, whether or not those facts go against his natural inclinations, or his preconceived theories, or the prejudices that in the course of a lifetime grow up around even the broadest and most honest minds; for pure intelligence is a rare quality indeed in man. The testimony, then, of a man like Mr. Mallock, a man who in every line he writes shows a keen intelligence, a mind formed by careful study and stored with knowledge, a rare culture, and a thorough honesty of purpose—the testimony, we say, of such a man is of real value on any subject of which he treats, and worthy of all respect.
The article which we purpose examining, and presenting in great part to our readers, seems to us to be almost the closing link in a long chain of reasoning. It is closely connected with other writings by the same author, and, though complete and independent in itself, thanks to the writer’s skill and logical strength, it ought really to be read with them in order to grasp its full force and significance as intended by the author himself. It should be read in connection with The New Republic; or, Culture, Faith, and Philosophy in an English Country House (Scribner, Armstrong & Co., 1878); “Is Life Worth Living?” (the Nineteenth Century, September, 1877, and January, 1878); to which may be added “Positivism on an Island” (the Contemporary Review, April, 1878). All of these bear one upon another. In them the most brilliant and refined satire alternates with, may be said rather to lighten, illustrate, and render fascinating, the most eager and earnest and searching inquiry into the very foundations of all that constitutes human society, especially in its modern and unchristian form. Mr. Mallock does not laugh simply for the laugh’s sake. Indeed, there is a deep mournfulness in his satire, notwithstanding its brilliancy—an undertone of sadness that causes one to doubt sometimes whether it is a laugh or a wail that we hear. It seems to us that the highest satire should always leave this doubt on the mind—the satire that is only bitter with the healthy bitterness of truth cleverly presented. However, we will not discuss that matter now; and with the mere mention of Mr. Mallock’s other writings, and the recommendation of them as affording reading that is at once very pleasant while it is healthy and strong, we turn to the more immediate subject of our article.
The future of faith is of course a question that deeply concerns all the world, more especially in these days, perhaps, when faith in its honest old meaning is dying according to some, dead according to others, an effete and pitiable superstition according to very many more. Delightful and quaint and chivalrous old Kenelm Digby would seem half inclined to restrict the Ages of Faith to days when Christian knights went forth to battle for the Holy Sepulchre, when there was in all Christendom but one Christian faith held by all, and when Europe was forming and emerging out of paganism and barbarism under the beneficent hand of the Catholic Church. Those old days have passed away, and with them, according to many modern and enlightened thinkers, has passed the old faith. Christendom itself has passed away, too. Those were the days of the infancy of Christian nations, and an infantine belief akin to, where it was not wholly, superstition befitted them, according to what claims to be modern enlightenment. One religion was very natural then, and did much good, perhaps, in softening and checking barbarism and saving the very life of Europe. But as the infants grew into youth, and the youth developed into manhood, it was only natural that they should cut aloose from their leading-strings, tire of the mother who had watched so tenderly over their birth and growth and development, and discover that she was a shrewish old termagant, who wanted to keep them in leading-strings all their lives. So they cut their leading-strings and emancipated themselves, and believed as they liked and did as they liked, and left their mother to live or die as she might. Mother-like she refused to die; she lived for them. Though grown to man’s estate, they were still her children. Though they would disown her, she was still their mother. And her eyes went out wistfully after them; her heart yearned always for their return; her prayers went up unceasingly to heaven for them. Will the “Ages of Faith” ever come back, the old unity, the old simplicity? Is such a thing as the old faith ever dreamed of in this faithless age? Is there a desire anywhere among men for Christian unity, or is the tendency not rather the other way, towards still greater disintegration, until the very name of faith be banished from the world, and all mankind shall have attained to the supreme scientific beatitude of placid disbelief in a God whom they cannot see with their earthly eyes, touch with their earthly hands, set under their microscopes, examine and analyze and measure and weigh? This is really the question to which Mr. Mallock applies himself.
To those who note the signs of the times there is observable a strong centripetal as well as an equally strong, and perhaps more pronounced, centrifugal moral force working among men to-day. The centre from which the one party seeks to fly, and to which the other party seeks to turn, is Rome, the centre of Catholic unity. Take the Anglican Church as an instance. More than once in its history of three centuries has there been an attempt among some of its members to turn backwards to Rome. Never was that attempt more open and avowed than it is to-day, and, on the other hand, never was that attempt more bitterly resented by an opposing and more numerous party in the same church than it is to-day. There were at one time, under Alexander I., strong hopes of Russia becoming reconciled to the mother church. The sudden death of the emperor effectually quenched those hopes for the time being. The very large and ever-increasing number of conversions to the Catholic faith within the last half-century, of men of every form of belief or of no belief, very many of whom have been conspicuous for their learning and ability, some of them for their genius, is another indication of the real existence and strength of what we have termed this centripetal moral force. We only note these facts now, without stopping to inquire into their cause. But whether we be right or wrong in our belief that there is a strong and growing tendency towards reunion in Christendom, there is no denying that outside of the Catholic Church there never did exist so open and pronounced a feeling of religious unrest and disquietude as exists to-day among all bodies of professed Christians. What they have of religion, and what their fathers professed, no longer satisfies them. What were once held to be indisputable articles of faith are so no longer. Deep mistrust of the old ways, disbelief in the old tenets, have set in, and men who wish to be Christians find themselves without any fixed ground of faith. Thus infidelity is reaping a rich harvest, for the reason that Christianity in the minds of non-Catholics was identified with Protestantism in its various forms. But Protestantism now is found insufficient and wanting. It has fallen to pieces under the attacks of its own children, who to-day find themselves without a faith, and without any positive moral guide save such fragments of the truth as are still left to them, and to which the best of them adhere as a matter of necessity without exactly knowing why. They feel that Christianity is right, is the best; but they have not quite made up their minds as to what Christianity is or where it is. In fact, they shrink from the painful inquiry, and naturally enough; for the very fact of such an inquiry is an admission that there is something very wrong in their system, and that the wrong is an old growth.
This general feeling of unrest and disquietude shows itself in a thousand ways, and in no way more conspicuously than in the literature of the day, even in its lighter forms. What newspaper is without its “theologian”? We keep a theologian, say the newspapers, as the lady of the nouveaux riches said: “We keep a poet.” In days when religion is by many advanced minds supposed to be altogether out of date we find no subject of more general and entrancing interest than religion. The first question asked when a respectable rascal is exposed is, To what church did he belong? And so seemingly advantageous is religion, at least in a social point of view, that it generally turns out, especially, we are sorry to confess, in our own country, that the rascal was “a leading member of the church” and “in good standing.” We know to our cost what the school of “Christian statesmen” means. Even these degrading and disgraceful spectacles show that Christianity cannot be so very dead when its profession is found to be so very profitable a moral investment and so strong a guarantee of good character and sound morals. The evidence is that, whatever may be said, people still cling to it as something sacred and above suspicion, and their sense is undoubtedly right, however often and however sadly they may find themselves mistaken. It is not yet a reproach to a man that he is a professed Christian. On the contrary, it is the greatest stigma, as it ought to be, on his character when he falls. If he avowedly believed in nothing, in no moral law, men could easily understand why he should refuse to be bound by any moral law. But when he professes to be a follower of Christ and betrays his trust, even the infidel is shocked and turns with special loathing from the hypocrite.
Emerson, who is avowedly no Christian, in these his late days—and, let us hope, his best—can find no subjects so interesting as morals, religion, ethics; and his tendency, allowing for his early training, his acquired habit of mind and expression, is unquestionably in the right direction. Some of Carlyle’s latest and noblest utterances are Christian in spite of himself. At least he can find nothing in the world, which he long ago consigned, to the devil, of such real worth as Christian faith. Bulwer Lytton’s last and, to our thinking, his best story presents a noble Catholic youth as the very beau ideal of excellence, and excellent because of his Catholicity. Thackeray sighed long ago for what to him seemed a hopeless reunion with Rome. George Eliot’s stories are a perpetual wail of despair for lack of fixed belief and a moral right which she cannot see. Others, the scientific minds more especially, are fiercer and bitterly attack anything that recognizes the supernatural. James Anthony Froude, while confessing that Protestantism as a whole has gone to the devil and allowed Protestants to go wholesale the same way, is startled at a “revival of Romanism.” We are only taking these few and varied instances as characteristic of the multitude of non-Catholics to-day who would fain believe in something and take refuge from the awful blank of infidelity. The magazines are full of them and of many like them. Mr. Disraeli moves England with a religious novel; and his political rival, Mr. Gladstone, has only lately deserted Rome to take up the Turk. Indeed, he seems to take even a more passionate interest in his theological than in his political discussions; and, facilis descensus, our own Secretary of the Navy shows his supreme fitness for his position by writing a remarkably bad and stupid book—remarkably bad and stupid even for him—against Rome.
We have not lost sight of our subject nor parted company with Mr. Mallock. All that has been said has only been intended to show how general is the interest to-day among all classes of minds in religious discussion. This of itself is an assurance that there is something to discuss; that there are disputed questions abroad which interest all men alike; and that these questions are not settled. And that is the point to which we wish to call special attention. Outside of the Catholic Church there is no body to-day claiming to be Christian which is fixed and steadfast in its belief; and this is only another way of saying that there is no belief which wholly commends itself to its professed followers, save the Catholic. Mr. Mallock does not write for Catholics. They are, as he acknowledges, and as all acknowledge, at least firm and steadfast. There is no shaking them. They may be wrong, utterly wrong, but at least men can see exactly what they believe and why they believe. Are they right in their belief, or are others right? Is there any such thing as faith in this world to-day, and is there any reasonable hope of its holding its ground and approving itself to the intelligence of mankind? These are the questions which Mr. Mallock puts in the calmest of tempers and with the thorough honesty of purpose we have already noticed.
In discussing “the future of faith” Mr. Mallock naturally turns his attention to those who profess to have and to hold Christian faith. The prospects of faith in the present order of the world he does not find very encouraging. What is called modern thought is against it; modern tone is against it—“a tone of confident and supercilious animosity that is gradually dying into triumph.” “It is true,” says Mr. Mallock, “that this leaven in its full bitterness is to be found only in a narrow circle; but flavors of it, more or less diluted, meet us far and wide. Indeed, it is difficult to find any place where they are not traceable.” This is undoubtedly true; it is equally true that “there is doubtless much definite religion left around us, and many firm believers. But the modern tone has its influence even on these. Religion must be changed in some ways by the neighborhood of irreligion.” This he explains by showing the amicable social relations that exist between religious and irreligious people in these days.
“They are united by habits, by blood, and by friendship; and they are each accustomed to ignore or to excuse what they hold to be the errors of the other. In a state of things like this it is plain that the convictions of believers can neither have the fierce intensity found in a minority under persecution, nor the placid confidence that belongs to an overwhelming majority. They can neither hate the unbelievers, for they daily live in amity with them; nor despise altogether their judgment, for the most eminent thinkers of the day belong to them. The believers are forced into a sort of compromise, which is a new feature in their history. They see that the age is against them; and they are obliged to make excuses for their enemy.”
Mr. Mallock, it will be seen, does not here characterize his “believers.” We are not prepared to agree altogether with what he says in this. At the very least the influence resulting from a social truce between believers and unbelievers need not tell entirely on the side of unbelief. There is no reason why believers should not be as steadfast in a drawing-room as in a church or on a battle-field, and politeness to an opponent does not of necessity imply a concession of weakness. Religious fervor is by no means incompatible with civility; but doubtless Mr. Mallock has in view more particularly Protestant believers, though he would not seem to restrict himself to them, judging from the following passage:
“If the modern tone has thus affected even those who ye most opposed to it, what must not its effect be upon those who have, in part of their own free will, adopted it? And these form to-day a great mass of our educated public. A large number of these still call themselves Protestants; and were the matter to be treated lightly, they might afford countless studies for the humorist. The state to which they have reduced their religion is indeed a curious one. With a facile eclecticism that is based on no principle, and that changes from year to year, or more probably from mood to mood, they pick and choose their doctrines, saying: ‘I keep this and I reject this,’ in some such manner as the following: ‘Of course the Apostles’ Creed is true, and of course the Athanasian Creed is false. And then, after all, suppose neither is true, the meaning of the thing is the real heart of the matter.’ Such is the Protestant language of to-day. Nor is it the language of foolish or of ignorant people; it is the language of countless clever men who have much to do, and of countless clever women who have nothing to do.”
The author proceeds to test the actual value on a person’s life of such a faith as this—a faith that has nothing really fixed in it, and that varies with the mood of the holder. There come the great trials of life, when those who sorrow or those who suffer or are sorely tempted require all their fortitude, must trample on themselves and on their own feelings and natural instincts, or yield to despair and give way to wrong.
“A great sorrow comes, or a great temptation comes. At once the tone of to-day grows more pronounced, and a new set of arguments suggest themselves with singular readiness: ‘God is not good, or he would never have robbed me of so good a husband’; or, ‘God is not good, or he would never have let me marry such a bad one’; and then follows, as a corollary to these propositions, ‘God is nothing if not good, and therefore there is no God at all.’ Or the syllogism, especially in the feminine mind, takes not uncommonly some such form as this: ‘If there was a God he would put me into hell for being in love with so-and-so; but I am certain in my own mind that I do not deserve hell; therefore I am certain in my own mind that there can be no God to put me there.’”
The aptness and force with which Mr. Mallock brings the application of these vague speculations about religion and these loose principles of belief home to daily life is characteristic of the man. He is not content with wandering in the clouds. He brings everything down to solid earth, and tests and weighs it there. He does not ask, How will this appear to the philosopher? but How will this affect the lives of men and women? Religion is not for the philosophers only, but for every man born into this world. A recent trial in Brooklyn gives peculiar point to his remarks on this head. “In former times,” says Mr. Mallock, “when such thoughts occurred to men, the whole weight of the world’s opinion always was ready to condemn them as vain and wicked. But now the case is just reversed. However foolish may be the actual conduct of such reasoning, the opinion of the enlightened world is ready to corroborate the conclusion.”
He goes on to take another circle, “a probably far larger one.” This is made up of men who are in suspense altogether. “They see much to revere and to regret in Christianity, but they make no pretence of believing in its details. They do not even think them worth arguing against.” And, lastly, “there are the extreme destroyers, who would break altogether with the past; and who, though probably wishing to retain some of the emotions that were once directed to God and to heaven, would give them an entirely different object in the shape of humanity, and would never suffer them to wander from the earth’s surface.”
“Such are the various parties that the world of thought now shows to us,” says Mr. Mallock—a small body who cling heart and soul to the past; a small body that would utterly break with the past; and between them “a vast and varied crowd, tinged in various proportions with the colors of each extreme. And amongst them all there is a continual arguing, and anxiety, and perplexity.”
There is no denying the truth of this picture. Such is Christendom to-day, and what is to be the outcome of it all? The keen and truthful observer whom we are quoting thinks “it cannot be doubted that the modern tone is spreading,” and the tendency is therefore against faith. “To all except a small minority faith, in the old sense of the word, is growing a cold and shadowy thing.”
“The dogmas, the services, the ministers of the church are coming all of them to have a belated look for us. They seem out of place in the busy world around us. Ever and again we hear of a new Catholic miracle and the fame of some new pilgrimage. And the strange effect that these things have on us shows us how far our minds have travelled.
Do such things still exist? we ask in surprise and irritation, and we set them down as ‘the grimacings of a dead superstition’ galvanized into a ghastly imitation of life. And then from the modern miracles the mind goes back to the older ones, once held so sacred and so certain. And they, too, have undergone a change for us. Not only are Lourdes and Paray-le-Monial contemptible, but Calvary is disenchanted. There may have been a death there, but there was never a Sacrifice. Scales have fallen from our eyes. We see it all clearly. The creed we were brought up in is an earthly myth, not a heavenly revelation. We know exactly whence it came, and we see pretty certainly whither it is going. The signs of it still survive; but they signify nothing. They will soon be swept away, and will make place, we hope earnestly, for something better.”
Such is the modern tone, wonderfully well presented. Is it so universal as Mr. Mallock seems to think, or so deeply rooted in the minds and hearts of men? He himself is in doubt on this point, and proceeds to inquire with characteristic honesty and persistence. He takes up and classifies the various objections against Christianity that are popular to-day: the objections à priori, which are opposed to all religion, natural as well as revealed; and the objections à posteriori, which are opposed to revealed religion only. We must refer the reader to Mr. Mallock’s article for these objections, as space does not allow us to present them, nor is their presentation necessary to our immediate purpose. The conclusion at which he arrives is briefly this: “If Christianity relies for support on the external evidence of its truth, it can never again hope to convince men. These supports are seen to be utterly inadequate to the weight that is put upon them. They might possibly serve as props, but they crash and crumble instantly if they are used as pillars.”
We are not so much arguing with Mr. Mallock as allowing him free utterance, therefore we make no formal exception to what he here says. But, he goes on, “it is as pillars that the whole Protestant community uses them,” the “props” above mentioned, and he takes up Protestantism as the religion of the Bible.
“There,” it says, “is the word of God; there is my infallible guide. I listen to none but that. It is my first axiom that the Bible is infallible; and granting that, history teaches me that all other churches are fallible. On the Bible, and the Bible only, I rest myself. Out of its mouth shall you judge me. And for a long time this language had much force in it, for the Protestant axiom was received by all parties. It is true that it might be hard to decide what God’s word meant; but still every one admitted that God’s word was there, and it at any rate meant something. But now all this is changed. The great axiom is received no longer. Many, indeed, consider it not an axiom but an absurdity; at best it appears but as a very doubtful fact; and if external proof is to be what guides us, we shall need more proofs to convince us that the Bible is the word of God than that Protestantism is the religion of the Bible.”
We agree with Mr. Mallock that if this be Christianity, Christianity has lost its use and its place in this world. Reasonable men cannot be brought to understand how so stupendous and vast an edifice as Christianity can by any possibility rest on so very narrow and shaky a foundation as that presented by Protestantism. The whole thing is either a gigantic sham, which has enslaved and overshadowed men’s minds too long already and wrought infinite mischief in the world, or else we must seek some deeper and broader foundation for it than this. “In this country” (England), says Mr. Mallock, “nearly all the ablest attacks upon supernatural religion have been directed against it as embodied in the Protestant form; and they have widely, and not unnaturally, been regarded as quite victorious.” There is left then only one of two alternatives: either Christianity is false, or Protestantism is not Christianity.
Protestantism has fallen, as we said, under the hands of its own children. They have demolished it, and left only scattered fragments of what was a body with something like life in it. In destroying it have they destroyed what they identified with it—supernatural religion, or Christianity?
“It seems to escape the assailants,” observes Mr. Mallock, “that though they may have burnt the outworks, there is still a citadel inside, which, though it seems to them almost too contemptible to take account of, may yet not prove combustible, and, when the conflagration outside has subsided, may still remain to annoy them. They forget altogether, I mean, the Church of Rome; nor do they seem to consider that, though for other causes she may perhaps be dying, yet many of their logical darts can do nothing to hasten her end.”
Having found Protestantism so complete a failure, Mr. Mallock turns to the Catholic Church and examines it. He finds that “Catholics have one characteristic which fundamentally separates them from the Protestants” with respect to the chief points at which modern thought and science have assailed revealed religion. Protestantism, he says, offers itself to the world as a strange servant might—bringing with its number of written testimonials to character. It expressly begs us not to trust to its own word. The world examines the testimonials carefully; “it at last sees that they look suspicious, that they may very possibly be forgeries; it asks the Protestant Church to prove them genuine, and the Protestant Church cannot.”
Catholicism comes in an exactly opposite way. It brings the very same testimonials, but sets itself above them. It speaks with its own authority. It speaks as Christ spoke, Who said openly and boldly: “Believe in me; I am the way, the truth, and the life; the Father and I are one.” He used the Scriptures also, but only as adjuncts to his own teaching. His credentials were exclusively his own. The Scriptures were his; he was not the Scriptures’. And so the church which he founded surely ought to speak—the church which is his living body, higher and greater than any Scriptures. “It” (the Catholic Church), says Mr. Mallock, “asks us to make some acquaintance with it; to look into its living eyes, to hear the words of its mouth, to watch its ways and works, and to feel its inner spirit; and then it says to the world, ‘Can you trust me? If so, you must trust me all in all, for the first thing I declare to you is that I have never lied. Can you trust me thus far? Then listen, and I will tell you my story. You have heard it told one way, I know; and that way often goes against me. I admit myself that it has many suspicious circumstances. But none of them positively condemn me. All are capable of a guiltless interpretation; and now you know me as I am, you will give me the benefit of every doubt.’ It is in this spirit that Catholicism offers us the Bible. ‘Believe the Bible for my sake,’ it says, ‘not me for the Bible’s.’ And the book, as thus offered us, changes its whole character.”
We have no fault to find with this presentation of the Catholic claims so far. Mr. Mallock has here fully grasped an essential difference between Catholics and Protestants which few non-Catholics are able to grasp. How clearly and well he elucidates this important point will be seen by those who care to read his article, of which we can only present the substance. His conclusion with regard to Catholicity and the Bible is: “As Catholicism stands at the present moment, it seems hard to say that, were we for any other reasons inclined to trust it, it makes any claim for the Bible that would absolutely prevent our doing so.” That being the case, it follows as a matter of course that all the “logical darts” aimed at the Bible fall harmless from the invincible armor of the Catholic Church.
He then goes on to consider the various doctrines of the Catholic Church, and herein he shows the same capability of appreciating the Catholic stand-point, an appreciation of which stand-point is, of course, necessary to any one who would honestly inquire into what Catholicity really is, and what Catholics actually do believe. These doctrines, he says, “though it is claimed that they are all implied in the Bible, are confessedly not expressed in it, and were confessedly not consciously assented to by the church till long after the sacred canon was closed.” We would here remark that this is true only of some Catholic doctrines. Well, says Mr. Mallock, “let us here grant the extreme position of the church’s most hostile critics. Let us grant that all the doctrines in question can be traced to external and often to non-Christian sources. And what is the result on Romanism? Does this go any way whatever towards logically discrediting its claims?” We will let him answer his own question in his own way:
“If we do but consider the matter fairly, we shall see that it does not even tend to do so. Here, as in the case of the Bible, the Roman doctrine of infallibility meets all objections. For the real question here is not in what store-house of opinions the church found its doctrines; but why it selected those it did, and why it rejected and condemned the rest. History cannot answer this. History can show us only who made the separate bricks; it cannot show us who made and designed the building.... And the doctrines of the church are but as the stones in a building, the letters of an alphabet, or the words of a language. Many are offered and few chosen. The supernatural action is to be detected in the choice. The whole history of the church, in fact, as she herself tells it, is a history of supernatural selection. It is quite possible that she may claim it to be more than that; but could she vindicate for herself but this one faculty of an infallible choice, she would vindicate to the full her claim to be under a superhuman guidance. The church may be conceived of as a living organism, for ever and on all sides putting forth feelers and tentacles, that seize, try, and seem to dally with all kinds of nutriment. A part of this she at length takes into herself. A large part she at length puts down again. Much that is thus rejected she seems for a long time on the point of choosing. But however slow may be the final decision in coming, however reluctant or hesitating it may seem to be, when it is once made it is claimed for it that it is infallible. And this claim, when we once understand its nature, will be seen, I think, to be one that neither our knowledge of ecclesiastical history nor of comparative mythology can invalidate now or even promise ever to do so.”
It will be seen that we are a long way from Protestantism already, and that we have here a very different kind of church, which, be it right or wrong, rests on a very deep and firm foundation. At least this must be said of it by all: Granting its truth, there is no stronger foundation conceivable. Granting it to be false even, it is hard to conceive a stronger foundation, or one that could commend itself with more force and assurance of safety to reasonable men. If there be a God living and moving in this world, this looks very like God’s handiwork.
Mr. Mallock concedes that “the Catholic Church can still claim, in the face of all the new lights thrown on her history, to be sprung from a supernatural root.” But it may be that she “will be found to be betrayed by her fruits” when these are inspected in detail. Her primary dogmas and her general sacred character may be conceded; but “numberless deductions from them and indirect consequences” may “revolt our common sense and our moral sense, though we have no exact means of disproving them.” Such difficulties, he finds, do exist; “but if we examine them carefully, many, at least, will be found to rest upon misconceptions.”
The difficulties in question are that Catholicity “makes salvation depend on our assenting to a number of obscure propositions”; that to many Catholic ritual seems to be an integral part of the church’s mystical body, and that thus salvation is made to hang “not only on an assent to occult propositions of philosophy, but upon altar-candles and the colored clothes of priests”; again, “the temper and intellectual tone which she seems to develop in her members” makes the church “a rock of offence to many”; there are “a number of miraculous legends and quaint beliefs which are or have been prevalent amongst Catholics.” Of all these difficulties Mr. Mallock himself very lucidly and effectively disposes, and shows that they “will be seen to be not really formidable.” There are other difficulties, however, which he finds “worse than these.” They consist of “certain moral objections to the Catholic Church’s scheme altogether, and objections of science and common sense to other necessary parts of it.”
“The moral objections consist principally of these: the exclusiveness of the church, which leaves the rest of mankind uncared for; the church’s doctrine of rewards and punishments, which are barbarous or ridiculous in their details, and which, besides that, make all virtue venal; and the doctrine of a vicarious satisfaction for sin, which to many minds carries its own condemnation on the face of it. Lastly, besides these, there is the entire question of miracles.”
Into all these matters Mr. Mallock goes with the same patient purpose and honest mind that distinguish him everywhere. His conclusion, as a whole, is given at the head of this article. Space forbids us to follow him any farther, but we cannot resist the temptation to quote for the benefit of our non-Catholic readers what he says on infallibility and on the “exclusiveness” of the Catholic Church:
“The doctrine of the church’s infallibility,” he says, “has a side that is just the opposite of that which is commonly thought to be its only one. It is supposed to have simply gendered bondage, not to have gendered liberty. But as a matter of fact it has done both; and if we view the matter fairly we shall see that it has done the latter at least as completely as the former. The doctrine of infallibility is undoubtedly a rope that tethers those that hold it to certain real or supposed facts of the past; but it is a rope that is capable of indefinite lengthening. It is not a fetter only; it is a support also, and those who cling to it can venture fearlessly, as explorers, into currents of speculation that would sweep away altogether men who did but trust to their own powers of swimming. Nor does, as is often supposed, the centralizing of this infallibility in the person of one man present any difficulty from the Catholic point of view. It is said that the pope might any day make a dogma of any absurdity that might happen to occur to him; and that the Catholic would be bound to accept these, however strongly his reason might repudiate them. And it is quite true that the pope might do this any day, in the sense that there is no external power to prevent him. But he who has assented to the central doctrine of Catholicism knows that he never will. And it is precisely the obvious absence of any restraint from without that brings home to the Catholic his faith in the guiding power from within.”
Of the “exclusiveness” of the Catholic Church, or, as it is more commonly put, of the doctrine that “out of the Catholic Church there is no salvation,” Mr. Mallock thus writes:
“As to the exclusiveness of the Catholic Church, it must be of course confessed that much perplexity is caused by any view of the world which obliges us to think of the most saving truths, and the most precious helps to a right life, being confined to a minority of the human race. But, supposing we attach to a knowledge of the truth any real importance, let us hold the supreme truths of life to be what we may, until the whole human race are unanimous about them we shall have to regard a part, probably through no fault of their own, as condemned to disastrous error. But of all creeds Catholicism is the one that does most to alleviate this perplexity. Of all religious bodies the Roman Church has the largest hope and charity for those outside her own pale. She condemns men, not for not accepting her teaching, but only for rejecting it; and they cannot reject it until they know it, what it is—know its inner spirit as well as its outward forms and formulas. Such a knowledge, in the opinion of many Catholics, it may be a very hard thing to convey to some men. Prejudices for which they themselves are not responsible may have blinded their eyes; and if they have been blind they will not have had sin. They will be able to plead invincible ignorance; and the judgments the church pronounces are not against those who have not known, but against those only who have known and hated. Nor is it too much to say that a zealous Catholic can afford to harbor more hope for an infidel than a zealous Protestant can afford to harbor for a Catholic.”
And now comes the final question, What is to be the future of faith? As we regard the matter, the answer to that, humanly speaking, rests mainly with those who have the faith. Faith is a sacred deposit, to be used, spread, and propagated over the world; to lead men to a right manner of living, to the true knowledge of God, and up to God. Thus the future of faith is in the hands of the faithful. Faith has two antagonists: the devil and, in a sense, man’s free-will. Of course modern thought scornfully dismisses the first antagonist as a myth. We cannot follow modern thought in this; we have a very profound belief in the existence of an ever-active and intelligent spirit of evil, who can and does tempt man into revolt against God, and who finds his readiest instrument, where he ought to find his chief resistance, in that highest prerogative of freedom which God confers on man. We take, then, first the devil, and, in a secondary sense, man’s free-will as the two great antagonists to faith. That is to say, if man will rebel, if he will not accept the faith, there is no power to hinder his rebellion.
And here we leave the devil aside and turn only to man. The future of faith is for him to say. What will he do with it? Why does he not accept it? Why should his free-will reject it, if it is good and approves itself so strongly to human intelligence, and if, moreover, God and all heaven are for ever standing on its side? There was at one time a united faith in Christendom; why was it ever broken?
Of course we can lay a great deal on the back of the devil and on the perversity of the human will. But it may be as well to remember also that those who have the faith may prove false to their trust. St. James tells us that even the devils believe and tremble. And so a man may possess the letter of the faith in full with very little of its spirit. A man may know St. Thomas from cover to cover, and assent to all his propositions, yet lead a bad life. Faith without works is dead. Christians must show forth in their lives whose disciples they are. If their lives are good; if the lives of a large body of believers are good; if they are chaste, charitable, honest in word and deed, and if such be the normal condition of their lives, men will not have far to go to look for faith. Virtue is the great preacher and converter. Even natural virtue—courage, sobriety, manliness, self-restraint—wins universal admiration. Supernatural virtue proclaims its godhead.
If the world is to be converted to faith, it will only be converted by the good lives and works of the faithful. The human intellect may carp at intellectual difficulties, but the human heart is overcome by goodness, by charity, by chastity. Faith is now what it always was; men are as they always were. But from a faithless and corrupt generation the inheritance is taken away. Thus the Jews lost it, thus Christian nations lose it. Had there been no corruption among the faithful there would have been no Protestant Reformation. Had there been no corruption in France, had the leaders of the people been true to the faith that was in them, infidelity would never have made such fearful havoc in a land of saints. And so with Germany, England, Scotland, Austria, Italy, and the other nations; when we examine closely we shall find that the revolt had its origin less in pride of intellect than in the concupiscence of the flesh and the pride of life. Intellectual assent to God’s teaching is not enough to lead a man to heaven. There must be a corresponding moral assent in his life. Why did Ireland, the weakest of the nations, not lose the faith? She was decimated, starved, made ignorant, brutalized as far as inhuman legislation can go to brutalize man, but she never lost the faith. Why? Because her sons and her daughters, whatever they may have known or not known of theology, of science, of philosophy, of literature, lived the faith, kept it stored up in their hearts, died for it, bequeathed it as a sacred legacy—their only legacy—to their children. Ah! it is on this that the future of faith hangs more than on intellectual discussion, articles in magazines, or theological writings. Shall we to-day doubt or hesitate about the future of faith—we the members of a church that numbers its millions by the hundred thousand? Are not we the children of Peter, of Paul, of Christ himself? Have not we the deposit that he confided to the twelve? Did they hesitate to face a world from which faith was almost blotted out, a world steeped in iniquity? They went out—twelve men; they preached Jesus, and him crucified; they lived what they preached, they suffered for what they preached, and, when nothing more was left for them to do, they died for it. We are not called upon to die for it to-day. The church is established. Its temples cover the world. Its children are in every land. From the rising of the sun to the going down thereof the living Sacrifice of Christ’s redeeming body and blood is daily offered up to God from the world and for the world. Can we tremble for the future of faith?
Of course sin and schism and infidelity will exist in the world till the end; but great multitudes may be saved and brought back if only the faithful are true. One great opposing element to the advance of faith is dissolving before our eyes—Protestantism. Shall all the children of Protestants perish and be given over to infidelity? Are there no earnest and well-inclined minds among them, no good people? There are multitudes of such, who are wavering and in doubt and sore perplexity because such support even as they had is slipping from under them, and beneath they see nothing but a blank and awful abyss. We do not anticipate that they will come back to us in multitudes. We scarcely look for that general “craving amongst men for the certainty, the guidance, and the consolation that the Catholic Church alone offers them,” as Mr. Mallock puts it. We do not rely upon “such an outburst of feeling”; and yet even that might come. Sensim sine sensu will the wanderers come back. What we Catholics have to consider is our duty in the matter. We can indeed hasten that coming. If we would do so effectually we must be brothers to them in charity, examples to them in our lives, above them in intelligence as in that faith which is the highest intelligence.
NEW PUBLICATIONS.
ELEMENTS OF ECCLESIASTICAL LAW. By Rev. S. B. Smith, D.D. Second edition, revised and enlarged. Benziger Bros., New York.
We are glad to see that the Rev. Dr. Smith has been obliged to issue a second edition of his Elements of Ecclesiastical Law so soon after his first edition. This is an evidence that his book was a desideratum in our country. Though considered as a missionary country and under the direction of the Propaganda, yet, owing to the progress which the church has made here during the last twenty-five years, we have almost all the qualifications for being put on the same regular footing as the oldest churches of Europe. At all events it cannot be denied that we are steadily and swiftly approaching that stage. Very soon the church in this country will assume the regular canonical status of the churches on the Continent of Europe. The necessity, therefore, is apparent of studying the common legislation of the church universal, in order to assimilate ourselves to the spirit and, as far as possible, to the letter of that legislation, and to apply its general principles to the particular conditions, wants, and requirements of our country. This has been Dr. Smith’s aim in the Elements he has published. He gives, in the first place, an idea of law and jus in general, and in particular of canon law with its divisions. Next he inquires into the sources of canon law—which are the Scriptures, tradition, apostolic enactments, decrees of the Roman pontiffs and of the councils, œcumenical, national, provincial, and diocesan, the Roman congregations and customs—along with a history of canon law in the Latin church, and especially a history of canon law in our country. This occupies the whole of the first part. In the second part our author treats of jurisdiction in general as vested in ecclesiastical persons, of the different kinds of jurisdiction, of the manner of acquiring it in general and in particular, of the manner of resigning and losing jurisdiction, and of the right and duties of such as are vested with ecclesiastical jurisdiction; hence in the third part he speaks in particular of the Sovereign Pontiff, his election, primacy, and other prerogatives, of cardinals and of the Roman congregations, of legates, nuncios, of patriarchs, primates, metropolitan bishops, auxiliary bishops, coadjutor-bishops, vicars-general, deans and pastors, etc., of the rights, privileges, and duties of all these respective dignitaries.
It might be said against this book that all these things are treated in every elementary treatise on canon law. Of course the author of the book before us does not claim to discuss any matter which has not found its place already in the canonical legislation of the church. But that does not make Dr. Smith’s book less valuable nor its author less worthy of praise for having rendered a great service to the church in this country. In the first place, he has put together in a comparatively small volume and at great labor what would only be found scattered in many books. In the second place, he has given us his Elements in the English language, so that every one, even those who are not familiar with the Latin tongue, can acquire a fair knowledge of the church’s legislation.
Thirdly, and above all, he has taken great pains to give us the particular legislation of our country as derived from the first and second Plenary Councils of Baltimore, of both of which he has fairly interpreted the spirit and the aim. At the first glance, and upon a superficial perusal of their enactments, it would seem that the whole tendency of these two councils was a centralization of power as vested in the hierarchy—as, for instance, the power of governing without consulting the chapter or the advisers of the bishop; the power of having seminaries regulated altogether by the bishop without the three canonical committees of the clergy, one to look after the spiritual welfare, the other two after the temporal interests, of seminaries; the power of appointing priests to parishes without the concursus, or competitive examination; the power of moving priests from parishes, and many other instances, would seem to indicate a tendency of centralizing all power in the hierarchy. Yet the spirit of the two Plenary Councils of Baltimore was far from intending any such thing, as is evident by other enactments, and by the desire which the fathers of the council frequently express of conforming themselves as far as possible to the general legislation of the church, and by the regret which they manifest that, owing to the particular circumstances of our country, they are unable to adopt the general canon law of the church in many things. Dr. Smith’s book clearly puts forward this spirit of our two plenary councils, and the enactments which the fathers made in order to put a just and fair limit to their power, as in the question of removing pastors; in which case the last Plenary Council of Baltimore enacted that no bishop should remove a pastor without a proper cause.
In questions which these two councils left undecided our author, with all proper respect, gives a decision more consonant with the general canon law of the church and with the dictates of natural jus, thus conforming himself to the spirit of the two councils.
How far it would be desirable to adopt the common canonical law in this country, or whether the time has fully arrived for doing so, the author very properly leaves for the decision of the hierarchy and the Holy See. We do not deem it inconsistent with the respect we owe to our American prelates in coinciding with the desire expressed by the Council of Baltimore that some few things pertaining to the common canonical law of the church might be carried out; for instance, the exacting of a concursus for parishes. Our bishops could require a concursus at least for the larger parishes, and abstain from appointing any one to such parishes except one of those who have received a sufficient number of points required for approbation. This would secure always for the larger parishes at least an occupant sufficiently instructed in moral as well as parenetic theology. It would also be a great inducement for the younger clergy to cultivate these sciences, and not to abandon them as soon as they are out of the seminary. Our bishops would attain these great beneficial results without losing their perfect right and freedom of appointment, as they would not be bound to give the parish to the best in learning, but to the best all things considered, learning as well as probity, prudence, and ability in looking after the temporal welfare of the church; as, indeed, they would not be bound to give it to the best at all, but only to one of the approved.
With reference to other things our opinion would be to let things remain as they are; because the common canonical law as it stands only obtains in a very few parts of Europe, and we may say that the church legislation, owing to the circumstances of the times, is in a transition state. When the Vatican Council opens again—and we hope our Holy Father Pope Leo XIII. may soon see fit to reopen it—many changes may take place in the legislation of the church. It will be time enough then for the American Church to adopt such legislation as will be conformable with the common law of the church.
Dr. Smith deserves high praise for his work, and our seminarians and clergy would do well to study his book as eminently useful and important, giving us quite an accurate idea of the common canonical law and of the particular legislation of the American Church.
THE BOOK OF PSALMS. Translated from the Latin Vulgate, etc. London: Burns & Oates. 1878. (For sale by The Catholic Publication Society Co.)
This small and neat edition of the Psalms is most welcome. With all respect we apply to it the words of an old English Catholic poet, Crashaw:
“Lo! here a little volume, but large book, Much larger in itself than in its look.”
Cardinal Manning has written the preface, and the Psalms are enriched throughout with explanatory notes as the church requires for the Scriptures in the vulgar tongue.
The Psalter of David was among all classes of Christians, from the beginning, the favorite expression both of private and public devotions. The apostles themselves (Ephes. v. 19, Coloss. iii. 16) instructed the faithful in the use of these inspired canticles, and we learn from various passages in the writings of Tertullian, Augustine, Jerome, and Ven. Bede particularly, how familiar the early Christians must have been with them until the eighth century, when public or liturgical psalmody was left to the clergy exclusively. We hope that a taste for the reading of the Sacred Scriptures, and the devotional use of the Psalms especially, will increase—we had almost said will revive—among the laity.
BOOKS FOR SUMMER READING.
The Catholic Publication Society Company has just published quite a batch of very seasonable and interesting books. For those looking for summer reading nothing better could possibly be recommended than the graphic sketches of Italian life and manners, of scenery and monuments of faith and history, embodied in the charming Six Sunny Months, which ran as a serial in this magazine. Its gifted author, the writer of the House of Yorke, Grapes and Thorns, etc., needs no introduction to our readers. A companion volume to this is the Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister, which excited so much interest and no little controversy while appearing in these pages. The pictures of French home-life and scenery, of French and Irish character, of thrilling contemporary events, given in these letters are to our thinking unsurpassed in unaffected grace and naïve simplicity, while the growing sadness of the end lifts what was intended to be the unpublished narrative of unassuming everyday existence to the heights of tragic pathos. Sir Thomas More carries us back into other days and weaves history into a powerful romance. The Trowel and the Cross, from the strong pen of Conrad von Bolanden, gives us the German social and political life of the day with a force and a truth and a deep philosophical insight that very few pens can command. Bolanden has Disraeli’s art of throwing the living problems of the day in social and political matters into interesting stories, with the saving gift, that Disraeli has not, of truth and right. Of lighter calibre, yet thoroughly charming and well adapted to while away the lazy summer hours, are Assunta Howard and Other Stories, Alba’s Dream (by the author of Are You My Wife?) and Other Stories, Stray Leaves from a Passing Life and Other Stories. Nothing better, in the way of light literature, than any or all of these books issues from the press, and nothing better can be done by Catholics who read at all than to read their own literature and support the efforts of those who devote their gifts exclusively to the Catholic cause.
Pious books especially adapted for this season are the Hand-book of Instructions and Devotions for the Children of Mary (translated from the French by Rev. J. P. O’Connell, D.D.), The Love of Jesus to Penitents (by Cardinal Manning), and The Young Girl’s Month of June (a companion to the Month of May, noticed last month, and translated by Miss MacMahon).
THE CATHOLIC WORLD. VOL. XXVII., No. 160.—JULY, 1878.
GERMAN SOCIALISM.
During the last two months our daily journals have contained reports of the doings and the threatenings of numerous mysterious associations in our Western cities. From these reports it is clear that attempts were being made to organize and arm the disaffected against the present constitution of society, and that the purpose of these proposed assaults was utterly destructive, and not at all constructive; everything as it exists was to be swept away, but there was no agreement as to what should take the place of the destroyed system. To the tail of the serpent there seemed to be no head. Each of the leaders in the agitation, when personally questioned by the agents of the daily press, spoke for himself, with more or less obscurity of meaning, but with no recognition or mention of a general organization or a directing head. In St. Louis, Cincinnati, Chicago, Milwaukee, San Francisco, and a score of other cities companies of men are meeting secretly night after night, and are drilling to accustom themselves to the use of arms; when they are not drilling they are listening to speeches in which most inflammatory language is used: in this place a certain list of “demands” is formulated; in another these so-called reforms are scouted as merely palliative in their nature and as unworthy of consideration. But amid this confusion it was seen clearly that the inspiration of the agitation came from German sources, and that the men engaged in fanning the flame of the inchoate conflagration were chiefly of German birth. Here we resist a temptation to diverge into an examination of the causes of the origin and growth of this revolutionary agitation in the United States—a most fecund and interesting theme. But just at this time the life of the Emperor of Germany is attempted by one of his own subjects; and it is made to appear that the would-be assassin made the criminal attempt in the interest of the socialistic agitation in Germany. Each branch of the German socialists, of course, condemns and disowns him; he appears to have been initiated into the secrets of the councils of many of these associations; he certainly was thoroughly impregnated with the theories of the German socialistic philosophers of the most advanced schools. These theories are destructive and not constructive; the man Hoedel had probably convinced himself that it was time to begin this work of destruction, and that it would be well to commence at the root of the tree. So he struck at the emperor—happily with a bad aim.
Here, then, we have a striking illustration of the fruition of German socialism at the very time when we see its initial workings in our own country. This flower of the tree—the man Hoedel—may, however, be said to be a premature and unnatural product of the plant. The educated classes in Germany, we believe, will not think so. If they are blind to the natural tendency of the socialistic theories of their own philosophers, it is not for lack of plain warnings and demonstrations from authorities whom they are accustomed to respect. The anxiety of the government regarding the spread of revolutionary and subversive opinions has long been well known. It is only a short time ago that a thorough review of German socialism was published in the Deutsche Rundschau—the “German Contemporary Review”—a monthly magazine of high standing, printed at Berlin. This review extended through two numbers of the magazine, and at once attracted attention by the thoroughness and acumen with which the subject was treated. Its author is Dr. Ludwig Bamberger, a gentleman whose own history is curious. Born in Mayence, in 1822, he studied for the law at Giesen, Heidelberg, and Göttingen, and in 1848-49 he edited the Mainzer Zeitung. Carried away by the revolutionary excitement of that period, he took part in the insurrection in the Rheinphalz, and was elected to the Frankfort Parliament. Instead of taking his seat, he wisely went into Switzerland and thence to London, where he devoted himself to the study and practice of banking. In 1851 he founded a banking-house in Rotterdam, and two years afterwards found himself at the head of a large financial institution in Paris, which he conducted with great success for thirteen years. He has written several works of importance; his last production, a volume published in German and in French at Paris, in 1869, on Count Bismarck, was not the least notable of his books. This is the author whose dissertation upon German socialism has appeared so opportunely. It is worthy of the most serious attention, and we give the substance of it in the following pages. Dr. Bamberger is not a Catholic. He is decidedly anti-Catholic, as will be seen, and as we allow him to appear; he discusses his subject without the slightest aid from the light which true reason, aided by religion, would throw upon it. But we shall take him on his own ground, and, without attempting to translate him fully, follow with fidelity his line of thought.
I.
The people of Germany, he says, are to-day waging as wordy a war as did the nobility of France a century ago. The men who best know this are those who for a generation have devoted themselves to fomenting the war of those who have nothing against those who possess everything, and who are to-day the leaders of the proletariat. The contrast between the theories and the practice of these men is ludicrous. A small number of gifted, learned, diligent men, they dwell in peace and luxury; they enjoy life like connoisseurs; from these secure and pleasant ports they sail forth to attack the economy by which the machinery of society is kept in motion. In this amusement there seems to be a species of demoniacal pleasure. If they were sincere, the contrast between their habits and their professed aims would be ludicrous. The equalization they call for can only be realized by placing an equal proportion of the means necessary for gaining a livelihood within the reach of all. Every ownership exceeding this minimum would be divided to increase the necessary quota.
Is it objected that this is looking at the question from the darkest side? It is true that great movements should not be measured by those nearest to them. But events can never be separated from those who bring them about. Moreover, we are not now concerned with history but with to-day. In the demonstration of philosophical principles it may be asked whether the teacher is a philosopher in his own life; this curiosity is still less indiscreet when the issue is one of life and death.
The originators of German socialism—Lassalle and his eulogist, Herwegh—were luxurious men of the world, for whose desires the voluptuous apparatus of modern cities alone sufficed. Their successors are like unto them. To meet them is to scoff at the idea that these men should have described, as participants, the grim battle for existence fought by the common people. An ingenious psychological explanation is offered for them. The conjunction of bodily comfort with intellectual distinction which they enjoy causes them to shudder at the thought of a life hard, painful, and colorless. Their sympathy to this extent may be genuine; but so much the greater is the hypocrisy of their battle-cry for a universal economy whose cardinal principle shall be the equal abnegation of all.
These men are not Catilinical but Herostratic. We can have some sympathy with the man who, thrown out of his path, angry with the whole world on account of his evil fortune, seeks for a new order of things. But these leaders, from Marx to Bakumin, from the caustic diatribe of the poisoned pen to the torch steeped in petroleum, exclaim: “For the world as it is we care not! If we can proclaim our contempt for it by destroying it, let it perish!” This is the cry that has been growing louder for thirty years—from the date of the appearance of the first socialistic articles in the Cologne Zeitung to the present moment.
The public of to-day know the high-priests of socialism only from the thick books in which their solemn declarations are spread out, and from the interpretations of these given at working-men’s congresses. The personal motives from which the whole movement sprang are forgotten. Carl Marx, when he gazes over from his London cottage upon the new German Empire, can exclaim with pride that after thirty years his seed has brought forth abundantly. Whoever wishes to see this sower more closely and in his true character need only read Carl Vogt’s pamphlet, Life of Fugitives in London. Here are the revelations not of an opponent but an adherent of the cause and an admirer of Marx, but a disillusionized admirer. He sees that the meanest of tricks were practised by Marx and his entourage in the meanest manner; and that the desire for power is as strong among these levellers as it is in the court of a king. Here, for instance, are extracts from Carl Vogt’s pamphlet:
“In the end it is all the same whether this contemptible Europe falls—an event that must presently occur without the revolution. They (Carl Marx and his Janissaries) care nothing for the German common people. They desire only to remain eternally in the opposition, without which the revolution would go to sleep.... We drank first porter, then claret, then red Bordeaux, then champagne. After the red wine Marx was quite drunk. This was very desirable, for he became more open-hearted. I heard much that otherwise would have been concealed. But he kept up the conversation to the end; he impressed me as a man of singular mental superiority and of remarkable personality. Had he as much heart as mind, as much love as hatred, I would go through the fire for him. I am sorry for our cause that he does not possess a noble heart. His ambition has eaten up all the good qualities in him. He laughs over the fools who repeat his proletariat catechism, as well as over communists à la Willich or the bourgeoisie. He cares only for the aristocrats, purely and consciously so. To drive them from power he employs a force that he finds only in the proletariat, and for that reason has adapted his system to it.”
So much for Marx. The true portraiture of Lassalle would be as amusing. But the contrast between the living and the preaching, between the private mode of thought and the public utterances of the German upper and middle classes generally, is equally observable. And in this respect they remind one of the marquises and viscounts of the eighteenth century. They do not dance on the volcano, but gather the fuel for the pile on which they themselves are to be consumed; and the cry Sancta simplicitas! resounds, not sympathetically from the mouth of the victim, but mockingly from the throat of the executioner. The fact that the internationalists, far away from German shores, send mandates from beneath the shelter of their English homes for the destruction of our civil comity, would give us little cause for alarm, if men unwillingly united, and doubly important by their positions and their number, were not seeking to accomplish this work within our own walls. The fruits of their activity are observable everywhere.
Many will answer: In these symptoms appears the development of a healthy process, similar to the unconscious self-dissolution of the French aristocracy which brought about the revolution and thus conferred the greatest benefit upon posterity. So it is now the duty of the people—“the third class”—to make room for its legitimate successor, “the fourth class.” Whether it was fortunate for the world that the French Revolution was accomplished we shall not say. There is, however, not a single analogous characteristic between the epoch of that revolution and the present time.
One of the most absurd weaknesses of our time is that it hurries on with formulas of a dialectic development, and transforms them into the business of life before they are properly digested. What is more ludicrous than the introduction of parliamentary systems into countries semi-barbarous? The attempt to cure Russia, Turkey, Roumania, and Egypt with parliamentary constitutions reminds us of the peasant who, when the doctor has prescribed a medicine for him, employs the same for his wife and child in every disease. He falls into the same error who fancies that the German people have arrived at that stage of their development when, like the French nobility of the eighteenth century, they should betake themselves with a good grace out of the world. The very contrary is the case. Never have extremes met more closely than in the common attack of reaction and socialism against the German people. While the temperate socialistic ideal has for its end the revival of the state of society during the middle ages, the internationalists aim at the dissolution of all that has been gained since our ancestors were barbarians. There is a lower depth yet, for a school exists which, going only a step farther, calls itself “anarchist.”[92]
The support given the socialists by the agrarians and the ultramontanes is more than an ordinary political coalition. Their sympathy reposes on inward concurrence; and for Germany it is especially dangerous, because their attacks are directed against a people neither matured nor secured. Germany is almost wholly wanting in everything needful for the formation of a united, intelligent, and independent body politic. The strong material groundwork is yet wanting. The complaints made against our industrial products are not groundless. Nor can they be ascribed to the passing influence of commercial folly which characterized the period immediately following the war. We have to do with evils as old as the century. Improvement of workmanship, increase of general prosperity, and elevation of political prestige bear the closest relationship to each other. The intoxication of victory led to a foolish application of the booty extorted from France. Those who undertook the solution of this stupendous financial problem approached it with too small a measure of its importance. But everywhere we meet with the same technical inadequacy in Germany. Earnest work alone in domestic as well as public economy can lead us to the firm establishment of a healthy, civilized state. Only fools can propose to dispense with the forms requisite for the collection of strength which has made possible the stage of culture we now are in, and only sophists can attempt to establish this power without capital, and capital without property. But instead of allowing the German people to attain its development, the inimical elements are now all pouncing upon it, and telling it that it has outlived itself and is ready for dissolution.
In England, France, and Italy there is an aristocracy with strong self-respect and conservative principles—an erudite community, filled with the quiet consciousness of its intellectual superiority. But these classes do not separate the task of their self-preservation from that of the preservation of the people. There he who seeks to bring forward particular ideas endeavors to carry them into the great community of the people.
There are eccentric persons everywhere; but only in Germany exist entire groups of aristocratic, learned, and religious men who make war upon the people their business. Aristocrats who take the field against capital, professors who teach that the road to wealth leads to prison, bishops who conspire with demagogues, are to be found only in Germany. First one and then another of these groups wish to make experimentum in anima vili with the people. Its pains give them no care—nay, in some cases secret joy; all are deluded by the idea that they can abuse it without imperilling their own safety.... The nation, as a whole, does not feel responsible for its own support. It still believes that the supreme power, reposing upon itself, would take care to preserve order. For this reason it does not permit any interference with attacks against itself,[93] and sometimes takes pleasure in joining in the sport.
The ruling class is scarcely wiser. Its nerves are somewhat more susceptible; but as for a true insight into the state of affairs it is as much in the dark as the governed. It suspects, in small degree, the extreme danger that threatens, but it is at sea concerning the origin and nature of the danger. If alarmed by a fresh incident, it thinks that more stringent laws are all that is needed,[94] or the revival of a buried belief.
It is an error to measure Germany by English or French ideas. Here immature conditions have penetrated over-ripe ideals. The lesson of the war of classes has, with us, fallen on a soil which for pernicious growth is better adapted than that of any country in the world, Russia excepted. The conjunction of our strongly-developed intellectual life with our crude and immature political and social systems has generated an atmosphere in which the poisoned germs of these seeds yielded fruit with unparalleled rapidity and plenty.
Germany has become the special field of this war of classes, because she is a country divided into many classes. Here every individual holds to his own claims or promulgates new ones; and no one feels himself united with the whole. No group hesitates to assail the foundations of society, if anything dissatisfies them. Our class strifes are kindled and fomented from all sides—from above as well as from below. No class knows for whom it is really working. Only the professional agitators know it; these are careful not to divulge the secret, and strive to make it appear that they do not suspect the connection between their conscious conspiracy and the unconscious conspiracies of all the other parties. They know that their principal strength lies in this quiet coalition.
In this unconscious raving against ourselves lies our chief danger. This assertion applies not only to the bourgeoisie but to all classes up to the highest. All seem to be living in blessed ignorance of the real drift of affairs. Their efforts are always futile; they always take hold of their subject at the wrong end. Let us relate a parliamentary incident. The question of the best method of opposing the socialistic movement was recently debated in the Reichstag.[95] A decree forbidding attacks in the press upon the family, property, and religion was introduced. The government attached the greatest importance to the passage of this decree. It was to be the bulwark of existing institutions. The Prussian Minister of the Interior, Count von Eulenburg, made his first appearance in the Reichstag to advocate this measure. The minister betrayed his fear that the Parliament would not consent to increase the restrictions upon the press by reason of the ignorance of members concerning the intrigues and dogmas of the social democrats. His lively and exhaustive delineation of these dangers bore the stamp of a work ordered for the purpose by the department to which he belonged, which had supplied him with the necessary data for the instruction of the blind or unsuspecting parliamentarians. So far all was well. But when members arose, and, without contesting the reality of the danger, reminded the minister that the enemy in his own camp was the most dangerous; that the pet decree would find no favor with these arch-conspirators; that it would merely divert the danger from its least perilous direction; in short, that socialism had penetrated and found a home in conservative and governmental circles—then it became evident that “the world was nailed up before the eyes of the government.” They had no suspicion of what was really going on around them; the minister had no real knowledge of what he wished to explain. He felt harshly assailed, and disappeared; on the Right of the chamber there was confusion; as a closing scene Monfang and Bebel swore with touching unanimity that they did not know each other. Is anyone surprised to find the most select audience in Germany so unprepared, so ignorant of the real state of affairs? It is always a mistake to presuppose too much wisdom. A little keener scent of the secret forces that serve the socialistic propaganda has been gained by Prince Bismarck; but this is due to the fact that the intrigues directed against his person did not hesitate to employ socialistic partisans and catch-words. In this way the existence of this unnatural combination was forced upon his notice. Under other circumstances it was not to be expected of him that he should trouble himself about socialism. His method is to employ every element of power to his advantage according to circumstances, and to spare every one that does not thrust itself with hostile intent across his path.
“It is fortunate for us that a few social democrats have taken service in the camp of the ultramontanes and junkers, and thereby called attention to the consanguinity of their beautiful souls.”[96]
II.
Germany is the only great country in which exists a social-democratic party—using the word party in the sense of a compact political union which promulgates as its official platform the determination to secure by whatever means domination over the state and society. Even in the much-agitated kingdom of Denmark socialism has not yet attained parliamentary recognition. In England the mass of laborers organized for common purposes is disproportionately larger than in Germany, and all politicians there discuss the problems proposed by the workmen. The programme of a state reposing on a communistic groundwork, built upon the ruins of the present system, there is advocated but by few. With us this is the only solution sought by the entire social democracy; of late it has become the official profession of faith of the whole body.
In England the dissension is confined to the employer and the employed. The one tries to secure the best terms from the other. Political objects confine themselves within limits which, compared with the professed aims of the German social democrats, are very narrow. Extension of the suffrage, limitation of the labor of women and children, free education—these are demands which do not imperil the foundations of society.
In France the reaction from the Commune has swept away all tangible remains of the social-democratic party. France has fought against communism in the streets. No peaceful overtures have been made to socialism, as in Germany. With us it is recognized as a political organization representing a particular line of thought. This constitutes its great strength, and all that strengthens it weakens us. In Germany almost all the reactionary parties strive to obtain the support of the social democrats. The Protestant hypocrite, the Catholic clergy, the combination of protectionists and agrarians, offer their hands to the social democrats in solemn pledges of brotherhood.[97] Thiers, in his political will, bequeathed the Commune to us. France, he said, has overcome this misery; in her place Germany must carry the cross. The old man knew what he was talking about. When with Bismarck at Versailles he said his greatest fear was of the coquins of Paris. After him came Jules Favre, who opposed the disarming of the national guard, and sublimely exclaimed: “There is no mob in Paris!” We have our Favres, who pretend to be in love with all the world. Woe unto us if we should be placed on trial! The elevation of the social democracy to a recognized power dates from the creation of the German Empire. The causes were many; the decisive one was universal suffrage. This is made the scape-goat of many sins—most unjustly. The harm it carries in its train does not lie in the fact that it permits the expression of the opinions of all classes. On the contrary, this is a gain. It has only worked badly because it appeared as a new, powerful incentive to greater activity to those into whose heads confused notions are sought to be instilled. While the new elective law brought to its support a part of the population which had until then not possessed the right of suffrage, it compelled those desirous of gain to devote themselves mainly to this fresh ground.
To beget dissatisfaction, vague desires, and unlimited hopes was very easy here. Those who expected to gain the advantage of leadership from it determined quickly to take possession of this inviting land.
The regular organization of the socialistic party dates only from 1867. A careful dissemination of ideas had first been accomplished. The new constituencies had been imbued with the notions of the propaganda, and the way to obtain their votes was to advocate these notions. “If you wish to be elected to the Reichstag, apply yourself with all energy to the new voters,” was the mot d’ordre. The sentiment of hatred against property-owners, and hunger for the distribution of estates, now became merchantable commodities. Thus the election of a new German Reichstag offered a premium for the propagation of socialistic ideas. The leaders of the combination took immediate advantage of this. The necessary freedom accompanying the election cleared the road of a mass of police and legal obstacles. The rostrum of the Reichstag is of immense use. Those elected attain greater respect both in and outside their party. We should never have heard of the most renowned socialists—of Bebel or Liebknecht, of Most or Hasselmann—if a nomination to the Reichstag had not put them in a position of importance. Besides, the leaders learn much in Parliament, and take advantage of the opportunities given them. There is, for instance, no doubt that the introduction of free passage by railroads for the benefit of members of the Reichstag will be successfully employed for the dissemination of socialistic teachings, and perhaps gain new members of like tendencies. Per diems (Tagegelder) would of course prove even more valuable. The socialistic organization at present pays each of its representatives nine marks per day during his stay in Berlin. If they were paid by the state the saving to the socialistic treasury would be thirty thousand marks; and this increase of the sinews of war would result, at the next election, in new accessions of strength.
There are only a dozen socialists in the Reichstag, but they rely upon the support given by the divisions of the other parties; and this is a peculiarity which runs through our whole national character. Every person pursues his own private and local ends, and there is no united feeling. It is for this reason that the socialists and ultramontanes make such rapid headway. Through the narrow-minded system of electing men to the Reichstag as a reward for local services, men of great talent are often neglected. The Reichstag has three hundred and ninety-seven members, among them twelve socialists. Deducting the latter, there are altogether only seven districts which are represented by deputies who are not natives of the places from which they were returned.
But how is this picture changed as soon as we look upon the social democrats! Here national unity is the rule. Of the twelve elected, eight are without any local relation to their districts. Even with the other four birth, representation, and residence do not go hand-in-hand. Bebel, though residing in Saxony, is a native of Rhenish Prussia; Fritzsche is a native of Saxony, but lives in Berlin; Motteler lives in Saxony, but is a native of the Palatinate. (These three were elected in Saxony.) The only one who falls within the general rule is Rittinghausen, who represents Solingen.
The kingdom of Saxony, the hot-bed of particularism, is the rendezvous of the whole German social democracy. Auer, Kapell, Bracke, Liebknecht, Most, and Demmler were returned from that kingdom. The same is true of Schleswig-Holstein; and if it were an independent duchy instead of a Prussian province, it would probably have sent three social democrats into the Reichstag.
The German people have not attained a degree of development sufficient to permit of their coping successfully with the political and social problems spread before them. Meanwhile socialism is widening its sway. Whither it tends we shall proceed to show.
III.
In ten years the German social-democratic party has sprung into importance. In the American Congress no representative of the social democracy is yet seated. In the French Assembly no member would subscribe to the confession of faith of the German socialists. In the English House of Commons there are two working-class members—Burt and Macdonald—but neither have ever thought of the abolition of private industry, the organization of the proletariat with state capital, or the destruction of private property. In Denmark no socialist has yet gained an entrance into Parliament. The German nation alone is represented by men who have declared war against our whole political and social economy. There are twelve of them. Ever since a German Reichstag has existed they have increased. In 1867 two of them entered the constituent Reichstag; in 1868 five entered the North German Reichstag; in 1871 two entered the first German Reichstag; in 1874 nine entered the second German Reichstag; in 1877 twelve entered the present Parliament. To understand these figures it must be noticed that South Germany was without influence in this regular increase, for the districts beyond the line of the Main have not as yet returned one social democrat; the increase occurred wholly on the old ground. The figures speak still more convincingly when we go from the elected to the electors. In the year 1874 only 350,000 votes were cast in favor of the social democracy; in the year 1877 they received 485,000—an increase of well-nigh forty per cent. The whole number of electors who cast valid votes in 1877 was 5,535,000. Of this total 3,600,000 votes were cast for the successful candidates. The last number divided by 397 (the number of members) gives us the average of the number of voters which go to a representative, 9,000. The same process applied to the twelve social-democratic representatives, and the 111,000 votes which are united upon them, makes the proportion remain the same: each one elected represents 9,200 votes.
A different picture is presented if we regard the votes lost by scattering. The 3,600,000 successful voters are in the ratio of 67 per cent. of the total number of voters. This repeats itself if we apply the investigation to the several parties. The total of votes for the national-liberal party was 1,594,000. The number of votes represented in the Reichstag of this persuasion is 1,082,000—that is, a little more than 67 per cent. of those 1,594,000. By comparing with this the corresponding proportion between the number of social-democratic votes and the number which obtained representation, we find that this party has not attained to an equal degree of concentration in its elective elements. Against 485,000 votes cast we find here only 111,000 at the back of successful deputies—i.e., only 23 per cent. of the voters have effected representation. If the general proportion had gained expression here, the number of social-democratic deputies would be thirty-two, or almost as many as the members of the German liberal party. Only for this reason, that 77 per cent. of these votes were scattered, whereas by the general rule only 33 per cent. are scattered, have we escaped the fate of giving the world, in tangible figures, an idea of the intensity of the disease which is threatening our nation. But if for the present we remain safe from such a humiliation, it is none the less true that our political thinking and feeling are already as strongly affected as these figures attest. There may not as yet be any immediate danger from the action of the Reichstag. But in the very fact which is as yet paralyzing the effectiveness of the socialistic elective power lies the greatest danger. For this scattering of votes is an omen of a distribution of advance posts throughout the whole empire, which, if particular circumstances favor it, will suddenly gain in strength, and, joining hands, can obtain control of the country. Had we introduced a method of minority representation into the elective law, the socialistic faction would already be on an equal footing with the other parties. If we had the French method, by which several deputies in large districts are elected on one list, we would, perhaps, already number two dozen social-democratic members in the Reichstag.
The socialistic party may justly boast that it is stronger than it appears to be by its representation in the Reichstag, and that it may reasonably hope for a speedy development of its parliamentary power. But even to-day it is strong. The twelve socialistic members may possibly hold the balance of power. A closer inspection of the election returns shows that nearly one-half of the voters in 1877 were hostile to the development of the German Empire on its present basis. Poles, Welfs, Swabian democrats, protesters from Alsace, social democrats, added to the ultramontanes who serve them as a firm nucleus, bring the sum of the combination up to 2,395,000 voters out of 5,535,000. An increase of but three or four hundred thousand votes would deliver the empire into the hands of its foes. Besides, circumstances favor the socialists. In large cities like Berlin, Hamburg, Breslau, Eberfeld, Bremen, and Lübeck a strong working-class element is easily concentrated. Seven of the twelve socialist members of the Reichstag were elected in Saxony. But wherever the local mind has had a definite and fixed idea socialism has made no progress. It is thus in the Catholic portions of Bavaria and in Alsace-Lorraine. In other quarters, where opinions are more divided, the Catholics form coalitions with the socialists. In France a large class of property-owners incline to Catholicism, because they believe that through it they can save the state and society. In Germany Catholicism throws itself into the arms of inimical elements, in order to strengthen itself.
The official reports of the annual congress of the socialists are highly instructive. The Protocols of the Socialistic Congresses are issued at Hamburg, “printed and published by the brotherhood’s book-printing establishment.” For twenty-five cents as much instruction may be gleaned from them as in the whole mass of socialistic literature. Until recently the socialists were divided into two factions, each represented by a journal which attacked the other violently. But in 1875 they settled their differences, and united in issuing a paper called Forwaerts, or “Progress.” This is the official organ; but besides it there are forty-one socialistic journals in Germany, one of them an illustrated paper, The New World; and fourteen industrial journals, more or less imbued with the spirit of socialism. Of these forty-one organs of the social democracy thirteen appear daily, thirteen tri-weekly, three bi-weekly, and eleven weekly. Twenty-five of them are printed in offices belonging to the brotherhood. Eighteen of these journals have had their birth within the last year. “The rapid augmentation of our press,” says the report of the last congress, “is enormous, not only in the number of journals but in the number of subscribers.”
Germany is the breeding-house for the representation and distribution of socialistic teachings in the rest of the world; it is the apostolic seat of the new faith, whence missionaries are sent to all lands, preaching in all tongues. Wherever in Europe or America a communistic congress or insurrection is to be noted, Germans are at its head, or exercise control. At the congresses of the International, held since 1866 in Geneva, the Hague, and Brussels, Germans have always taken the front seats. The English communists were represented in Geneva in 1873 by the tailor Eccarius, a German Swiss, with whom, in truth, the congress of English workmen which met at Sheffield in 1874 wished to have nothing to do.[98] Next to Eccarius, the Germans Johann, Philip, Becker, and Amandus were especially prominent at Geneva. At the Congress of the International at the Hague in 1872 Carl Marx presided in person. This German ascendency is seen also in America.
Here Dr. Bamberger enters into a long description of our railway strike last summer, tracing its origin to German influences. The beginning of all socialistic combinations in America, he says, can be traced to German origin. The “International Working Confederation” of 1867 was founded by German emissaries from Marx’s mother-lodge, and Chicago was its headquarters. The point is made that at the meeting in New York on the 25th of July last Germans were prominent; at a similar meeting in St. Louis, suppressed by the police, among the arrested leaders were Germans, one of whom on the 26th of July, when the mob for a moment seemed victorious, had sent this despatch to Leipzig: “St. Louis, a city of three hundred thousand souls, is in our power.”
In Switzerland, Dr. Bamberger goes on to say, the international element is strongest where the German influence is greatest—in Zurich. The intellectual head of the whole international propaganda is the German Carl Marx, whose first lieutenant is the German Friedrich Engels. Marx framed the foundation of the International. The congress of the sect at the Hague in 1872 was his work. Among the sixty-five members of that body twenty-five were Germans; New York and Zurich were there represented by Germans.
The French socialism which ruled the field from 1830 to 1850 has been laid aside and forgotten. But the German socialism of to-day has the French system for its foundation. To St. Simon and Fourier, to Cabet and Considérant, however, reference is no longer made.
Louis Blanc’s “organization of labor” has been scientifically, and even piously, absorbed into “systematic production.” Proudhon has long been branded as a “miserable bourgeois” while the most devout of German Protestants, Pastor Todt, does not hesitate to exclaim in his latest organ: “The war of competition (Concurrenzkampf) today is nothing but a system of expropriations, shrouded in illusions with regard to property” (Eigenthumsillusionen). “La propriété c’est le vol.” The pastor says the same thing, only in other words.
The sum total of the theories in all their gradations, from the formulating of the brutal war of classes to the most honey-toned appeal to the duties of men and Christians, to-day bears the predominating stamp of German invention. No country in the world can point to so extensive an existence of learned and unlearned literature in this province. Especially in the province of learned socialistic theories France and England stand far behind us. Socialism in Italy is confined to a small number of younger savants, who understand German, and acknowledge themselves pupils of our masters. The most prominent trait of the national character of German socialism is the trace of scientific coloring which is retained in the rudest revolutionary circles. Scientific epicures like Marx and Lassalle have written the gospels of the new brotherhood of working-men; professors and philosophically learned men like Schaeffle and Adolph Wagner, Rodbertus, Duehring, and Lange, have assorted them canonically; and even with the smell of powder and petroleum emitted by the congresses of socialists, composed mainly of working-men, is mingled something of the delicate perfume of quintessent abstraction. Herr Liebknecht, a man of learning, is the real spiritus rector of the whole brotherhood, and it was his energy which finally triumphed over the different sects of the party and consummated the difficult work of consolidation.
Perhaps there is no man in or out of Germany better versed in the literature and history of socialism than this vaunter of the praises of the Commune. Has not this something attractive besides so much that is repulsive? Is it not touching to hear that the same Herr Liebknecht who in the tribune of the Reichstag agitates the nerves of his colleagues to excess by his strongly-spiced speeches, honors their library continually by collections of interesting works from the province of his “science”? and that, according to competent evidence, the social-democratic deputies are not only the most industrious readers of this library, but distinguish themselves by a prompt return and respectful treatment of the books? We could even find a touching symptom in the comical appearance of the deputy and former book-binder, Most, who is vieing with Prof. Mommsen for the palm in the investigation of Roman history. As if there was nothing more important to do than to allow one’s self to be touched! In fact, this hobnobbing with science is resorted to for the purpose of misleading the noblest tendencies of the German character. Something further is to be noted here: nothing less than the organic connection between the best and the worst which is in us. Not for nothing has Marx furnished with a highly-learned scaffolding his international platform which appeals to “the proletarians of all lands.” Lassalle is prouder of nothing than that, after the appearance of his books on Herakleitos and The System of Acquired Rights, Humboldt and Boeckh should have counted him as their equal.
The militant social democracy well understand how to keep up this delusion. At their last congress it was proposed to issue in Berlin, bi-monthly, “a scientific review in an appropriate form.” The scientific contributors to the Forwaerts, the central organ of the sect, had overburdened it; if these had a journal to themselves the Forwaerts could devote more space to its work of agitation. One of the delegates, Herr Geib, said that by this step an alienation between science and the workmen would not be caused, as some feared; and to anticipate the review he recommended a half-monthly scientific supplement to the Forwaerts gratis. Another delegate said that “the more political life stepped into the foreground, the farther did the scientific side of life recede, unless official efforts were made to promote it. It was necessary that this should be cared for, in order to prevent the levelling of the party.” The proposition was adopted, and the scientific review, The Future, has appeared regularly since October last in the “appropriate form” of a red-covered magazine.
The commanders of the socialistic army are wise in thus enlisting scientific officers on their general staff. They gain by this, in literary circles, the position of “the best-favored nation.” In the vast number of publications lately issued on “the social question” we seldom meet one which, even if inspired with the utmost disfavor for the new dogma, does not approach it with respectful and ludicrous timidity. The social democracy has for its first article of faith open hostility to all other parties; their extinction is its aim. But almost all confutations, on the other hand, strike the key-note of a defender who is only pleading for milder conditions. By aid of the “scientific” coloring the social democracy has moved into a position to which every assailant makes an obeisance before firing. Through the anti-socialistic literature runs a tone of humble apology that seems to say: “Excuse us that we belong to the contemptible class of the bourgeoisie, and believe our promise of future reform.” As with the cause, so do we approach the individuals with uncovered head. All presentations of the life and teaching of Lassalle accept the Titan’s diploma which he has given himself. If unbelievers and half-believers do this, how natural that the social democracy has decreed him Godlike honors after his demise! If we, however, look with impartial eye into the biographic material which is available to us, we are struck by the characteristic trait of grotesque mockery overshadowing all. Were it not sinful to recount the names of Germany’s great men—those who still live as well as those who have left us—in one breath with the name of this talented agitator, we might be tempted to draw a parallel between the letters which we possess of the former and those which the Lassalle literature has brought to light. An instructive antithesis, forsooth: the simple, human self-sacrifice, thought, and feeling of truly great souls, and the hollow pretensions of a proletariat rescuer, who lifts his martyrdoms into the skies, in order to step down from them into perfumed boudoirs! This man writes to young women that he was born to wage a contest with the world, and in the same text explains to them that never had a woman resisted him, but he had never yet done homage; for him it was only to accept, not to give. How modest, in comparison with this, does the address sound with which Saint-Simon had himself awakened every morning: “Levez-vous, Monsieur le Comte, vous avez de grandes choses à faire.”
IV.
Fallacious as it might be to judge of the effective socialistic strength in time of war from the number of votes it controls in time of peace, it remains true that the growth of these numbers points to a change in the sentiments of the voters. There is something more at the disposal of the leaders than a mass accidentally thrown into their hands. We must guard against too trivial an appraisement of human appearances, especially in Germany, where thought enlarges its sway more than in any other land. Ideals, real or false, cannot become powerful with us without going through the earnest-thinking process of the nation. The socialistic leaders have fully recognized and acted on the principle that he who wishes to have an interest in. the future must first do his share for science. The German mind being thus constituted, we must, to explain the spread of socialism, find the fountains of its source. This is easy. The professors of political economy in our high-schools at the beginning of this century turned their attention to the socialistic problem. The university professors, even, have lately declared that they accept the socialistic stand-point sans phrase. The word expressing the nature of the whole movement would not have gained an introduction into the language had not the characteristic symptoms demanded an expression. The phrase “platform socialism” is not permitted to be left out of any German dictionary. The German Socialistes de la chaire are as familiar to French writers as the Socialisti della Cattedra are to the Italians. All manner of shades of opinion have been developed from this academic socialism. But a series of stereotyped formulas have come into existence with which every one, in the press and on the platform, plays; as, for instance, that the inequality of property is greater now than formerly; that the masses are more unhappy; that wealth remains confined to the few and flows only to them; that capital rules supreme over labor and prescribes its laws. From these premises, which are all false, the conclusion is drawn that the present social system must be rejected and replaced by another; that it was the government’s business to do this; and that “science” should furnish a plan for a righteous economy, and a guardian to regulate the same for all time to come. “Science” did not wait for a second invitation. Young souls devoted themselves to the projection of plans for the salvation of society; systems were invented for the organization of working-men into historical and organic groups, in order to enable them to withstand capital; others discovered methods of taxation by which the inequalities of ownership could be neutralized. He who had too much, in the opinion of “science,” was to be deprived of it, and it was to be given to him who had too little; persons were to be prevented from getting rich by ingenious plans for equalizing prices. “Permissible luxury” was divided from prohibited enjoyments; “science” undertook to prescribe the limits of individual action.
Former times offered stronger contrasts, perhaps, of luxury and misery. But the complaint now is that some persons have by certain manipulations become rapidly rich, and have made a “loud” use of their wealth. But are the hereditary ownerships of nobles or of extensive mercantile houses more sacred than the newly-won riches of stock speculators? Does the ancient castle with its solemn walls fit better into the new system than the luxurious villa of the parvenu? Is one’s desire for equality less offended by the velvet train which a page bears behind a duchess than by the satin skirt which the wife of a contractor draws behind her in the dust of the promenade? The bourgeoise spirit has nothing in common with the principles of socialism, nor with the sentiments of the proletariat. But the fountain of civil dissatisfaction has fed the torrent of socialistic agitation. Many a man, ruined by gambling, becomes a convert to the idea of a more just division of property; many, from grief over unlucky stock speculations, have written essays on the immorality of the acquisition of capital.
Why has German science, justly renowned for its exactness, and often accused because of its heaviness, hurled itself into this whirlpool, in order to rise again, dripping with foul water, and with its hands full of prospectuses for the eternal freeing of the world from evil? Well, one can have too much of a good thing. The scientific spirit can be driven to excess. Science has done so much for us that it was easy to believe that it could accomplish everything. Science and its disciples suddenly proposed to solve all the problems of life; and every one with a project was compelled to give out his method for science to decide upon. Your German, as, a rule, has more adaptability for theoretical learning than for practical action. Into his head everything penetrates, and in his head he accomplishes everything. Other people do much with their five senses and ten fingers without their minds giving much attention to it. We have more learning than action; more criticism than taste; we do better when we work with circumspection than when we attempt to improvise. When, therefore, in the space of a few years, we had conquered two powerful states in war and in diplomacy, and the world asked whence we had taken the means, we reflected upon the secret of our success, and believed that we had found the correct answer in this: “The school-teacher has won the battle of Sadowa!” In all probability it was a school teacher who invented this saying, for fecit cui prodest. Already has Lasker warned us of the folly of this dictum. Nothing can be less acquired in school than genius, and the decisive turn toward greatness which Germany has accomplished was given by the genius of the great men who in the right moment took its destiny into their hands. Statesmanship and war are two arts, not two sciences. To trace the secret of the power of the commander is not vouchsafed us; but as regards the political side of the question, it is certain that no German was ever less of a pedagogue than the imperial chancellor.
We might almost ask how a man who is so exactly the opposite of a school-teacher could be born in Germany. Germany has at length broken through the chain which so long held it prostrate, just because it found a statesman who was so entirely differently constituted from all the rest. For those who desire to make nature and destiny democratic by teaching that no one is irreplaceable this fact is unwelcome; but nothing is more aristocratic than nature and destiny.
But as the schoolmaster carried off and appropriated the laurels of 1866, these of 1870 were awarded to him without question; and when, in the German Empire which he was supposed to have founded, a breach showed itself here and there, who should be called upon to fill it but he? The question was seriously proposed whether society should not be reconstructed from the core. And the schoolmaster undertook to reply.
The turn which public life has thereby taken is of a very dangerous character. If we do not soon turn away from this overrating of the school we shall destroy the whole of German life. By imposing upon science tasks that do not belong to her we would destroy life through science, and science through life, and that which was Germany’s pride and safeguard, her learning and knowledge, would become a burden and a curse.
Science and life have constantly to learn from each other. In an exchange of their riches is to be found their salvation, not in the domination of the one over the other. The much-praised student-life itself does its part in imbuing the student with the inclination for an isolated existence. Many remain students all their lives, and a love for the practical tasks of life is not thereby fostered. The consciousness of high scientific attainments gives a degree of self-confidence which is easily carried too far when applied to worldly affairs. To this temptation more than one succumbed when he was told that it was his task to reconstruct the social structure. The cry was that the whole existing order of things had become “bankrupt.” By what rules, then, was the new order to be established? These were sought and ranged, as the expression went, in a scientific way. The first of these rules is: “The weak person must be protected against the strong.” How much can be brought under this formula! We can pledge ourselves with its aid to work out every communistic programme to the smallest details. If we only once lose the sense of discrimination between theoretical knowledge and practice, no limit can be placed upon self-confidence. Science applied to dogs and frogs is one thing, but it would not do to apply the same rules to men. For the communists to assume for their method of regulating society by scientific means the title of a historical school is indeed a piece of communism!
How was it possible that a number of scholars, to whom no one can deny ability and purity of intentions, could permit themselves to be led on to such extravagances? The overrated conception of the avocation of the teacher is not sufficient to explain this. Another exaggeration had to combine with this: the exaggerated conception of the avocation of the state. Teaching was to prescribe all, the state to execute all.
In regard to the state we have fallen from one extreme to the other. After it had sunk to the level of a caricature during our political degeneracy, the recognition of its high vocation overcame us, and we made an omniscient and omnipotent deity of it. When we say “state” philosophy takes a hand in the matter, and immediately the conception of absoluteness and divinity is apparent—the “state” becomes a god in whom we can place unlimited confidence and from whom we can expect everything. The truth that after all the “state” is only a term for a body of individual ministers or legislators has been forgotten. We make a secret idol of the state. To look behind the curtain is forbidden. But the less the state benefits one, just so much the more does he expect and demand from it. He beats his idol in order to compel it to work miracles. As Herbert Spencer says, it is the fashion to scold the government in one breath for its awkwardness in the most trifling matters, and in the next to demand from it the solution of the most difficult problems. Statecraft, at its best, is only the work of individuals; it must lose in fineness in proportion to the number of those who participate in it. There is a thousand times more wisdom in hero-worship than in the adoration of the intangible collective being to which, under the name of the state, we do divine honors only because we cannot see it. A parliament can be observed at its work; even ministers appear in flesh and blood as parliaments do. But of a sudden parliaments and ministers end their work; the curtain falls; second act: the state! It is divine!
Curiously enough this adhesion to the collective system coincides with the time of the disappointment over this system. For the financial grief of the last few years is nothing but sorrow for the losses to which stock-companies have led. If the anonymous corporation could puzzle so many heads, it is due to the fatal charm which the apparatus of the collective system exercises. Whenever a man withdraws from the eyes of men; where in place of the individual a corporation acts, under whose name the individual is lost to view, there a curtain is drawn which excites the fancy of those without. Even those who partake of the labor inside the curtain are enshrouded by the clouds of anonymousness, and believe more in themselves as a part of the abstract whole than they would believe in themselves as individuals.
Nothing is more calculated to make intelligible the mixture of deceiving elements which lie latent in abstract authorities than the famous sixth great power, the press. How much better were it for that other abstraction, “public opinion,” if it kept in mind that it is only a man (and often what a man!) that stands behind the thought! It has been attempted to remove this cloud, and to force men to see, by compelling every one to sign his articles with his own name. But this was of no avail. The law never was enforced in its true sense. Public opinion as an abstraction feels the need of intercourse with something of a kindred nature far too deeply to be willing to miss an abstraction representing that opinion in the form of an anonymous press. It is the same with anonymous business corporations as with the press. All efforts have failed to effect a reform in the laws relative to stock-gambling by means of which the personal responsibility of the board of control of an anonymous corporation could be brought home to individuals. A piece of fiction will and must always remain here. If the lawmaker were to take upon himself the task of changing this fiction into reality the result would be the same as with the press. Those associations are the best which are most tyrannically administered, and in which the director has the least respect for his executive committee. Tant vaut l’homme tant vaut la chose! There will be no relief until the stockholder knows that in entering a company he sacrifices a part of his motive for self-sustentation.[99]
V.
Science is not all in all. To the department of the “highest powers” reason also belongs. Reason must decide where the domain of science begins and ends. When science, because it has studied history, feels called upon to make history; when, because it observes developments, it believes itself bound to work out plans of development for the future; when it sends out its champions into political assemblies—why, then it is out of its own sphere.
In a country which, more than all others, lives on “the milk of the mind,” the pest of socialistic nonsense could not have spread so widely if the unwholesome ingredients of this lacteal fluid had not impregnated the country. For him who studies men and things in proximity it is curious to observe that when ministers come into Parliament to thunder against socialism, the offices under their control are filled with younger officials who have imbibed socialism with the mother’s milk of the high-schools, and who esteem it their duty, as far as their position admits, to aid in the inauguration of small socialistic experiments. At times the jargon of social democracy even finds its way into their official reports. Still more noticeable is this in journalism. The official organs which the congress at Gotha mentioned as being in its service are really only a weak auxiliary corps to the great power which works in the civilian press for the social democracy. The same reader who would grow pale were he to discover on the last page of his newspaper the news of a sudden fall in stocks, is delighted to peruse, on its first page, a leading article presaging the speedy coming of the day of vengeance for the proletariat. Such readers count upon the protection of the army in the event of this theoretical revolution becoming practical. But this does not hinder them from assailing “militaryism.” That the strong and strictly-disciplined armed power would still remain indispensable for internal war, even were the danger of outward war removed, is a natural thought. But this consolation, if it be one, is not of so trustworthy a character as is commonly supposed. So long as the quiet course of history follows its accustomed path Germany need not fear the dissolution of her army organization by socialistic agitation. But who can say what a systematically-conducted dissemination of ideas may not in the end accomplish?
In Würtemberg, Saxony, Hesse, and Holstein the social democrats have entered the municipal governments. The number of socialistic students is large; in Schleswig-Holstein and Saxony the rural population has allowed itself to be drawn into the net of the propaganda. Of course all this can go much farther without changing the outward aspect of life, and the suggestion that life is threatened with a radical alteration will only arouse incredulous laughter, as being an outgrowth of terror or the “red ghost.” But we should take into consideration the possibility of a great catastrophe, and remember how, in the breaking-out of a storm, all the elements of evil augment themselves, unite, and fall upon everything with destructive force. Thus would Christian socialists, social-political-socialists, tax-reformers, and local-economic-reformers unite; and among the leaders themselves one would be dragged on by ambition, the other by a sense of his responsibility. The motto of Carl Marx, “The liberation of labor must be the work of the working-class, to which all other classes are only a reactionary mass,” has now become the mot d’ordre of all the socialistic organizations in Germany. The “Brotherhood of Locomotive Engineers,” which last year formed the nucleus of the terrible railway insurrection in America, began in 1863 in an association for mutual aid in cases of sickness, and for temperance in the taking of spirituous liquors. This insurrection is in its way better adapted than the Paris Commune for the study of those who are anxious to ascertain how much longer the fire can smoulder, and how suddenly and with what irresistible force it may break forth. Faithful to their tender predilections in favor of socialism, many German papers have found in the destruction and incendiarism at Chicago, Cincinnati, Reading, Pittsburgh, Columbus, Baltimore, and Martinsburg only material for throwing light upon the American speculative mania; and the terrible devastations which shadowed with gloom a third of the Union were mostly presented as though they were only to be ascribed to transgressions in the financial economy. The truth that for years the propaganda had won the mass of the working-class, and had reared a conspiracy extending over the whole country, remained in the background. The season in which the West sends its many products to Eastern ports, and receives in return the means for carrying on its business, was selected as the moment for interrupting traffic. At a certain hour all trains were to stop, and not again move until all the workmen had achieved their object, whose principle was that industry was bound, even in times when it does not produce much, to pay just as high wages to working-men as in seasons of the utmost prosperity—a principle which is announced in the writings of the Christian socialists of both confessions. After the population had recovered it asked how it had been possible for it to be beset by such a monster, whose existence it had not before dreamt of? And yet three years before, on Christmas day of 1874, a similar attempt, though on a smaller scale, had been made. On that day at the stroke of twelve the engineers of all locomotives which transported trains between the States of Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Kentucky, and Missouri stepped down, left the cars and passengers where they were, and refused to serve any farther until their demands had been complied with. But in that widely-agitated country this note of warning was soon forgotten.
Must nations experience everything for themselves? Does man learn nothing from the misfortunes of others? Forsooth, he seems to learn nothing from his own. Not insensibility to the wants of the weak dictates the principle that no legislation on the part of the state can prevent poverty, inequality, and suffering. Insight into the nature of man shows us this truth. This insight teaches us that growths in freedom, in acquirement, in diligence, and in possessions bear inseparable relations to each other and lead to the good of all. It is not true that the proportion of the poor and unhappy is larger than formerly; not true that the contrast between rich and poor is harsher; not true that the weak is more at the mercy of the strong. It is only true that the greater approximation between all classes compels us to become more sensitive to diversities of conditions and to regard them as intolerable. The idea of a mechanical levelling of the fortunes of all is the non plus ultra of folly, which in the course of realization will result in nothing but the destruction of all liberty, for which reason all reactionary instincts feel themselves attracted to socialism. Socialism, it is true, has not been productive wholly of evil, because there are no absolute truths (sic), and every anomaly, in its way, performs a service. It has led, and will in the future lead, the community and individuals to understand the connection between true interest and true humanity. More important than to set in motion the motive of self-interest is it to direct attention to real abuses. For, say what we may, never has a time possessed more sensitiveness for every ill and more craving after justice than ours.
Footnote 92:
The man Hoedel, who sought to kill the emperor, stated that he belonged to this school; he had swung around the circle, and had ended as an “anarchist.”
Footnote 93:
But this interference is now to be insisted upon, for Prince Bismarck has instructed the Parliament to pass laws for the suppression of the publication and spread of socialistic and revolutionary doctrines.
Footnote 94:
Just as the emperor and the chancellor are now urging upon Parliament the passage of laws to restrict the right of public meeting and of free speech on the platform and in the press.
Footnote 95:
It is now being debated there under the direct orders of the emperor and the chancellor.
Footnote 96:
We give this passage literally, in order to furnish an indisputable evidence of the animus of Dr. Bamberger when he writes of the church or of Catholics. We shall see, as we go along, how this spirit colors his reasoning.
Footnote 97:
Dr. Bamberger utterly misrepresents the attitude of the Roman Catholics in Germany towards the socialists. In the debate of May 23-24 in the Reichstag, on the proposed restrictive measures against the socialists, the Catholic members aided in defeating the government’s bill: on the very rational ground that the laws already in existence were sufficiently strong to accomplish all that the government required, if only they were properly applied. In any case it is to be hoped that a man may defend freedom of speech and public assembly without necessarily being ranked among the socialists. Men may defend right principles without at all defending a wrong application of them. The Protestants and National Liberals who, in this instance, joined with the Catholics in condemning what was essentially a tyrannous measure, were not “hypocrites.” All condemned alike the wicked attempt on the life of the German emperor. But even that attempt did not justify what practically amounted to a wholesale gagging of the German people.—ED. C. W.
Footnote 98:
As a matter of fact, Mr. Eccarius could not have gone to this congress at all had not the London correspondent of one of our New York journals furnished him with the necessary funds for his journey, taking his letters as payment. Mr. Eccarius, who is an able writer and personally an estimable man, made excellent use of his visit, as the London Times took his letters from the congress and paid him at the rate of £2 a column for them.
Footnote 99:
Here Dr. Bamberger portrays at great length and in a bantering manner the demands of those who believe that the state can remedy all evils, and describes with humor the various programmes for state administration of domestic life, public amusements, education, and what not. He quotes the Italian proverb that “a fool in his own house is smarter than a wise man in another’s mansion,” and says that the state falls into folly when it penetrates the houses of its subjects and regulates for them their domestic economy.
HELEN LEE. A ROMANCE OF OLD MARYLAND. CONCLUSION.
It were difficult to describe how intensely Helen enjoyed her ride through the wilderness. A good part of the way they followed an Indian trail which skirted the bank of the Potomac; but occasionally they were guided in the right direction by blazed trees. “The work of my dear William’s axe,” thought Helen. In the most beautiful parks in England she had never beheld any scenery like this; an ancient Greek might have told her that the wood-nymphs and fauns had come forth from their sylvan retreats to deck her progress through their dominion. It looked, indeed, like a festive march; the gentian flowers were a-bloom in every open spot; the American ivy flung out her gorgeous banners of orange and yellow; the cedars were draped in scarlet woodbine; the maple, the gum, the pepperidge-tree, and the sassafras, each one wearing a color of its own, added glory to the landscape; while from amid clusters of berries and chestnuts the yellow-hammer and blue-jay called out to Helen in shrill, gladsome notes.
“I agree with you at last,” said Evelyn—“I agree with you: the Old World has no season which can compare in loveliness with the American Indian Summer.”
“And whatever father may say,” observed Helen, reaching out her hand as they jogged past a persimmon-tree, “I do love ripe persimmons. Nor have I any objection to a fat ’possum. Look! look! there goes one.” And sure enough Evelyn caught a glimpse of one of those “low, plebeian brutes,” as Sir Henry Lee called them, making off through the bushes.
It was late in the evening when they reached St. Joseph’s. The Angelus bell had long rung; but there was a full moon shining, the air was balmy, and Helen, tired though she was, was not willing to forego the pleasure of a stroll with the surprised and enraptured Berkeley at this witching hour. And as they sauntered along she gave him an account of her life since they had parted; after which he gave her an account of his, then ended by making a fervent appeal to her not to return to St. Mary’s except as his wife.
“Does this startle you?” he asked, as Helen stopped short and half withdrew her arm from his, murmuring:
“My father! my father!”
“Oh! I entreat you, do not let Sir Henry stand in the way of your plighted troth. Think—think of me! Loving you with my whole heart, yet condemned to live separated from you—Helen, it is cruel. No, no! Let the holy sacrament of matrimony make us one; then, if circumstances still force us asunder, it will be most consoling to know that the separation is only for a brief space. I am sure God will soften your father’s heart towards me, and that ere long he will call me son. O Helen! answer. Do not refuse my petition.”
While her lover was speaking Helen remembered the dream she had had, and the ingenious method which had occurred to her in that dream for overcoming her parent’s aversion to the young man. At the same time her heart whispered a thousand tender things, such as only a heart deeply in love can ever whisper; and now when Berkeley ended his supplication all fear of her father had vanished from her mind, and, looking up at him, she said:
“Dear William, I consent; let it be as you wish.”
“My own dear girl!” cried Berkeley. “And now, my darling, you have only to name the happy day. When shall it be?”
“Well, let us be wedded to-morrow. I will tell Father McElroy our whole story; when he hears it I am certain he will marry us.”
And Helen was right. The wise, kind-hearted priest, after lending an attentive ear to what she narrated to him early the next day, agreed to perform the ceremony forthwith. Indeed, there was nothing Father McElroy liked better than to see young folks united in wedlock, and whenever a young couple announced to him that they were betrothed he always clapped his hands and cried: “Good! good! My children, you could not bring me better news.”
The wedding was as private as possible. Then Helen abode a fortnight at St. Joseph’s—a blissful fortnight—after which she went back to her father, who, when he saw her coming towards him, exclaimed:
“The jaunt has done the child a world of good! She needed a change of air.”
Whereupon Sir Henry’s friend answered:
“Ay, Harry, her cheeks are rosier, and she is every way prettier, than when she left us.”
The winter that followed this glorious Indian Summer was a very happy winter indeed. Almost every evening Evelyn visited the tower and passed an hour in the queen’s room, where Helen played merry airs and sang joyous songs; and so pleased was Sir Henry at the way she behaved towards the baronet that he laid aside his gruff manner entirely, and addressed her always in the kindest voice; for which, we may be sure, Helen felt extremely grateful to generous Evelyn, who was playing his part to perfection. And once when the old gentleman kissed her and asked when the happy day was to be—“For, child, I am growing old; don’t put it off much longer”—Helen answered: “I promise, father, that I will yet make you the happiest man in the colony.”
At which he gave her another kiss, then, walking up to the ancient suit of armor, he began talking to it in an undertone, to the no small amusement of his friend Dick, who had heard him say that this armor was haunted by the ghost of one of his forefathers.
But nothing contributed so much to Helen’s peace of mind as a certain resolution which her father came to towards Christmastide. Sir Henry had resolved to make a visit to his native land in the company of his friend Dick, who would be obliged to return in spring. The Ark, the same vessel that had brought him to Maryland, would sail for England early in March, and the temptation to see his birth-place once more ere he died was too strong to be resisted. Sir Henry announced his intention to Helen with a tear in his eye. “But I’ll not be long gone, child. I’ll be back again before autumn.” Which when Helen heard, instead of looking pensive, as her father thought she would, she sat down to her harpsichord and played the most gleeful air he had ever heard in his life—an air which Helen herself had composed during her honeymoon at St. Joseph’s. Many times that winter did she repeat this happy air, and more than once, too, when she finished playing it, she burst into a merry laugh; and whenever Sir Henry begged to be told what pleasant thought was amusing her, she only laughed on, then ended by twining her arms about his neck and saying:
“Dear, dear father! don’t be longer away than the last day of summer.”
As for Evelyn, during those months he was happy too. Yes, he truly was, and often said to himself: “Thank God! I am awakened from the listless and supine life I was leading.” And he inwardly confessed that Helen’s refusal of him had kindled him into a man. Father McElroy, to whom he made known his resolve to enter the priesthood, was delighted, and lent him several books which it was needful that he should read; and having already taken his degree at Oxford, Sir Charles was not ill prepared for his glorious vocation.
Yes, those days were days of peace and sunshine for the young wife, and when by and by March arrived and her father bade her adieu, she did not feel lonesome for being left all alone in the tower. The Ark, she knew, was a stanch craft, and would carry Sir Henry safe across the ocean, helped by her prayers; then back in a few months he would come, to meet a joyful surprise.
Of Helen’s life during this spring and summer naught need be said. Time flew swiftly by; every opportunity brought a letter from her dear William; and now we find ourselves verging towards September, and Helen is gazing anxiously from the highest window of her home to catch sight of The Ark, which may any hour be expected. At length, on the very last day of August, The Ark appeared; and was ever ship so beautiful in Helen’s eyes?
Happy indeed was the meeting between father and daughter.
“But you look a little pale, child—a little pale,” spoke Sir Henry, as he clasped her in his arms. “Worrying, no doubt, about me. Well, we had a tempestuous voyage last spring, and coming back the sea was not much smoother; I once thought we might never reach land. But, nevertheless, here I am safe and sound, and now your cheeks must bloom again.”
Then, after the fond greeting was over, Sir Henry set out, accompanied by Evelyn, to inspect his domain.
“Let us first go see how your lilies are thriving,” suggested the latter—“the lilies which you planted by the Island of Tranquil Delight.”
“Yes, yes, we will visit them first of all,” answered Sir Henry.
Accordingly, off they went, briskly too, for the old gentleman was delighted to find himself on solid earth again, and from a distance he caught sight of the lilies, and of something else besides which was not a lily, but lovely, wonderful, bewitching, half hidden in a small birch canoe that floated in the midst of the beautiful flowers.
“Well, I do declare, here is a baby—a winsome blue-eyed baby!” cried Sir Henry, beside himself with astonishment, as he bent his rheumatic back over the little mortal, who seemed to know him, for the prettiest of blue peepers began straightway to wink and make love to him; and as soon as he lifted it out of the canoe, deep into his grizzly beard its tiny fingers dove and wove themselves.
“Well! well! This is truly amazing!” he continued. “Some villanous Indian must have stolen it from its mother. But I will rescue it.”
“So it would seem,” remarked Evelyn, with difficulty repressing a smile, “for here are a bow and arrows and deerskin blanket.”
“The wretch! the vile kidnapper!” went on Sir Henry. Then, wrapping the infant in his coat, “Come, come,” he added; “although ’tis a warm day, yet this poor wee creature might take its death of cold. Come, I must hurry home; and do you make all speed to the town and fetch a nurse.”
“Helen! Helen! Where are you?” cried Sir Henry the moment he reached the tower. “Quick, Helen! and look what I have found. Helen! Helen!”
But his daughter did not appear for half an hour, by which time a nurse had been procured and was already bestowing all needful attention on the little stranger.
“Why, father!” exclaimed Helen, with radiant countenance, as the old gentleman led her into the baby’s presence, “why, what a treasure this is! It will no doubt bring you good luck.”
“I verily believe it will; perhaps money enough to finish my castle,” said Sir Henry. “Although”—here he looked yearningly at his daughter—“although this is not the babe I am longing to greet.”
“Well, well, we will do our best to make the pretty waif at home among us,” pursued Helen. “I am sure we shall get to like it. Why, see! see! ’tis reaching out its hands towards you, father.”
“Just what it did when I first discovered it among the lilies,” said Sir Henry. “But now let us retire and leave it awhile with the nurse; for the little darling must need sleep.”
Accordingly they withdrew; and through all the rest of that memorable day Sir Henry could do nothing except talk about his wonderful discovery by the Island of Tranquil Delight.
During the week which followed Sir Henry paid frequent visits to the nursery, and his fondness for the infant grew with the hours. Like many a stern, imperious nature, he completely unbent; he became woman-like in his devotion to it. Closely and with fluttering heart did Helen watch him as he fondled the babe, who never whimpered when he approached, but, on the contrary, always smiled and made funny signs with its fingers, which Sir Henry declared that he understood. Then her father would take it in his arms and speak to it; and once he carried it into the queen’s room, where he showed it the rusty armor and portrait of the queen.
It was during one of these pleasant promenades that he turned to Helen and said, “My daughter, ought we not to have the little one baptized?”
Helen breathed a short prayer ere she answered, then spoke: “Father, the baby is already baptized; his name is Harry Lee.”
“Harry Lee! What mean you?” exclaimed Sir Henry, giving a start; and he might have let his precious charge drop, had not its mother sprung forward and caught it. Then, while she pressed it to her bosom, the truth like lightning flashed upon him.
“And I am now Helen Berkeley,” went on Helen. “But we have christened our darling Harry Lee.”
“Good heavens!” cried Sir Henry, utterly aghast. “Good heavens! How you have deceived me!” As he spoke his brow grew dark as a thunder-cloud and the mother trembled.
Presently, clasping her infant still closer to her bosom, “O father! father!” she sobbed, “forgive me! forgive me!” And while Helen sobbed and implored, and while the old knight was trying to calm himself sufficiently to go on and vent his indignation in measured terms, the baby, for the first time since he had found it among the lilies, turned away from him and began to cry. This was more than Sir Henry could stand. Its wailing accents pierced deep into his heart. There was a moment’s struggle within him; then, going up to it, he let fall a tear on its bare head, saying: “Harry, Harry, don’t cry. For love of you I will forgive all.”
Berkeley, who had been for the past three days at St. Mary’s, was not long in answering his wife’s summons to speed to the tower, and with him came Father McElroy, who offered to take the whole blame on himself. But all was blue sky now; the baby had triumphed, and as Sir Henry grasped the hand of his son-in-law he said:
“I thank you, ay, from the bottom of my heart I thank you, for christening the child Harry Lee. I hope it is his whole name, no addition?”
“Harry Lee and nothing else,” replied the happy Berkeley; whereupon Sir Henry, in the fulness of his joy, took the child away from Helen, and, kneeling down at Father McElroy’s feet, said, Anglican though he was: “Reverend father, may I ask your blessing on me and my grandson?” Then, when the blessing had been pronounced, he rose up off his knees, and exclaimed with a voice and mien which those who were present never forgot: “O God be thanked! I shall not be the last of the Lees.”
* * * * *
One autumn day in the year 1660 a young pale-face might have been seen entering an Indian village which stood on the western slope of one of the Alleghany mountains and not far from the source of the Monongahela.
He was a tall, handsome youth, with long, chestnut hair resting on his shoulders; yet withal he had a somewhat girlish countenance which sorted ill with the deep scar across his left cheek, that looked very like a sabre-cut. Presently he reined in his steed in front of a big cabin forming the centre of the village, and on top of which was a cross, and said to himself, “This must be the church”; then inquired for Father Evelyn.
A few minutes later the young man entered a wigwam close by, and found himself face to face with his god-father; but neither recognized the other. “Are you truly Harry Lee?” exclaimed the priest, with visible emotion. “Why, Harry, I have not laid eyes on you since you were a child. Is this indeed you?”
We may be sure that Harry was warmly welcomed to the missionary’s humble abode, where for a score of years he had dwelt with his savage flock around him; but no, not savages any longer. Virtue reigned in the midst of this happy tribe, and no prisoner had been put to the torture by them for well-nigh a hundred moons.
“You tell me Sir Henry is dead,” said Father Evelyn, after the first words of greeting were over. “Well, well, God rest his soul!”
“Dear grandfather!” said Harry. “Not many like him left in this world. He was so loyal; he was steel itself. Why, he took to his bed the very day the news reached him of the battle of Naseby, and never left it again—no, never—and died within twenty-four hours after hearing of the king’s execution. ‘Damn the Roundheads!’ he cried, as he rose up on his pillow—‘damn the Roundheads! No, no; God—God forgive them—God save the king!’ Oh! I shall never forget his expression as he uttered these his very last words.” Here Harry brushed away a tear and was silent a moment.
“Before dying,” went on the youth presently, “he gave me this book”—as he spoke he drew from his pocket a well-fingered copy of Don Quixote—“and mother has taught me Spanish, and I carry this book about with me wherever I go.”
“Your mother,” said Father Evelyn, “your mother—tell me how she is.”
“Thank God! mother is in excellent health,” answered Harry. “But it was long before she recovered from the shock of my father’s death. We have a comfortable home at Jamestown, Virginia; we want for nothing.” (Berkeley would have died a much richer man, except for his father-in-law’s debts, which he paid.) “But mother cannot get over her love for Maryland, and last year we made a visit to St. Mary’s. But we did not stay long; ’twas too sad. There the tower stands, half hidden by wild vines and creepers, and surrounded by persimmon-trees. Once a rude churl dared to call it ‘Lee’s folly’; but I made him rue the day—rue the day.”
As Harry spoke he sprang to his feet; his face, a moment before as mild and tranquil as a woman’s—his very mother’s face, which Father Evelyn remembered so well—changed in an instant; and while the lightning darted out of his eyes, the priest beheld the face of old Sir Henry. Ay, and farther back, too, it went through the generations—back, back: it was the self-same look which Harry’s ancestor wore who fell at Agincourt.
“Well, is the old home deserted?” asked Father Evelyn, after calming him and persuading him to resume his seat.
“No; it is used for a look-out tower, and from its summit you can see ships a long distance down the river.”
Presently Harry noticed a painting hanging on the wall above a rude book-case, and, after eyeing it a moment, said the two faces in the picture reminded him of his father and mother. To this the priest made no response, except to observe that he intended to bequeath him this painting when he died. “My good Indians will keep it safe for you, Harry. Do not forget to come for it.”
Then after a pause, during which he ruthlessly crushed many a golden memory, Father Evelyn added: “The scene represented is not strictly historical, for St. George lived some time later than St. Margaret. But in one of the old miracle plays of the middle ages the knight is made to rescue St. Margaret from the dragon.”
Harry Lee tarried a week under his god-father’s roof, and a pleasant week it was; after which he returned to his far-off home in Virginia. But before departing Father Evelyn took his hand in his, and, pressing it, said: “Harry, who knows when we may meet again? So listen well to what I am about to say. Your dear father I knew most intimately. In the colony of Maryland there was no better man than William Berkeley; none more active; none to whom, after Lord Baltimore himself, the people have been more indebted for their prosperity and happiness. Therefore tread in his footsteps. You tell me that you are a surveyor. Well, labor hard and honestly at your profession. Learn betimes to measure life; stay true to the faith; and above all things don’t dream—don’t dream.”
HERMITAGES IN THE PYRÉNÉES ORIENTALES.
“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.
II.
Three miles from the village of Passa is the hermitage of St. Luc on an elevated plateau, surrounded by thorny furze and the cistus, and a few old mulberry-trees. It overlooks a vast plain dotted with villages, and in the distance is the Mediterranean—no melancholy main, but a golden sea of light beneath a burning sun. This is a place of strategical importance, and in time of war has been alternately occupied by French and Spanish troops. The chapel has been restored, and a hermit lives in the adjoining cell. Near by is a fountain shaded by plane-trees to slake his thirst. On great festivals the peasants come to sing the Goigs relating to the chapel, and votive Masses are frequently offered up for the cure of various maladies.
About two miles from the little walled town of Ille in the valley of the Tet, on the side of the mountains that separate it from the valley of the Tet, is the hermitage of St. Maurice shaded by walnut-trees (what we call the English walnut). It is a lonely spot, but there is an agreeable view over the broad valley. The chapel is dear to the people, and they come here with holy songs on the feast of St. Maurice, who is invoked for fevers, common in this region. Over the altar is his statue as a Roman soldier, and near him are two sainted virgins who overcame the fiery dragon—St. Martha and St. Marguerite. In the pavement is inserted—a rare thing to find in these chapels—the tombstone of an old hermit who died here in 1758, with its
Pregau per ell.
Further up, on the right bank of the Tet, you came to Prades, a village north of the Canigou, in a valley teeming with wheat, vines, delicious peaches noted in the market of Toulouse, and fruit of all kinds. The very hills are terraced for cultivation. A few miles distant is the hermitage of St. Etienne on a spur of the Canigou inaccessible to carriages—a wild, desolate place where rocks are piled on rocks, out of which gush clear, sparkling rills that keep alive the few plants and shrubs that grow wherever soil can collect. It once belonged to the counts of the Cerdagne. The chapel often serves as a refuge to the shepherds of the mountain in storms. Here is a picture of St. Stephen with a stone on his head, as he is painted by Carpaccio. Just beyond the chapel rises the Roc del Moro, a high peak crowned by the ruins of an old watch-tower—perhaps a Moorish Atalaya.
Near Prades, on an elevation overlooking the fertile valley, is the ancient hermitage of St. Jean Baptiste, now private property, though the chapel is open to the public. The Canigou presents an imposing aspect from the terrace, and not far off are the interesting ruins of an old monastery.
“The long ribbed aisles are burst and shrunk, The holy shrines to ruin sunk, Departed is the pious monk, God’s blessing on his soul!”
The hermitage of St. Christophe is on a mountain shelf shaded by a venerable hermit oak, looking off over a beautiful valley sprinkled with villages such as Ria, Sirach, etc. Beyond tower the calm, grand heights of the Canigou, that, like the contemplative soul, stands above the world, its gray sides relieved by no soft green pasture-land, and yielding no corn or oil to man, but holding in its stern recesses the cold glacier springs whose waters pour down through summer heat from its storehouses of ice and snow to refresh the thirsty plain, fit emblem of the holy influences that rain down from the sanctuaries it overshadows. The huge St. Christopher may well be set up among these giant peaks, ’mid flood and fell. His beautiful legend is told in a series of bas-reliefs around the walls of the old chapel of rubble-work. On the 10th of July, when he is specially honored here, as in Catalonia, the surrounding villages come here in procession, stopping on the way to pray at the oratory of St. Sebastian. After their devotions at St. Christopher’s they eat their lunch among the rocks and drink from the stone basins in the caves. Not far off is Ria with its castle—the cradle of an historic race from which descended the old counts of Barcelona, as well as many a king and queen of Aragon, Navarre, France, etc. Several of the present sovereigns of Europe, in fact, might trace their descent from the old lords of the obscure hamlet of Ria.
The valley of the Tet contracts to a mere gorge at Villefranche, where there is barely room for the river and the two streets that constitute the town. This is one of the first places fortified by Vauban. Further on there is only a mule-path along the ravine shut in by wild, rocky mountains whose sides are lashed by fierce torrents. On one of these is the hermitage of St. Pierre de la Roca, reached by climbing a steep path cut in the sides of the cliff. The chapel fell to ruin at the Revolution, and the Madonna, which had been found ages before in a cave, was carried to the parish church. It is now owned by private individuals, who have had it restored. Adjoining is the hermitage, that looks down on the beautiful villages of Fulla and Sahorre. Directly behind rise tall cliffs, and beyond is a vast amphitheatre of mountains, above which towers the majestic Canigou. A convent once stood close by, the monks of which served the church of the Tour Carrée at the foot of the mountain, now in ruins. The convent, too, is gone. You see only the remains of the old kitchen with its marble pavement and fine cistern; and, climbing up the side of the cliff by means of a ladder, you come to a terrace where the monks had their parterre of flowers for the garden. Close by is the Virgin’s Cave, where the Madonna was found. The chapel, which is only twenty-five feet long and ten wide, has few ornaments except the statues of St. Peter and St. Teresa. Before the entrance are several tombstones, on one of which is this inscription:
“Thou who regardest this tomb, why dost thou not despise that which is mortal? A similar dwelling is reserved for all mankind. What thou art, I was. What I am, thou wilt be. I was honored in the world, and now I am laid away and forgotten in the tomb. I shone in the world with my rich garments; now I am naked in the grave. I only inspire horror. I lived in delights....”
Unfortunately the inscription is incomplete. There is no name, no device, to indicate who it was that had thus tested the pleasures of life. The stone only echoes the eternal refrain: Vanitas vanitatis.
The hermitage of Notre Dame de Doma Nova is on a peak in the ancient seigneurie of Domanove. At the foot is a rivulet that feeds the stream of Riu-Fagés. The terrace is shaded by evergreens. You enter by a pretty porch and find yourself before a mediæval-looking altar with a Madonna dressed in the Spanish style. This statue was found under a juniper by means of a lamb that had strayed thither. Among the ex-votos on the walls is a painting of a hermit tied to a pillar by a band of Huguenots who are setting fire to the chapel he is in. This commemorates a pleasing instance of Protestant toleration in 1580.
The Huguenots of Béarn made several raids into Roussillon in the sixteenth century, and a company was organized to resist them, for which several communes were rewarded by the king of Spain with special privileges. Ille, for instance, was allowed to hold a fair.
The hermitage of Notre Dame de la Roca stands on a naked cliff not far from Nyer. In the depths of the ravine below flows the Mantet ’mid rocks and frightful precipices. Near by are the ruins of an old battlemented tower, and on the other side of the stream, in a still wilder, more inaccessible spot, is the cave where the Madonna was found by a girl in search of fagots. The chapel is vaulted and adorned in Spanish fashion, with a retablo over the altar, on the panels of which are painted the mysteries of religion. The Virgin and Child are in silken garments; and an iron reja protects the sanctuary. People come here to pray in time of calamity, and often hang their votive offerings on the wall.
The hermitage of St. Jacques de Calahors is but little frequented. It has a poor desolate chapel with rude images of the Virgin and St. James, and an altar to St. Antich, probably some Spanish saint. If any one wishes to live in poverty and undisturbed solitude, he could find no more suitable place than the wild, desolate region of which St. Jacques is the culminating point.
“Never was spot more sadly meet For lonely prayer and hermit feet.”
The hermitage of La Trinité is known to have existed in the ninth century. Think of that! A thousand years of prayer in this sacred desert! What fruits of immortal life from this obscure region! The present chapel is of the twelfth century. Here is a curious crucifix known as the Santa Majestad, said to have come down from the age of Charlemagne. It is in great veneration, and sung in quaint Catalan Goigs perhaps as ancient as the image itself. The Christ is clothed in a long tunic that allows only the hands and feet and head to be seen. He is fastened to the cross by four nails, and around the head project long rays. There are several of these singular crucifixes in the Pyrénées Orientales, and we remember seeing a similar one at Naples, clad in its long crimson tunic.
The chapel is surmounted by three crosses, of which the central one is the highest. Behind rises a peak, on which stands the old donjon of Belpuig that dates at least from the thirteenth century. La Trinité is very popular in this pastoral region, and on St. Peter’s day and Trinity Sunday the mountains ring with the Goigs of the shepherds and herdsmen.
One of the most picturesque hermitages in the valley of the Tet, and certainly the most popular, is Notre Dame de Font Romieu, a mountain solitude surrounded by pines, delightful in summer, but so snowy in winter that the chapel is closed to the public about the middle of November, and scarcely opened again till spring. But in the summer it is open night and day, that the shepherds may come here at any hour they are at leisure. The actual chapel is of the seventeenth century, but it is on the site of one much older, built to receive the Virgin found here in 1113. This venerated statue is kept at Odello the greater part of the year. On Trinity Sunday it is brought here in solemn procession and left for a few months, when it is carried back with equal pomp. On these days there are five or six thousand pilgrims. The Virgin and Child are crowned and clothed in rich garments, so their faces alone are visible, but they are evidently very ancient. The fountain that, according to the Goigs, sprang up where the statue was discovered is beneath the high altar, and the water is conveyed by pipes beneath the pavement of the chapel to the court, where the pilgrims go to drink. It is remarkably pure and cool. One pipe extends to a private room, where there is a large reservoir, twelve feet square, made of a single block of granite, for the purpose of bathing. This tank is inscribed: Fons salutis Maria. Those who come here to bathe first say the rosary before a statue of the Virgin at one end of the room, after which they walk several times around the reservoir, praying Our Lady de la Salud as they go. A short distance from the hermitage is another fountain, called St. Jean.
One peculiarity about the chapel is that one-half of it is higher than the rest. You traverse part of the nave, and then ascend seven steps to the remainder, into which open the side chapels and the sanctuary. The retablo of the high altar is covered with bas-reliefs of the life of the Blessed Virgin, which, as well as the other sculptures, were done by Suñer, an artist of the seventeenth century from Manresa, Spain. The walls are covered with an infinite number of ex-votos, such as crutches, long tresses of hair, rude pictures of the Virgin invoked in time of danger, etc. The whole edifice is rich with gilding and sculpture, and, when filled with lights and flowers on great festivals, is quite dazzling. Over one of the altars in a niche is an old painting of San Ildefonso of Toledo receiving the Santa Casulla from the hands of the Virgin. We love to find this great servant of Mary in her churches—him who seemed clothed with her virtues as with the garment she gave him, and who is never weary of dwelling on her exalted mission. “Lo, by means of this Virgin the whole earth is filled with the glory of God!” exclaims he. The Mass here on his festival is obligatory for the parish of Odello.
Near the church is a still higher eminence, to which you ascend by a path winding around the mount with the Stations of the Cross up the sad, funereal way, terminating in a Calvary with the uplifted image of Him who alone can heal the serpent’s wounds that filled our souls with death.
The buildings at Font Romieu are quite extensive. There is a hostelry with a gallery of eleven arcades in front, where meals are prepared and rooms furnished those who wish to make a retreat. During the summer not a day passes without visitors. But the great day of the year is the patronal festival on the 8th of September, when the people of all the neighboring valleys come here, displaying a variety of physiognomy and costume hardly to be found elsewhere. Sometimes they amount to ten or twelve thousand. From the earliest dawn you can see them flocking in from every quarter, in the costume of their own valley, praying aloud or singing sacred hymns. As soon as they come in sight of the Calvary they fall on their knees to salute the uplifted Image so powerful to save, and again at the sight of the holy chapel. They hear Mass, go to Holy Communion, and, after completing their devotions, they scatter over the green to eat their lunch, when the whole scene assumes the aspect of a rural festival full of innocent gayety. Venders of fruit, cakes, and all kinds of wares, secular and holy, fasten themselves upon you with amusing pertinacity, while wandering musicians, in hopes of a few sous, begin to play on various rustic instruments—the flageolet, oboes, and perchance, at a proper distance from the holy chapel, the tambourine and bag-pipe.
Meanwhile, Goigs succeed each other all day long in the chapel, sung by peasants to rude mountain airs quite in harmony with the words and place. Every valley awaits its turn to sing its hymn before the Holy Mother of God.
“Love of Mary is to them As the very outer hem Of the Saviour’s garments blessed!”
One would think the age here still Golden, so naïve is the piety, so simple the manners, of these mountaineers.
We come now to the valley of the Tech, abounding in harvests and rich meadows kept verdant by the mountain streams. The air is pure and exhilarating. The pastures are full of sheep and goats. On one hand are the ridges of the Canigou with watch-towers and ruins of old castles on the tops, and mines of iron ore in their bosom. The sides of the gorges are bristling with gloomy pines, and the rocky cliffs aflame with the rhododendrons that grow in their crevices. On the other hand is the long line of the Albères with pleasant villages in their folds, and torrents of crystal coursing down their sides. Beyond is Spain, true land of Mary. Prats-de-Mollo is the last town on the frontier. It is an old place, at the very source of the Tech, surrounded by the fortifications of a bygone age, and commanded by a fort on one of the heights above. A few miles from the town is the hermitage of Notre Dame de Coral, delightfully situated on a mountain among trees that afford an agreeable shade to the weary pilgrim, while cool springs are at hand to quench his thirst, and rooms provided should he wish to tarry. The Madonna is in great repute, not only in the province but across the border. The word coral is supposed to refer to the heart of the oak in which the Virgin was found. But that was ages ago. It is known to have existed in 1261. This ancient image is now enclosed in another, likewise very old, as if to enshrine it. It is over the high altar, behind which is a stairway that enables the votary to approach it. At one of the side altars is another of those ancient crucifixes similar to the Santa Majestad at La Trinité, supposed to be of Spanish origin. It came from an old hospice at the entrance of a Coll, or mountain pass, not far from Prats-de-Mollo, where lodged pilgrims to Compostella in the middle ages. There is still a round building remaining that formed part of this hospice, with four openings towards the different points of the compass, in which lights used to be placed to guide the traveller by night. The chapel, too, called Notre Dame du Coll d’Ares, is still standing, but is sequestrated.
But to return to our hermitage. Among the numerous ex-votos on the chapel walls is a curious painting of a young man, seized by two demons, invoking the aid of the Virgin, who appears and carries him off by the hair of his head. Beneath is the inscription: “This miracle was wrought by Maria Santissima del Coral in favor of Joan Solána in the year 1599. Thomas Solána, his descendant, had this painting done in 1704 for the honor and glory of the Verge Purissima.”
Mgr. Gerbet, Bishop of Perpignan, visited this hermitage in 1857, and commemorated his visit by a graceful poem which runs thus in more sober English prose:
“Señora del Coral, for ages the protectress of the pious people of Prats, Tech, and St. Sauveur, as soon as a turn in the mountains brought thy chapel in view, the song of the pilgrim burst from my heart. The rock of Aras, once consecrated to false gods, exorcised at thy coming, has ever since proclaimed the true Lord. Let thine ancient power be again renewed. Destroy in us all devotion to worldly idols with their lowering influences. And accept this ephemeral homage in union with the Goigs that for so many ages have resounded in these mountains. Let my verse mingle with these ancient hymns, as among thy venerable elms the flower of a day springs up and then dies.”
Between Prats-de-Mollo and Tech, not far from the source of the Comalada, a branch of the Tech, is the hermitage of St. Guillem de Combret in the midst of the ridges that shoot off from the Canigou like huge buttresses. In ancient times there was a Pausa here where pilgrims to Spain found shelter—a kind of station or hostelry, where pious people exercised their charity in allaying the fatigue of such holy wanderers. The Pausa Guillelmi is spoken of in the donation of a part of Mt. Canigou to the abbey of St. Martin by Count Wifredo of Barcelona. In the eleventh century it seems, however, to have belonged to the Benedictines of the neighboring village of Arles, whose church, still standing, contains the shrine of SS. Abdon and Sennen, noted for the perpetual flow of miraculous water. These saints are very popular all through these valleys, and are called by the peasants Los Cossos Santos, or the Sewed-Together Saints, perhaps because they are never mentioned apart. There is only a part of their remains here, brought from Rome at some remote period, as the guide-book sneeringly says, to free the neighborhood from the dragons and other wild animals that infested it. We know that when these saints were exposed to the fury of two lions and four bears in the Coliseum, the animals became tame and harmless before them. No wonder that, crowned in heaven, they should be equally powerful against error, or the wild beasts, whichever it might be, that infested these mountains.
The lives of the saints do not mention St. William of Combret, but the ancient Goigs and sculptures of the chapel set forth a few details of his life. According to these, he was a Frank who came to seek solitude and oblivion among these Pyrenees. The wild goats used to come and offer him their milk for nourishment. And to confound the impiety of the smiths (who are still numerous at Arles) he wrought, as by miracle, a bell in their presence that still rings the hour of prayer—an iron bell, very broad in shape and sharp of clang. The rough altar of solid stone he is said to have brought here unaided. He died at Alp in the Spanish Cerdagne, and two blind women are known to have recovered their sight at his tomb. His statue in the chapel represents him with book and crosier, as if an abbot. Beside the hermitage is a small garden and a fountain of delicious water. On St. Guillem’s day the parish of Tech comes here in procession; High Mass is offered; four gospels are sung in the open air, as if to proclaim it to the four quarters of the globe; benediction is given with a relic of the True Cross; and pains bénits are distributed in remembrance of the hospitality of the old Pausa. Prats-de-Mollo comes here on St. Magdalen’s day, for to her the place was dedicated before the time of St. Guillem. Religious traditions never seem to grow dim in the memory of these tenacious mountaineers.
Three miles from the watering-place of Amélie-les-Bains is the hermitage of St. Engracia in a green valley that once belonged to the Benedictines of Arles. The cell is in ruins, and the little chapel very poor. The walls are about four feet thick, and the dim light makes it seem like a cave. There is only one altar, with the virgin martyr of Zaragoza on it, a palm in her hand and a nail piercing her brow. Her legend is told in some old paintings on the wall. There are statues, too, of the Cossos Santos.
Coming down to Ceret, where the Albères sink into the plain, the Tech is spanned by an immense arch, by no means so pretentious in the spring, when the snow melts in the mountains and the waters come pouring down through the wild gorges, sweeping everything before them. A little way from the village is the hermitage of St. Ferréol on the plateau of a mountain. The road to it passes through vineyards, and is bordered by cherry, walnut, and other trees. The chapel is in such veneration that the peasants often used to ascend the mountain on their knees with a candle in their hands, in fulfilment of their vows, and perhaps do so still. Before it is a terrace shaded by elms, beneath which are two springs. Here is a fine view over the valley of the Tech extending to the very sea, while in the background are the everlasting mountains. In the chapel is a statue of St. Ferréol in the garb of a Roman soldier, with a sword in his left hand. He is said to have been an officer of some high grade, martyred for the faith at Vienne, in Dauphiné, in 303.
There is an altar here to Notre Dame dels Desemparats—the Catalan for abandoned or forsaken. There are times in every one’s life when one feels the need of invoking such a Madonna, and she may well be set up here in a solitude that harmonizes with the feelings of those who have need to appeal to her. To be friendless is solitude, says Epictetus. The women of Valencia wear combs on which is graven the image of Nuestra Señora de los Desemparados, but whether this is by way of bewailing their forsaken condition, or to announce their readiness to be consoled, or merely by way of averting the possible contingencies of life, we cannot say.
A Catalan inscription on the holy-water vase states that it was given by a hermit of St. Ferréol who had been a slave at Constantinople twenty-four years. The chapel is specially frequented in time of epidemics, and on the festivals of SS. Lawrence and Ferréol, when worship is conducted with great pomp, the Goigs never cease around the altars.
The hermitage of Notre Dame del Castel is on a mount belonging to the chain of the Albères, a few miles from the pretty village of Sorrède. The pathway up the height is bordered with violets, wild thyme, furze, and various shrubs. You pass three crosses, and a small oratory where the processions of Rogation week stop on their way to the mount to sing a hymn to the Virgin. The hermitage is in a fine position, shaded by trees, the terrace overlooking a vast extent of country with the immensity of the sea in the distance. In sight are several places of interest—the rock of Montblanc, where once stood a royal château; the Cova de las Encantadas, or the fairies’ cave; and, on the top of an isolated peak, the ruins of the old castle of Ultrera, which history says was taken by Wamba, King of the Visigoths, in the seventh century. Don Pedro of Aragon received its keys from Don Jaime of Majorca in 1344. Finally, it became the property of the lords of Sorrède. Marshal Schomberg took it from the Spanish in 1675, and the place his troops occupied is still pointed out as the Camp des Français. The castle being dismantled by order of Louis XIV., Jeanne de Béarn, who had seigneurial rights over it, took possession, among other things, of the ancient Madonna in the chapel, and built another to receive it. This statue had long before been miraculously discovered in a cave of the mountains. There is a singular expression of sweetness in the face, and both Mother and Child are considered muy hermosos. She is dressed in Spanish style, the veil that falls around her partly covering the Child. Great crowds come here on the festivals of the Virgin, where Mass is sometimes sung at an altar under the trees, and the people, spread around on the neighboring heights, give it the aspect of an amphitheatre.
Not a mile from the hamlet of La Roca, where Philip le Hardi in his campaign against Aragon lodged with all his court, is a pleasant valley watered by a limpid stream and shaded by trees. Out of it rises a low hill from which you can see the Albères and their forests of cork-trees, and among them the ruins of the castle of La Roca, where the king of Majorca took refuge from Don Pedro of Aragon. Here is the hermitage of Notre Dame de Tanya, with a well before it shaded by fine old plane-trees. On the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin Mary the people of La Roca come here in procession. There are daily services during the octave, among which is the rosary at sunset. On the eighth day there is a Mass of thanksgiving, after which the people return processionally to La Roca.
Near the Coll de Prunet, through which passed Hannibal and the hosts of the Cæsars, is Notre Dame del Coll, shut in by the mountains and their forests of evergreen oaks and cork-trees—a popular chapel, where people come to pray to be delivered from the goître and all throat diseases common in the mountains. The Goigs contain the only accounts of its history, from which it appears that the chapel was built in the ninth century to receive a Virgin discovered by means of an ox. There is a painting over the altar of a herdsman and dog kneeling before the Virgin. The statue has been gilded, and the dress only allows the head to be seen. Here are manacles worn by captives in Moorish times, brought in gratitude for their deliverance and suspended before the image of Him “whose pierced hands have broken so many chains” other than those of material bondage. There is an altar, too, to St. Quitterie of Aire, to whom there are also special Goigs. She is invoked for hydrophobia.
About two miles from Argelés is the hermitage of St. Ferréol in a wild, solitary place among the cliffs of the Albères, the savage aspect of which is softened by the almond, fig, cherry, and oak trees. Before the chapel ran the ancient “Carrera de Espagna,” by which Philip le Hardi went with his army when he undertook the disastrous war against Pedro III. of Aragon, in 1285, continuing along beneath the castle of Ultrera to the Coll de la Massane. The chapel used to have two holes in the wall to receive the alms of the passer-by when the doors were closed. It has been restored from the ruin into which it had fallen, but is seldom visited.
On a bare rock not far from Argelés is the hermitage of Notre Dame de Vic, apparently very ancient, from the thick walls and low heavy arches of the chapel. Just below is a dark ravine lined with trees, and a cistern that catches the water trickling down the rocks. A family now lives in the hermitage. From it you can see over a vast plain, and beyond is the Mediterranean Sea, a perpetual beauty in itself.
The hermitage of Notre Dame des Abeilles is near the sea-coast, not far from the Spanish frontier, in a region once noted for its honey. In some seasons it is approached by the dry bed of a mountain torrent that comes down in the spring through the undulating hills covered with vines and olives. As far back as 1657 the chapel was known as the Capilla Antigua, and was famous for the perpetual miracle of its ever-open door which no human hand could keep closed. It contained one of those images which was “not willing to be shut up.” This was an old Madonna, black as that which Giotto loved to pray before, with a honeycomb in her hand, sweet to the taste as the knowledge of wisdom to the soul, reminding one of the spouse of the Canticles, whose lips drop as the honeycomb. People used to come from Spain to revere this Virgin, but it was removed for safety in 1793, and is now in the parish church of Banyuls-sur-Mer, where, as in ancient times, a lamb is offered at her altar on Whit Tuesday, the feast of Notre Dame des Abeilles, which is afterwards sold to the highest bidder to defray the expenses of the festival. On the top of a neighboring mountain, about two thousand feet above the level of the sea, may be seen the old historic tower of Madeloc.
Three miles from the town of Collioure is the hermitage of Notre Dame de Consolation, to which you ascend out of vines and plantations of olives, almonds, and figs by a path cut in the rocks. By the wayside is an oratory here and there with some saint in the niche, as St. James, St. Ann, and Our Lady of Many Griefs. You seldom find a more charming spot in summer. The terrace before the chapel is shaded by alleys of lindens, chestnuts, and elms, some of which are of enormous size, and beneath them are fountains that diffuse their cooling waters. Below is a vineyard noted for its products, and through an opening between two hills can be seen the fortress of Miradon, the belfry of Collioure, and the sea in the distance. The ancient image of Our Lady has disappeared, but there is a modern one in the sculptured retablo. Here on certain days, as St. Ferréol’s, is a great gathering. The popular Goigs are sung to airs of simple melody, and every one goes down the eighteen steps to drink at the miraculous fountain. He who has prayed in this mountain chapel among the pious peasantry, and wandered in the shady alleys of the delightful terrace, and drunk of the waters, finds it difficult to tear himself away.
Such are a few of the ancient hermitages of the Pyrénées Orientales. Not one is without some beauty of its own that would commend it to the heart of the poet; not one without the balmy fragrance of some holy legend so attractive to the imagination; not one without its altar where God has for ages revealed himself, and the solitude where he loves to speak to the heart. Well may we exclaim with one[100] who was himself a hermit for a time on the shores of this very sea: “How delightful this boundless solitude where nature silently keeps watch! This silence has a thousand tongues that prompt the soul to soar away to God and wrap it in ineffable delights. Here no noise is heard but the human voice rising heavenward. These sounds full of sweetness alone trouble the secret solitude. Its repose is only interrupted by murmurs sweeter than the repose itself—the holy murmur of the lowly psalm. From the depths of the fervent soul rise melodious harmonies, and the voice of man accompanies his prayer to heaven.”
Footnote 100:
St. Eucher.
ROSARY STANZAS. GLORIOUS MYSTERIES.
I.
PSALM cxxv. 5.
Once lost and found, again the Lost is found! Drinking his voice, and feeding on his face, Again her care and grief of heart are crowned; Her lifelong grief outmeasured by the grace That rained upon her in each moment’s space As she beheld Him living who was dead. Away the clouds of Time such meetings chase. Wells of delight like those by tears are fed; The soul to joy like hers by sorrow must be led.
II.
PSALM lxxxiii. 6-8.
The mountain-roots lie in the lowly vale. Mother bereaved! from height to vaster height Ever ascending, his last triumph hail! On wings of fire her love has taken flight, To follow where he is gone beyond her sight; Heaven is not far off, Love’s wing is strong. She sees the royal portals clothed in light; To Son and Mother there high thrones belong: Whom dying will unite, life cannot sever long.
III.
ACTS i. 14.
In the pale light of subterranean glooms, Rude art of early centuries portrays Upon the wall of Roman Catacombs Jesus’ great Mother, Mary, as she prays, With arms uplifted, while apostles gaze.[101] Even so she prayed before the Spirit came To consecrate the Pentecostal days, With rushing power and tongues of lambent flame. Can aught be then denied, if prayed in her great name?[102]
IV.
CANTIC. ii. 17.
Shades yield to light. The Twelve from every land Are gathered round the dying Mother’s bed; Tranquil she lies, awaiting the command To arise and come. She hears, and bows her head: One Fiat more, and Mary is with the dead; But, sought the third day in her empty tomb, On wings of angels borne, had upward fled, Where flowers of Paradise undying bloom, And glories passing thought her future home illume.
V.
JOHN xvii. 22.
From tiny rills the mightiest rivers grow; Insensibly from small to great they glide, City and plain rejoicing as they go. But never less than great the treasures wide Of Mary’s peerless grace. Full they abide For evermore; and deep and strong and free The current of that overflowing tide; Beyond all ear can sound, all eye can see, Mingling her glorious wealth with the Everlasting Sea.
Footnote 101:
Le Oranti of the archæologists.
Footnote 102:
John xvi. 26.
PANTHEISM VERSUS ATHEISM.
Protestantism is very unfortunate in its warfare against modern unbelief. It is daily losing battles, losing men, and losing ground; and it feels so little reluctance to give up one dogma after another as to create the impression that the time is not far off when it will deliver up its last citadel and accept the yoke of the enemy. The fact is so well known that it needs no proof; nevertheless, as we have a striking illustration of it in a phase of the struggle which is now going on between Protestant and infidel thought on the all-important dogma of the existence of God, we will make it the subject of a short discussion, that our readers may form a clearer conception of the suicidal strategy of some Protestant controversialists.
A work has recently appeared which purports to be a natural history of atheism.[103] Its author is an accomplished Protestant scholar, a learned professor, an elegant writer, and an earnest advocate of religious ideas in accordance with the Bible as interpreted by his private judgment. His object is to refute atheism. Of course history, reason, and revelation are all on his side, so he is well armed; whilst his antagonist, though boisterous and aggressive, is by no means formidable, having had his strength thoroughly broken by former defeats. In such a condition of things the victory should evidently belong to the champion of Divinity. And yet no. Our champion strikes, indeed, some heavy blows, but while thus struggling with the enemy he falls into a quagmire. In other words, he grapples with a senseless atheism only to plunge into an equally senseless pantheism.
With regard to the first chapters of the work we have little to say. The author proves pretty conclusively that atheism is against reason. He shows that the belief in the existence of God has been universal not only among civilized nations but also among barbarous tribes. “Atheism,” says he, “is a disease of the speculative faculty.” “It indicates a chaotic state of mind.” “It is a doctrine so averse from the general current of human sentiment that the unsophisticated mass of mankind instinctively turn away from it, as the other foxes did from that vulpine brother who, having lost his tail in a trap, tried to convince the whole world of foxes that the bushy appendage in the posterior region was a deformity of which all high-minded members of the vulpine aristocracy should get rid as soon as possible.” This argument against atheism was well known to the ancients, who laid great stress upon it, as they saw that a universal agreement of mankind on the existence of God could not but proceed from our rational nature; but our author considers it as a simple “presumption,” rather than a proof in favor of the theistic doctrine.
He then argues from the principle of causality and from the wonderful wisdom displayed in the architecture of the universe. This, too, is very good. Next, he meets the objection drawn from the existence of evil in the world.
“If there were no poverty,” says he, “where were charity? If every person were equally independent and self-reliant, where would be the gracious pleasure on both sides which arises from the support given by the strong to the weak? Where again would be the topping virtue of moral courage, unless the majority, at some particular critical moment, were cowards?... In fact, always and everywhere the development of energy implies the existence of that which energy must subdue—namely, evil in some shape or other. Therefore the existence of evil is not a proof that there is no God; but it is by the overcoming of evil constantly that God proves himself to be God, and man proves himself to be God-like, when in his subordinate sphere he does the same.”
This answer is tolerably good; but we doubt if the atheist will be silenced by it. The author should have distinguished physical from moral evil. The existence of physical evil he could have shown to be perfectly reconcilable with God’s infinite goodness and providence; whereas the existence of moral evil should have been shown to be in no manner derogatory to his infinite sanctity. This has been done very fully by a multitude of philosophers and theologians; but it could not be done consistently by our pantheistic writer, because, as we shall see, all moral evil, according to his pantheistic theory, would either emanate from God or be immanent in him, with a total ruin of his infinite sanctity. Hence the atheist, after all the reasonings of the learned professor, may still urge that the existence of a God is incompatible with the existence of sin; and we think that the professor will be at a loss how to answer the difficulty so long as he holds to his pantheistic views.
As to the genesis of atheism the author makes many good and thoughtful remarks. There is a sort of atheism which arises from an absolute feebleness or babyhood of intellect. This he calls “atheism of imbecility”; but, says he, “we need not detain ourselves with this type of intellectual incapability. It is not atheists of this class that we are likely to meet with in the present age; and if we did meet them we should be much more likely to remit them summarily to some hospital of incurables than to a thinking school.”
The next type of the atheistic disease has its origin in moral depravity. There are men whose career is “like a piece of music made up of a constant succession of jars, which shakes the strings so much by unkindly vibrations that the instrument, from the force of an unnatural strain, cracks itself into silence prematurely. Now, unharmonized characters of this description are naturally indisposed, and practically incapacitated from recognizing order, design, and system in the constitution of the universe, and of course cannot see God.” This root of atheism is very well illustrated by Mr. Blackie. Here is a beautiful passage:
“It occurs to me to set down here the features of one of the most notable of those disorderly characters who lived in ancient Rome at the same epoch when the hollow atheism of Epicurus was dressed up for a day in the garb of poetical beauty by a poet of no mean genius called Lucretius. The man I mean is Catiline. Hear how Sallust in a well-known passage describes him: ‘Lucius Catiline, born of a noble family, a man of great strength, both of mind and body, but of a wicked and perverse disposition. To this man, from his youth upwards, intestine broils, slaughters, rapines, and civil wars were a delight; and in these he put forth all the energy of his youth. He could boast of a bodily frame capable of enduring heat and cold, hunger and watching, beyond all belief; he had a spirit daring, cunning, and full of shifts, ready alike to simulate what he was not and to dissimulate what he was, as occasion might call. Greedy of others’ property, he was lavish of his own; in passion fiery, in words copious, in wisdom scant. His unchastened ambition was constantly desiring things immoderate, incredible, and beyond human reach.’ This is exactly the sort of character, to whose completeness if anything like a philosophy is to be attributed, atheism will be that thing.”
In our age, however, according to the author, all the varieties of speculative and practical atheism which we meet with in common life are “weeds sprung from the rank soil of irreverence.” Man being naturally a religious animal, atheism can then only spring up when, in the individual or in society, any influence arises which nips the natural bud of reverence in the soul. Thus power may foster a strong feeling of independence, which may end in a monstrous self-worship. But liberty also, as the author well remarks, when unlimited, leads to godlessness. There is an atheism of democracy no less than of despotism. From extreme democracy, as from a hot-bed, atheism in its rankest stage naturally shoots up. There is nothing in the idea of mere liberty to create the feeling of reverence. The desire of unlimited liberty is an essentially selfish feeling, and has no regard for any Power from above. The fundamental maxim of all pure democracy is simply this: “I am as good as you, and perhaps a little better; I acknowledge nobody as my master, whether in heaven above or on earth beneath; I will not be fettered.”
But, continues the author, unlimited power and unlimited liberty are not the only social forces that are apt to run riot in the exaggerated assertion of the individual and the negation of all superhuman authority. There is the irreverence begotten of pride of intellect. Knowledge, of course, does not directly produce irreligion or extinguish piety, on the contrary, the more a wise man knows of the universe, the more he is lost in admiration of its excellence. But the knowing faculty is not the whole of a living man, and to bring forth its healthy fruits it must go hand-in-hand with a rich moral nature; divorced from this, knowledge begets intellectual pride and opens the way to godlessness.
Here the author points out the fact that there is something in the researches of modern science, at least in certain conditions of the intellectual atmosphere, not apparently favorable to the growth of piety and the cultivation of religious reverence. In not a few modern books of physical science we find nothing but “a curious fingering of wretched dumb details utterly destitute of soul. Whatever is in the book, depend upon it, God is not there. You will hear no end of talk about laws and forces, developments and evolutions, metamorphic forms, transmuted energies, and what not; but it is all dead—at least all blind. For seeing intellect and shaping reason there is no place in such systems.” The author strongly condemns this godless science, and shows at length its fickleness and unwisdom; and we might almost mistake him for a Catholic apologist, were it not that he ventures to speak of “non-sense” in connection with the Council of Trent, at which he irreverently sneers.
In the next chapter he treats of polytheism, whose origin he traces to misdirected reverence towards the powers of nature. He shows that polytheism was not atheism, and that polytheistic society could reach a certain degree of morality not to be found among atheists. To our mind, this chapter, though learned, is nearly superfluous; for it has scarcely any bearing on the history of atheism. In like manner we think that the chapter on Buddhism, which comes immediately after, and which fills seventy pages, was uncalled for. The author says that the British atheism of Bradlaugh, John Stuart Mill, Miss Martineau, Tyndall, and others called his attention to the assertion that in the far East atheism had been publicly professed for more than two thousand years, and was at present the corner-stone of the faith of more than four hundred millions of the human race. Could such an assertion be true? He could not believe it. To talk of a religion without God was, to his mind, “as to talk of the propositions in Euclid without the postulates on which they depend.” He therefore determined to get at the root of the matter, and thus he discovered that Buddhism was not atheism. It is to show this that he gives an elaborate explanation of the Buddhistic system. We need not discuss it, though we believe that some Buddhistic errors which he points out are somewhat exaggerated. We only repeat that the natural history of atheism would have lost nothing, and perhaps gained something, if this long digression on Buddhism had been omitted.
And now we have reached the last chapter of the work, where the author endeavors to make theologians responsible for a kind of modern atheism which he calls “atheism of reaction,” and where he makes his strange and foolish profession of pantheism. It is with this chapter alone that we shall be concerned in the following pages; for it is the evil doctrine contained in this objectionable chapter that spoils the whole work and gives it a totally anti-Christian character. Is the author a Freemason? Is he the mouth-piece of the Scotch and English lodges, whose members are anxious not to be ranked among atheists, though they have no definite creed? We do not care to know. But we may well affirm that his book is full of the Masonic spirit, and answers so well the present needs of British Freemasonry that we cannot be much mistaken if we call it a Masonic work. It is well known that the English Freemasonry, either because less advanced or because more prudent than the Masonry of France, thought it necessary to protest against a suicidal resolution lately passed by the latter, which permits the admission of candidates to membership irrespective of their belief or disbelief in the Great Architect of the universe. This resolution was strongly condemned by the English lodges, which lost no time in sending out a public official declaration that, so far as the English fraternity was concerned, no member would be recognized who did not profess to believe in the Great Architect, according to the old Masonic constitution. The wisdom of this measure cannot be doubted; for the English Masonry enjoys still a certain degree of respectability, which must not be compromised by a low sympathy with the desperate atheism of the French communists. Nevertheless, so long as they talk of a “Great Architect of the universe” without explaining more particularly what they mean by these words, there is reason to fear that their protest against the French infidels is a deceit. The pantheist, the Buddhist, and the agnostic, and even the materialist and the fatalist, can admit an Architect of the universe, provided they are allowed to put upon these words a free construction. One will identify him with Law, another with Nature, a third with Force, a fourth with Matter, and perhaps a fifth with Satan himself; for, as the old Manichæans held that this material world was the work of a bad principle, so there are now men (not unknown to Freemasonry) who consider Satan as their friend, their master, and their god. There are lodges where the “Great Leonard,” a satanic apparition, is an object of worship. No doubt these lodges recognize him as the “Great Architect of the universe.” And Proudhon was so bold as to publish that he was in love with Satan: “Viens, Satan; viens, que je t’embrasse!”
At any rate, if the book we are criticising has been written in the interest of the British Freemasons, it fails to show that they are more orthodox than their French brothers whom they have excommunicated. The pantheism professed in the book is just as worthless as the French atheism; for pantheism, just as much as atheism, makes all religion impossible. Hence a book which refutes atheism in order to establish pantheism, however filled with Scriptural quotations to make it look religious, is an anti-Christian book.
The atheism of reaction, of which the author speaks in the first part of this chapter, is, according to him, “a recoil” from the exaggerations and dictatorial imperiousness of theological orthodoxy. “Even theism,” he remarks, “the only reasonable theory of the universe, in the blundering fashion in which you state it, may possibly produce atheism, the most unreasonable of all theories.” The Reformation “was unquestionably a reaction from the excess of sacerdotal assertiveness, and the abuse of ecclesiastical power in the latter centuries of the middle ages.” This excess “gave sharp offence to the delicate conscience of Martin Luther, and roused his sleeping wrath into a thunder-storm of holy indignation.” How? “By parading the public places, and marching through the highways of Christendom with a sacerdotal gospel of salvation by works—by conventional and arbitrary works, penances, and payments of various kinds imposed by authority of the all-powerful clergy, and having little or nothing in common with the morality of a pure life and a noble character.” “Against this abuse Luther protested exactly in the same way, and with similar effect, as St. Paul protested against the ritualism of the Jews.” “The just liveth by faith. This great doctrine has saved the world twice, once from the cumbrous and narrow-minded ceremonialism of the Jews, and again from the despotic and soul-stupefying sacerdotalism of the Romanists.”
All this trash is beneath discussion; it only shows that the author is little acquainted with the men and the doctrines to which he refers. He seems never to have reflected that such “delicate consciences” as that of Martin Luther had as little scruple about falsifying history as they had about marrying nuns, rebelling against authority, or shedding blood. Even Protestants would now smile at the “thunder-storm of holy indignation” roused in the good soul of Luther at the thought of a gospel of salvation by works of penance. Well might even Lucifer’s “delicate conscience” have burst into a storm of “holy indignation,” as he could not work out his salvation without controlling his pride; and he might have protested against God’s orders, just as Luther did, by alleging that “the just liveth by faith.” How the reformers succeeded in “saving the world” by this doctrine of salvation without works, can be argued from the fact, attested by our author himself, that “anarchy and confusion, with the braying of a theological ass here, the cackling of a clerical goose there, and the raving of a sectarian madman in a third quarter, began to show face to such a degree that sensible and quietly-disposed men, like Erasmus, became seriously alarmed before the spirits they had conjured up, and retreated, with a devout timidity, into the sacred ark of the old Catholic Church.” This confession speaks volumes.
The author describes a sort of rampant orthodoxy which delights in doctrinal exaggeration of mysteries, and which is never so happy as when it can plant itself behind the broad shield of unintelligible formulas and traditionary shibboleths, to pluck Reason by the beard, and bid open defiance to the grand principle of the Scottish philosophy called common sense. And this, he says, excites an atheistical reaction. We really do not know of any orthodoxy which delights in “plucking Reason by the beard.” The Scotch Presbyterians may have done something of the kind, but they have no claim to orthodoxy. True orthodoxy is nowhere but in the church whose centre is Rome. But the Roman Church never used unintelligible formulas, never had shibboleths, and never plucked Reason by the beard, but on the contrary made use of the plainest language and the best cultivated reason to teach the revealed truth, and to defend it against heretics and unbelievers. Had the Protestant sects as much regard for Reason, and for the great principle of the Scottish philosophy called common sense, they would soon perceive that their claim to orthodoxy is nonsensical and their Christianity a delusion. And if they were logical, they would not, when their ministers pluck Reason by the beard, feel inclined to an “atheistical reaction,” but would only conclude that their ministers do not belong to God’s church, and have neither grace nor mission to teach Christianity.
The author admits the necessity of faith; but he scouts the doctrine that whoso believes not every dogma about the divine nature shall be eternally damned.
“The spirit,” he says, “from which damnatory declarations of this kind proceed is a mingled spirit of ignorance, conceit, presumption, insolence, and pedantry, and has more to answer for in the way of creating atheism than any other fault of Christian preachers that has come under my observation. Against declarations of this kind, however solemnly made, and however traditionally hallowed, the moral and intellectual nature of the most soundly-constituted minds rises up in instinctive rebellion: the intellectual nature, because the propounding of dogmas in a scholastic form about the nature of the Supreme Being shows an utter ignorance of the proper functions and limits of the human intellect; and the moral nature even more emphatically, because to make fellowship in any religion conditional on the merely intellectual acceptance of an abstract proposition addressed to the understanding, is to remove religion altogether out of its own region, where it can bear fruit, and to transplant it into a soil where it can show only prickles that fret the skin, and thorns that go deeply into the flesh.”
This is wisdom! Therefore, according to this writer, to believe in three divine Persons, Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, is unnecessary for salvation, and to say the contrary is conceit, insolence, and pedantry. It is difficult to conceive how a Christian could fall into such absurdity. The mystery of the Holy Trinity is the very base of Christianity. It is in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost that we are baptized; it is by the Son of God that we are redeemed; it is by the Holy Spirit that we are sanctified. Without this faith there is no Christianity, and without Christianity there is no salvation. We need not be afraid that “the moral and intellectual nature of the most soundly-constituted minds should rise up in instinctive rebellion” against this doctrine; for the history of eighteen centuries proves very conclusively that soundly-constituted minds have never rebelled against dogma. Nor do we see why the intellectual nature should denounce the use of the scholastic form in the propounding of dogmas. Such a form is clear, precise, and full of meaning; it is therefore the best intellectual form. And as to the moral nature, we can only say that nowhere is it more cultivated than in the Catholic Church—a truth which no one disputes—whilst the assumption that “the merely intellectual acceptance of an abstract proposition” suffices to qualify a man for religious fellowship, is a clear proof that the author has never read our Christian catechism.
“But,” says he, “it is not only in their way of presenting faith generally, but in their rash and unreasoned statement of special points of Christian belief, that our theologians have greatly erred.” And he mentions the doctrine of predestination and reprobation, the doctrine of original sin, the doctrine of eternal punishment, the doctrine of creation out of nothing, and the doctrine of God’s providential intervention in human affairs. We do not deny that the doctrine of predestination and reprobation has been discussed rashly and in an irreverent manner so as to create scandal and discord; but it is on the Protestant, and especially on the Calvinistic, preachers and writers that lies the responsibility of such deplorable quarrels. It was their private judgment pushed to excess and their pride that roused the storm. Of course our Catholic theologians could not look silently on such a wanton perversion of truth; to defend human liberty on the one side and God’s justice on the other they had to take part in the difficult controversy. They often differed in matters of detail, but their conclusions as to the main point—that is, as to the dogma—were uniform and irreproachable. Mysteries, however, do not cease to be true because men cannot unravel them. Theologians do not claim the privilege of tearing asunder the veil through which mysteries are seen; but they claim the honor of defending the objective truth of mysteries against the attacks of heresy and unbelief. This is why theologians investigate and expound mysteries; and to contend that the result of their labors is to encourage atheism is to abandon “the great principle of the Scottish philosophy called common sense,” or, to use another phrase of the author’s, “to pluck Reason by the beard.”
The author says that he has brought forward this matter (of predestination and reprobation) specially because the Calvinistic view of it, as laid down in the catechism used in the elementary schools of Scotland, occasions “no small amount of misery and self-torture to young persons beginning seriously to look into the great truths of religion and morals.” We agree with him. The Calvinistic doctrine of reprobation makes man the helpless victim of a tyrannical and cruel God, destroys all the seeds of piety, and fosters despair. But if its adoption may lead to atheism, it is not the fault of theology; it is the fault of Calvin’s rebellion against the church.
The next good service done by theologians to the anti-Christian tendencies of some “respectable” (?) classes of the community has been, according to our author, their inculcation of the doctrine of original sin. “Original sin,” says he with Coleridge, “is not a doctrine but a fact”; by which he means, we suppose, that the first man sinned, but that from this fact we cannot conclude that his children are born in sin.
“Moral merit and demerit are in the very nature of things personal; to imagine their transference is to destroy their definition. If every baby when born, in virtue of an act of transgression committed some six or eight thousand years ago by the father of the race, must be confessed a ‘hell-deserving sinner,’ and lying on the brink of eternal damnation as soon as it lies on its nurse’s lap, then every man of sound moral feeling is entitled to protest against a doctrine of which such a cruel absurdity is a necessary postulate.”
Here again the author is at fault. The dogma of the inheritance of guilt from our first parent is not an invention of theologians, but an explicit doctrine of the New and even of the Old Testament. To omit other quotations, St. Paul the apostle, whose authority is so frequently appealed to by our author, declares that Adam sinned, and that in him all men have sinned. Now, if St. Paul cannot be charged with doing a good service to anti-Christianity by preaching this doctrine, why should theologians be denounced for preaching it?
The author argues that “merit and demerit are personal,” and that “to imagine their transference is to destroy their definition.” Yes; but the dogma of original sin does not imply any such transference. The original sin is personal and inherited, not transferred. “Out of good seed,” as the author tells us, “a good plant will grow, and out of bad seed a bad plant.” Is the badness of the plant transferred? No; it is inherited. And so it is with the stain of original sin. We are born of a degraded father, and we are a degraded race—degraded not only physically but morally; that is, deprived of the supernatural grace which accompanied the original justice in which man had been created. This is what St. Paul expresses by saying that we are born “children of wrath.” It is not in virtue of an act committed six thousand years ago that every baby is formally a sinner; he is a sinner owing to his own personal destitution of supernatural grace, just as the child of a redskin is formally a redskin, not by the skin of his father but by his own. This doctrine has been taught and held from the origin of Christianity by the most learned, the most acute, and the most holy men, without their sound moral sense being hurt by it; it was reserved to our vicious and ignorant generation to take scandal at the pretended cruelty involved in such divine dispensation. What a pity that God, in shaping his decrees, forgot to consult our learned professor of Greek![104]
The doctrine of eternal punishment is, according to Mr. Blackie, another “stone of stumbling” set up by the Christian doctors. The ancient Greeks, he remarks, had also taught this doctrine; but they taught it in a very modified form. Only a few flaming offenders were condemned to a state of helpless reprobation and inexhaustible torture. But the Christian churches “committed themselves to a theology drawn up by scholastic persons in a series of formal propositions which challenge contradiction and refuse compromise. Therefore the doctrine of infinite torture for finite sins is still stoutly maintained as a point of Christian faith, and as stoutly disowned by a large class of benevolent and thoughtful persons, who look upon such a doctrine as utterly inconsistent with the conception of a wise and benevolent Being.” He then adds that if there were not a great deal of dogmatic obstinacy, a fair amount of hermeneutical ignorance, and a considerable vein of cowardice also in the ecclesiastical minds, this stumbling-block might easily be removed. For “it does not require any very profound scholarship to know that the word αἰώνιος, which we translate everlasting, does not signify eternity absolutely and metaphysically, but only popularly, as when we say that a man is an eternal fool, meaning only that he is a very great fool.”
This last argument is easily answered. In fact, it does not require any very profound scholarship to know that the word αἰώνιος here means everlasting in the sense of perpetual duration. This is evident from collateral passages of Scripture, from which we know that the fire of hell “shall not be extinguished,” that, the smoke of the torments of the wicked “shall ascend for ever and ever,” that their worm “shall never die,” etc., all which expressions, according to our “hermeneutical ignorance,” more than suffice to annihilate the professor’s pretension. Besides, the ancient translators of the Bible were as good professors of Greek, to say the least, as Mr. Stuart Blackie; but they never suspected that there would come a time when such slang as “an eternal fool” would mean “a very great fool.” It is too late now for any professor to pretend that the ancient Greek had no correct interpretation till English slang made its appearance.
The other argument consists in saying that a finite sin cannot deserve an infinite punishment. This, too, is easily answered. The act of sin is finite, but it violates the infinite majesty and sanctity of God, and on this account it partakes of infinity. However, let us drop this consideration, which is too scholastic to be understood by certain modern professors of Protestant institutions. We have another answer. A man can dig out his eyes in less than a minute; the act is finite, but its result is perpetual blindness. In like manner a man loses, by sinning, his fitness to see God in his glory; the act is finite, but the consequent unfitness is, of its nature, everlasting. God alone can restore the sinner to his previous condition; but this he is not obliged to do. The rehabilitation of a sinner is a real miracle, just as the resuscitation of Lazarus, and miracles are not the rule but the exception. God warns us that “the hope of the sinner shall perish,” that “now is the acceptable time,” and that after death “there is no redemption.” And yet we are accused of “dogmatic obstinacy” because we do not renounce this doctrine of faith!
We are told that there is a large class of “benevolent and thoughtful persons” who look upon such a doctrine “as utterly inconsistent with the conception of a wise and benevolent Being.” But our “dogmatic obstinacy” compels us to remark that this wise and benevolent Being knows much better than those “benevolent and thoughtful persons” what his wisdom and benevolence require; and therefore it is from his word, not from those “thoughtful persons,” that we must accept the solution of the problem. It may be that in doing so, we exhibit “a considerable vein of cowardice”; but it is wise to fear God. We are weak and he is almighty.
“Another stumbling-block which theologians have laid in the way of the devotee of physical sciences is the creation out of nothing. This dogma, which, as every scholar knows, is not necessarily contained in any place, whether of the Old or New Testament, arose in the Jewish Church, and has been stamped with orthodox authority in Christendom, partly from a pious desire to magnify the divine Omnipotence; partly from the timid stupidity of clinging to the letter instead of breaching the spirit of Scripture; and partly also from the evil trick which we have just mentioned of importing metaphysics and scholastic definitions into the Bible, from which all the Scriptures are the furthest possible removed. Now, the objection to this doctrine on the part of modern thinkers I conceive to be this: that, though not perhaps absolutely impossible, it is contrary to all known experience, and highly improbable if we are to judge of the constitution of things from what we see, not from what we choose to imagine. It is the vulgar imagination which delights to represent the Supreme Being as a sort of omnipotent harlequin, launching the fiat of his volition, as the nimble gentleman in the pantomime strikes the table with his wand, and out comes a man, or a monkey, or something else, out of nothing. This is man’s crude conception; but God’s ways are not as man’s ways, and his way is evolution. Nothing is created out of nothing; and mere volition, even of an omnipotent Being, cannot be conceived as bringing into existence a thing of an absolutely opposite nature, called matter.”
To answer these reckless assertions in detail would take a volume. Fortunately, however, we may be dispensed from such a task, as there are hundreds of excellent books, both philosophical and theological, where the dogma of creation is fully established and victoriously vindicated. On the other hand, our professor does not give any proof of his infidel view; he merely asserts what has no possibility of proof. “Nothing is created out of nothing,” says he; but philosophy demonstrates that nothing is, or can be, created but out of nothing. “God’s way is evolution.” No; God’s way is creation. Evolution is man’s way, as Mr. Darwin and all his admirers know; and, since (as the author reminds us) God’s ways are not as man’s ways, it follows on his own showing that God’s way is not evolution. Evolution is impossible without antecedent creation. The subject of evolution is matter, and matter is a created being. To deny the creation of matter is to assume that matter is eternal and self-existent, or, in other terms, to make it an independent being or an appurtenance of Divinity; and this colossal absurdity even the author must reject, as he confesses that the nature of matter is “absolutely opposite” to the nature of Divinity.
The author imagines that the absolute opposition between God and matter makes it impossible for God to create matter, because “mere volition, even of an omnipotent Being, cannot be conceived as bringing into existence a thing of an absolutely opposite nature.” These words show the author’s philosophical ignorance of the law of causation. The law is that efficient causes must always be of a nature entirely different from that of their effects. The efficient cause of gravitation at the earth’s surface is the substance or matter of the earth itself; but gravitation is neither matter nor substance, but something entirely different. The soul is the efficient cause of the voluntary movements produced in our organism; and yet those movements have nothing common with the substance of the soul. And the same is to be said of all other effects as compared with their efficient causes.[105] Hence it is idle to argue that an omnipotent Being, owing to his spirituality, cannot create matter. The author will say that every effect must be contained in its cause, and that matter is not contained in God. To which it must be answered that effects are eminently and virtually, not formally, contained in their efficient causes. If the effect existed formally in its cause its production by the cause would become a contradiction; for the effect would exist before its effection. Effects are said to be pre-contained in their causes only in this sense: that causes possess a power competent to produce their effects. Causation is action, and action is the production of an act. Every act produced is the formal principle of a new existence, or of a new mode of existence. To say that God cannot create matter is to say that God cannot produce an act giving formal existence to matter; which amounts to the denial of omnipotence. Still, the existence of matter must be accounted for. Matter undergoes modifications and is subject to natural agents; it is therefore essentially potential and contingent. How, then, did it come into existence? And how is it potential, if it is not created out of nothing, since nothingness is the only source of potentiality?
But we are told that creation out of nothing “is contrary to all known experience.” This shows what new kind of philosophers nowadays we have to deal with. They want to see God making a few acts of creation before they consent to believe, just as they want a lecturer to prove his theories by a series of visible experiments. God, of course, will not satisfy their curiosity; he has given them the light of reason and the light of revelation, which are quite enough. But were God to condescend to their yearning, would they believe even then? Would not these men, who have the impudence to speak of an “omnipotent Harlequin,” declare with equal profanity any visible fact of creation to be jugglery?
The author tells us also that “if we are to judge of the constitution of things from what we see, not from what we choose to imagine,” we shall find out that creation is improbable. At this we need not wonder; for the author is a great enemy of scholastic definitions and of metaphysics—that is, of intellectual light. He sees with the eyes of his body, but he shuts the eyes of his reason. Had he less horror of metaphysics, he might learn that “the constitution of things” proclaims in the loudest and most unmistakable language the fact of creation; and that every change or movement in the universe furnishes a peremptory demonstration of it. But what can a man see who discards definitions and disregards the principles of real philosophy?
And now let us see to what conclusions the author is led by his style of reasoning. He says:
“To us dependent ephemeral creatures all existence is a divine miracle; and the continuity of that divine miracle in the shape of what we call growth is, so far as we can see, the eternal form of divine creativeness. The absolute dualism of mind and matter which is implied in the received orthodoxy of the church is not warranted by any fact that exact science can recognize; nowhere do we find mind acting without a material instrument, nowhere matter absolutely divorced from the action of inherent forces, inasmuch as even the most motionless statical condition of things most solid is always produced by a balance of forces in some way or other—forces which, if they are not blind, but acting according to a calculated law, as they manifestly do, are only another name for Mind. This view of the constitution of the universe ... is generally disowned with a certain pious horror as pantheism, a word to which a great chorus of thoughtless and ill-informed people are straightway ready to echo back atheism, with the feeling that the two terms, though etymologically as opposed as white and black, are practically the same.... Pantheism, scientifically understood, has nothing to do either with materialism or with atheism. It ... simply denies the existence of two opposite entities in the world of divine reality, while it asserts the existence of only one. The world is essentially one; and the All, though externally many, is, when traced to its deepest roots, not different from the One; as the human body, for instance, is both one and many.... The term pantheism, therefore, is not opposed to unity, or to the principle of unity in the world, which is God; and a pantheist, as Hegel well said of Spinoza, may more properly be said to deny the world than to deny God.”
This is the quagmire into which the professor, as we said at the beginning of this article, has fallen. The view he takes of “the constitution of the universe,” the assertions he makes, and the arguments he employs are a mass of confusion to which no more appropriate name can be given than nonsense. We are “dependent ephemeral creatures.” Yes. But how could he call us “creatures,” he who denies creation? or “dependent,” he who makes us one with God? or “ephemeral,” he who includes us in the eternal All? Is not this a flagrant contradiction?
To us “all existence is a divine miracle.” If so, the author cannot consistently be a pantheist. Miracles are facts transcending the power and exigencies of nature. Pantheism divinizes nature, and admits of nothing transcending the power and exigencies of nature; and therefore pantheism can admit of no miracle.
“Growth is, so far as we can see, the eternal form of divine creativeness.” Growth implies change, whereas the eternal form of divine creativeness is altogether unchangeable. Hence, so far as we can see (and we see it most evidently), growth is not what the professor imagines.
“The absolute dualism of mind and matter is not warranted by any fact that exact science can recognize.” If so, then exact science should find a way of reconciling the well-known inertia of matter with the equally well-known immanent and reflex self-activity of mind. For, as the latter excludes the former, their existence is the most incontrovertible evidence of the absolute dualism of matter and mind; and this evidence is quite scientific, too, for it is the result of universal and unexceptionable experience. But our men of science, who profess to deal with nothing but matter, are not the best judges about the attributes of mind. They are gross and material; they must see, and touch, and smell, and subject everything to chemical analysis; and spiritual substances refuse to be thus manipulated. Hence no wonder if these latter substances are not recognized in any fact of exact science so long as “exact science” is confined to the study of matter.
“Nowhere do we find mind acting without a material instrument.” Be it so; it does not follow that matter and mind are one and the same thing. The organ is not the organist, and the instrument is not the artist.
“Nowhere do we find matter divorced from the action of inherent forces.” Quite true; but these forces of matter are absolutely blind. The author pretends that they are not blind, because “they act according to a calculated law”; but this is a new blunder. It is not the forces of matter that have calculated the law, it is God that subjected them to the law; and their acting according to the law is a mechanical necessity. The very fact of their inviolable subjection to the law proves their utter blindness; for were they intelligent, they would have given before now some instances of proud rebellion at least in the hands of the torturing chemist.
“This view ... is generally disowned as pantheism.” Certainly. Let the author remember “the principle of the Scottish philosophy called common sense,” and let him ask himself if a view generally disowned deserves the honor of being adopted by a professor of a Scotch university.
“Pantheism, scientifically understood, has nothing to do with atheism.” May we ask how pantheism can be “scientifically understood”? Science is concerned only with material phenomena. God, mind, and spiritual things in general are beyond its reach. How, then, can what is above science be understood “scientifically”? And, again, how can pantheism be “understood” at all, since it is as contradictory as a changeable immutability, a compounded simplicity, or a sinful holiness? That the terms “pantheism” and “atheism” are etymologically opposed is quite clear; but our question is one of things, not of mere terms. The atheist says to God: “Thou hast no existence”; the pantheist says: “Thou art a compound of matter.” Which of them is better? Which is less irrational—the one who degrades his Creator, or the one who merely shuts his eyes that he may not see him? After all, neither the one nor the other has an object of worship—the atheist because he denies its existence, the pantheist because he denies its superiority; and thus the atheist and the pantheist are twin-brothers, with this only difference: that the latter wears a mask of hypocrisy, that he may the easier seduce those who would be disgusted with the impudence of the former.
“The world is essentially one.” No greater blunder could be uttered.
“The All, though externally many, is not different from the One.” The truth is that things cannot be “externally many” unless they be also intrinsically and substantially many. Thus in the human body, which the author brings forward as a fit illustration of his view, the limbs are many because each one substantially differs from each other. It is the negation of identity that makes things be many; and no such negation can be conceived without entities intrinsically distinct. Hence, if the All is “many,” it must intrinsically differ from the One.
“Pantheism is not opposed to the principle of unity in the world, which is God.” To this we say, first, that pantheism is opposed to the fact of plurality in the world. This fact is so manifest that no professor can plead ignorance of it. We say, secondly, that the world has unity of design, of composition, and of government, but no unity of substance. This, too, is as evident as noonday.
“Spinoza may more properly be said to deny the world than to deny God.” Were this granted, it would still be supremely foolish to trust and follow a leader who denies the world. But Spinoza denies God as well, if not explicitly, at least by implication. To set up a mass of contradictions, and to call it “God,” is to declare that there can be no God; and this is just what Spinoza did, through ignorance, we suppose, rather than malice, though not without a sovereign arrogance and presumption.
Before we end we must take notice of an attempt, on the part of Prof. Blackie, at answering the objection that pantheism destroys religion, “because it destroys human personality, and denies individual responsibility, on the foundation of which all human society, as well as all religious obligation, is constituted.” He answers thus: “Freedom, personality, and responsibility are facts which no theological or metaphysical theories can meddle with, any more than they can with generation, or appetite, or digestion.... The answer to all such speculative objections from transcendental theories, when brought into the world of practice, is a fact and a flogging.”
Bravo! Freedom, personality, and responsibility are facts. The pantheistic theory contradicts them, but cannot interfere with them any more than with generation, appetite, and digestion. Hence when any one argues from the pantheistic theory against freedom, personality, and responsibility, he must be answered with “a fact and a flogging.” And, vice versa, if any one from freedom, personality, and responsibility argues against the pantheistic theory which makes these things inexplicable and impossible, he, too, must be answered with “a fact and a flogging.” Does the reader understand the excellence of this liberalistic logic? Yes, with a fact and a flogging; for the eloquence of the scourge sometimes replaces with advantage the doubtful efforts of a hesitating tongue: Si non prosunt verba, prederunt verbera. What a candid confession of pantheistic impotence! But then, if flogging is to be resorted to, who shall be found more worthy of it than the pantheist himself, who wantonly contradicts by his theory what his common sense recognizes to be a fact?
The book we have thus far examined contains many other errors on important points of religion; but our readers need not be detained any longer in their refutation. The author admits a general providence, but a providence which imparts particular favors in reward of prayer he does not admit. Answers to prayers he considers to be “as ridiculous as interpretations of judgments are presumptuous.” For him “the idea of a God, constantly interfering in answer to prayer, or otherwise, is one of the most anthropomorphic of theological conceptions.” “Asceticism and monkery form a very sad and lamentable chapter in the history of the church.” Abstinence and mortification are “a pedantic and ridiculous sort of virtue,” and they are “abnormal, monstrous, inhuman, and absurd.” Then “there is, and can be, no such thing as a priesthood in Christianity.” It would take too long to enumerate all his theological, philosophical, and historical blunders, for his book is full of them; so we must give up the task.
In the last pages of the work we find a fairly good refutation of atheism, as maintained by Miss Martineau, Mr. Atkinson, and Prof. Tyndall. But what is the use of such a refutation, if it is intended merely as a first step towards pantheism? A pantheist has no right to refute atheism. Whatever he may say against it can always, in one manner or another, be retorted against himself; and when the retorsion is pushed on to its last consequences, his defeat takes the aspect of an atheistic victory. Thus nothing is gained, and discussions become interminable, to the great satisfaction of the sceptics. It is for this reason that most of the Protestant controversies on religious topics cannot be settled. Truth, if mixed with error, has little, if any, chance of victory; and books in which truth is compelled to minister to error are all the more pernicious because their poison is less recognizable. If this Natural History of Atheism is what we assume it to be—a Masonic work—then we must confess that the Scottish Masons could not be served better than by such a baneful mixture of Calvinistic dogmatism and pantheistic dreams.
Footnote 103:
The Natural History of Atheism. By John Stuart Blackie, Professor of Greek at the University of Edinburgh. New York: Scribner, Armstrong & Co. 1878.
Footnote 104:
Children dying in original sin, though children of wrath, are not necessarily “hell-deserving sinners,” as the author objects. Most Catholic theologians maintain with good reasons that they will be in a state of natural happiness, though debarred from the vision of God.
Footnote 105:
See THE CATHOLIC WORLD for February, 1874, where we have proved that all efficient cause is infinitely more perfect and of an infinitely better nature than any of its effects (“The Principles of Real Being,” p. 584).
THE CREATED WISDOM.[106] BY AUBREY DE VERE. I.
Created Wisdom at the gate Of Heaven, ere Time began, I played; The Eternal Wisdom Uncreate Beheld me ere the worlds were made.
I danced the void abyss above: Of lore unwrit the characters I traced with wingèd feet, and wove The orbits of the unshaped stars.
When first the sun and moon had birth, When seas rushed back, and hills up sprang, Before God’s eyes in sacred mirth Once more I circled, and I sang.
I flashed—a Thought in light arrayed— Beneath the Eternal Wisdom’s ken: When came mine hour I lived, and played Among the peopled fields of men.
Blessed is he that keeps my ways, That stands in reverence on my floor, That seeks my praise, my word obeys, That waits and watches by my door.
Footnote 106:
Proverbs, cap. viii.
CONRAD AND WALBURGA. CHAPTER III.
“Moida! Moida! you were right; you knew him better than I did: Conrad Seinsheim has already proposed,” were Walburga’s first words as she entered her home in Fingergasse, where her friend was awaiting her to go out for a walk.
“Oh! good, good. How delighted I am! You’ll soon be back in your old castle,” cried the joyous Moida, springing up from her seat by the window and dancing round the room.
“Alas! I scarcely dare yet to give full rein to hope,” added Walburga, shaking her head.
“What is that? I didn’t understand you!” said the other, abruptly pausing in her merry skips. “Of course you said yes to him? Of course you did?”
“I said neither yes nor no; he is to return in three days for an answer.”
“O you naughty, puzzling creature! Why didn’t you tell the poor fellow yes on the spot, as I did to my darling Ulrich?”
“Why?” said Walburga, looking pensively at her; then, after hesitating a moment: “Well, Moida, it was because I have thus far adroitly, but perhaps foolishly, concealed something from him; you know what I mean. And, like a coward, when the crisis arrived, when he asked for my hand, I still put off the revelation for a brief space.”
“Well, Mr. Seinsheim will be a fool, a big fool, if he doesn’t marry you; that’s all I can say,” replied Moida, tenderly twining her arms about her friend’s neck. “And, what’s more, if I didn’t think we were all of us going to live near one another at Loewenstein, I’d hate him for trying to take you away from me.”
“Well, you and I have certainly been very happy together, have we not, Moida?”
“Oh! very, very, very; and you should have kept your pretty nightingale, so as to have brought him with us to Tyrol.”
“Perhaps I ought,” answered Walburga, her countenance now clearing up; for hope, sweet hope, was just at this moment flashing its rays into her bosom and inspiring her to believe that Conrad would surely accept her, accept her exactly as she was, and, like a brave, good husband, bear upon his own shoulders as much of her cross as he was able.
A few minutes later the two friends were passing through the park on their way to Foering. This place is simply a beer-garden—one of the many within an hour’s walk of Munich. Here on the warmest summer day the air is cool, for the spot is high and commanding, and, moreover, well shaded by elm-trees. But better than breeze or shade is the beer—beer such as one can taste only in Southern Bavaria. In the middle of the garden is a platform elevated a few inches above the ground, where those who are fond of dancing may trip it merrily to the music of a fiddle, harp, and flute, dropping now and again a copper into the tin plate which one of the minstrels passes through the crowd.
When Moida and Walburga arrived Foering was well-nigh deserted, and they had no difficulty in being helped at once to whatever they wanted, for the good-natured waiter-girl had only them to wait on. But ere long other people began to come. First appeared a husband and wife, the former carrying the baby—the best of all babies, of course—and so bound up in swaddling-clothes that the little thing could do naught except wink. Then followed a soldier hand-in-hand with a buxom lass, with nature’s own rouge glowing on her cheeks; and hand-in-hand these two sat down, and hand-in-hand they quenched their thirst out of the same mug, the beverage tasting all the more like nectar for this sweet communion of lips.
Presently a pursy gentleman waddled into the garden, his respiration so laborious that you could hear him from afar, and dropped heavily down upon the same bench where Moida and Walburga were seated. To judge by his appearance you would have declared there was not a spark of sentiment in his whole composition; he looked to be a sheer mass of beer-drenched humanity. Yet this was wide, wide of the truth. Herr Wurst was organist of the cathedral, was passionately fond of poetry, and knew by heart every song of the Minnesingers. In short, he was a Bavarian every inch of him, and never was so much soul hidden in a sausage.
And thus on, on the people came, all jovial, all orderly, and to look at them you might have fancied they had not a care or trouble in the world. Then by and by the music commenced. ’Twas a waltz from Strauss, and the corpulent organist, who knew our young friends—for they both sang in his choir—danced thrice round the platform with each; and the baby in swaddling-clothes lay upon the bench like a little Stoic while its daddy and mammy whirled round too; and the buxom lass and the soldier likewise danced—danced so hard, threw such life into their motions, that when at length they paused to give their hearts a rest you might have thought they had been out in a shower of rain.
“How often dear Ulrich and I have enjoyed ourselves here!” spoke Moida, when she and Walburga were once more seated over their beer-mugs. “I do believe we once danced a whole hour without stopping. And oh! how sweet it was to coo and whisper our love to each other while we flew round. Why, I don’t think I knew what life was till I became his betrothed.”
“Well, I hope you each had a glass of your own to sip the beer from,” remarked Walburga, smiling.
“No indeed; we went halves in everything. And now—just think—we are soon going to be married! And you too. O Walburga! Walburga!”
The latter, who was still under the radiant influence of hope, and who seemed to feel anew the warm touch of Conrad’s lips, cried: “Yes, yes, my future is bright, and I will prove by my devotion to him how grateful I am; and there’ll be no happier husband than Conrad Seinsheim!”
Presently, however, her countenance fell, and in a low, grave tone she added: “But suppose all this were not to happen? Everything must remain in doubt and uncertainty till I meet him again, you know.”
“Oh! but he is so full of good sense, so unlike the rest of the world, that you may dispel all doubt. Conrad is sure to take you—sure,” answered Moida.
Cheered by these words, Walburga, who was not blest with the same even temperament as her friend, and who too easily flew from one extreme to the other, became once more blithe and cheerful, and she proceeded to speak of Conrad in a strain which their brief acquaintance hardly justified. But love engenders love; and excited by the thought that she was loved by him (Walburga had never had a lover before), a tender, responsive passion now inspired her tongue, and during the rest of the afternoon even Moida’s high spirits did not soar higher than her own.
“And now,” said Walburga, when the sun was verging near the horizon—“now let us seek the grove into which my dear nightingale flew; I long to hear him singing his song in liberty.”
“And making love to some other pretty bird,” returned Moida, as she rose from the table.
Accordingly, they wended their way back to the park; and in about half an hour Walburga came to a halt and said: “Here is the spot; just among these bushes he disappeared.” Then, after listening a moment, she added: “And that is his voice. Hark!”
“May it not be another nightingale?” observed Moida.
“Well, let us approach softly and try to get a peep at the one that is now singing; if ’tis mine I’ll know him by a bit of blue ribbon I tied about his neck.”
Presently they caught a glimpse of the little songster amid the green leaves, and, by the ribbon he wore, ’twas undoubtedly Walburga’s pet.
“Oh! how glad I am I set him free,” spoke the latter in an undertone, as if she feared to disturb his roundelay. Then, pointing towards a neighboring bush: “And look! look! Yonder is his mate.”
Walburga had scarcely breathed these words when the other bird took wing and perched itself close beside hers. And now the song waxed softer and more melodious, and a tear glistened in her eye as she gazed upon this happy scene of love-making.
Presently a rushing, swooping sound was heard; ’twas like a blast of wild wind, and the girl gave a start. Moida was startled, too, and wondered what it was. But before either of them could utter a cry or hasten one step to the rescue, a hawk had pounced upon Walburga’s sweet warbler and carried him away.
* * * * *
The next three days were anxious ones for Conrad and Walburga. The former endeavored to beguile his thoughts by watching the work which was going on at the castle, and spent as much time as possible beside Ulrich, under whose skilful hand the pristine beauty of the interior of the tower was fast returning.
Whenever the youth spoke of Moida, Conrad’s face would light up, and he would exclaim: “Yes, yes, a happy day is coming for her and you and all of us.” Yet down deep in his heart he felt a strange misgiving. He remembered the pensive look which more than once had shadowed Walburga’s countenance whilst they were conversing together; nor did Conrad forget the tear—the tear he had been so tempted to kiss away. “And there was a shyness, too, about her which I cannot understand,” he said to himself. “She seemed afraid to look at me. And when finally I proposed, instead of answering yes or no she put me off for three long days.”
Conrad’s own temperament, as Moida Hofer had discerned, was not unlike Walburga’s; and now the thought of waiting this space of time was very trying to him. At one moment he was full of hope; at another he was certain that he would be rejected, and then he was plunged in despair.
Yet, singular to relate, when at length the dawn of the third day did arrive, Conrad was seized with a mysterious impulse not to leave Loewenstein; and Ulrich, to whom he had opened his heart and confided all his thoughts, was unable to comfort him and give him courage to shake off the gloom which had come over his spirits.
“I had a dream last night,” spoke Conrad—“a dream that has wrought on me a most vivid, painful impression. I believe I shall never get over it—never!”
“Pray, what was the dream?” inquired Ulrich.
“I thought I was standing on the brink of a river, whose dark waters as they rolled by me gave forth a moaning, melancholy sound; and ever and anon along the surface of the flood there passed a human head; and every face of the many, of the thousands, I saw float by wore traces of pain and woe, while some were stamped with a sorrow perfectly indescribable. And, oh! one of these faces”—here Conrad shuddered—“was the face of Walburga. And she watched me and watched me until she disappeared in the distance with a mournfulness no human tongue can express. Then when she was gone I heard a voice cry out: ‘This stream hath its fountain in the heart of poor humanity; and these waters are all the tears which have been shed since Paradise was lost.’”
“What a curious dream!” said Ulrich. “But I beg you to forget it. ’Tis only a dream.”
Walburga, too, was impatient and anxious for the time to fly by. And now while she sat at her easel waiting for Conrad to appear—’twas the morning of the day she had named—her heart fluttered at every footstep that approached. Her countenance was paler than usual, and on it were marks of grief. Nor ought we to smile at the girl for feeling so acutely the death of her nightingale; it was such a cruel death, and she had loved the bird so much. Indeed, it was her very love for it that had prompted her to set it free. Only for this her pet would still have been warbling in its cage; now nothing remained of it save a few scattered feathers.
“Alas! will my heart, perhaps, be torn like his?” she sighed, as she waited and listened.
But hour after hour went by, and still Conrad did not come; nor did he show himself at all this day, nor the following day either.
And then Walburga murmured to herself: “Ah! I might have known it would be so. He has been told by somebody else what I should have let his own eyes discover. Now I shall see him no more.”
The evening of the sixth day, after having waited for him at the Pinakothek, but, as before, in vain, the poor girl went her way home, where she might bow her head on Moida’s breast and silently lament. But lo! on reaching her humble abode her friend was not to be found—Moida was gone! On the pin-cushion was found a slip of paper, whereon was written: “Stay calm, dear Walburga, and trust in me; I’ll be back to-morrow.” Moida did not reveal that she was gone to Loewenstein to learn what had become of Conrad Seinsheim.
* * * * *
As changeable in spirits as the one whom he so passionately loved, Conrad arrived in Munich, his heart ravished with joy at the prospect before him; for Moida had assured him beyond the shadow of a doubt that ere the clock struck noon Walburga would be his affianced bride.
“She has been expecting you day after day,” said Moida; “and I can hardly forgive you for putting her patience to such a trial.”
The day was anything but pleasant; the rain poured down like a deluge, and the streets were gloomy and deserted. But when there is blue sky in our heart all the clouds in the heavens cannot shut it out; and so Conrad did not heed the tempest in the least. At length he reached the Pinakothek; and when Walburga found him once more by her side, she had to call forth all her resolution, in order to preserve a mien of calm and dignity.
Only by a great effort she succeeded; at least her eyes did not stray from the canvas, and, except for a flush of color which came over the paleness of her cheek, one might have fancied she was not even aware of his presence.
“Gracious lady,” began Conrad in faltering accents, “I am come late—very late, I know. But I hope not too late?”
“Oh! no, sir. I forgive you,” answered Walburga, with a smile which at once doubly assured him that the happy moment was indeed close at hand. “But pray be patient yet a little while,” she added, “and watch well what I am about to do; ’tis the finishing touch to my picture.”
“Your beautiful picture!” ejaculated Conrad. “How I long to see it hanging in Loewenstein Castle.”
And now, while Walburga went on with her brush, he fell into attentive silence. But he said within himself: “Only for what Miss Hofer has told me of you, of your kind heart, I should set you down as the cruelest of mortals for keeping me in a fever of suspense during such an age as a single minute.”
Presently Conrad’s expression became one of amazement, and, quite unable to contain himself, he exclaimed, “Why, what are you doing?”
But without making any response the girl continued her work; and her hand was wonderfully steady, considering that Conrad’s trial, great as it was, was not greater than her own. Nay, the agony of waiting was tenfold more poignant for her than for him.
In a few minutes she had finished, and then again he cried out, this time loud enough to be heard in the main gallery: “Why, why do you disfigure your chef d’œuvre by a hideous birthmark?”
With a tremor and cheek white as death Walburga here let her brush fall, then abruptly cut short Conrad’s exclamations of regret at what she had done by saying:
“Pray listen, sir; I am about to answer the solemn question you put to me a week ago.” But before going further she paused a moment, perhaps to smother a wail of anguish that was ready to burst from her lips; and while she paused Conrad leaned towards her to catch the coming words, and you might have heard the beating of his heart. Then Walburga spoke: “My response, sir, is—No!”
There are times in life when we scarce can put faith in what our ears plainly tell us; to Conrad Seinsheim this was such a time. His expression when these words reached him, it were impossible to describe; he stood like one petrified.
In another moment, with astonishment, and wrath, and grief struggling madly in his breast, he turned and hastened out of the Pinakothek; and as he went, oh! bitterly did he curse the hour, the fatal hour, when he first laid eyes on this beautiful but utterly heartless and deceiving woman.
O Conrad, Conrad, Conrad! why didst thou not stay thy rash flight an instant—only an instant—and give Walburga one other glance? Hadst thou done this, we verily believe, nay, we are certain, thy flashing eyes would have softened to tenderness and pity.
For at the sound of thy departing steps she turned round towards thee, and her face was as the face thou sawest in thy dream. But destiny shaped it otherwise: thou didst not pause, and Walburga floated down the dark stream, away from thee for ever and for ever.
* * * * *
Ulrich retired to rest, the night which closed the stormy day when Conrad went to Munich, in a very happy mood. Not only did he believe himself on the high-road to success, for Conrad had promised to find him steady employment, but the absence of his benefactor made the youth confident that Walburga had put an end to his suspense by giving him a favorable answer. “Yes, Conrad told me that if she accepted him I need not expect him back till to-morrow, or the day after at the very soonest.”
Nor even when five days elapsed, and the owner of the castle still remained absent, did Ulrich think it strange. “I am sure,” he said to himself, “I didn’t leave my Moida’s side for five days after we were betrothed—no indeed.”
But why none of them dropped him a line to impart the glad tidings did surprise him a little; Moida, at least, might have written two words. Finally, a letter did come from Moida, but it brought anything save good news; and when the poor fellow had read it through he sank down on the grass near the ancient tombstone and wept bitterly.
When this day closed Loewenstein was quite deserted, except by Caro, the aged poodle, who wandered all about the dusky ruin, whining and wondering what had become of his master. Yet, cheerless as Loewenstein was this evening and many an evening afterwards, ’twas less cheerless than the erewhile happy home in Fingergasse.
But Conrad Seinsheim knew naught of this; he believed all the grief, all the lamentations, to be his own. And, indeed, he suffered much. From hateful Munich he sped away he did not care whither: to Nuremberg, to Dresden, to Prague—on, on he travelled, half distracted; until by and by, after three weeks of aimless, feverish wandering—his heart spoke to him and said: “Thou hast been hasty; return to the Pinakothek and ask Walburga once more to be thy spouse.” And Conrad listened to the voice of his heart and went back.
* * * * *
Three weeks have passed away since Walburga pronounced that doomful No—only three weeks. Yet what changes may be wrought in this brief space of time! Is yonder haggard visage moving through the Pinakothek the visage of Conrad Seinsheim?
Yes, it is he; and how his deep-sunken eyes glow as he draws nigh to the spot where hangs Carlo Dolce’s picture of Innocence! Like sparks out of a tomb they seem.
But she whom Conrad is looking for is gone. “Pray tell me,” he said, addressing one of the custodes—“tell me where is the young lady who was copying this painting a few weeks since. Is she anywhere in the gallery?”
“She is dead, sir,” answered the other, quietly tapping a little black box with his knuckles and taking out a pinch of snuff; “and she is to be buried to-day.”
“Dead!” repeated Conrad, starting back. “Dead!”
In another moment he was hastening with winged feet to the God’s-acre. And as he sped along the streets, every merry laugh that reached his ears sounded like a dismal croak; and the sky overhead, albeit never so cloudless and bright, seemed to shadow every object like a vast funeral pall.
How bitterly did Conrad now reproach himself for the rash words he had uttered when he saw Walburga tracing the birthmark on her picture!
“Fool, fool, fool that I was! I should have divined in an instant what she thus meant to convey to me, and I should have answered: ‘Even so, dear girl, I will take thee and cherish thee!’”
When Conrad reached the Leichen-Haus[107] the funeral bell was already tolling—the Leichen-Haus, whose ghastliness cannot be dissipated by all the bright-burning tapers and garlands of sweet-scented flowers which surround the dead. Breathless he turned to the sheet of paper posted by the doorway, whereon are written the names and station in life of those who are to be buried; and breathless he read the names.
Walburga’s stood third on the list, and, as coffin number two was just passing out of the building, Conrad saw that he was not more than in time. He pushed his way through the crowd, and in another moment found himself beside Walburga. She was the only one of the departed who retained any look of life about her; you might almost have fancied she was blushing at the curious eyes which were staring upon her, as she lay still and motionless in the narrow box, and that she heard them whispering, “How handsome she would have been, except for that ugly birthmark!”
We need not tell what Conrad felt at this moment; those who noticed him nudged one another, and said in undertones:
“Her lover, perhaps. Poor fellow!”
Not many followed Walburga to her last resting-place; for she had been of a retiring nature, and had kept much to herself and her one devoted friend. There might have been five or six persons in all who saw her lowered into the grave; and among the few who sprinkled holy water upon her there was Conrad Seinsheim. As he did so an inner voice whispered to him and said: “Walburga is near thee; she sees thee; she is immortal and happy for ever.”
Then, when the last clod of earth had been well packed down by the grave-digger’s spade, Conrad turned away to seek Moida Hofer. Ulrich accompanied him, and when they gained the high-up chamber where Walburga had lived so many peaceful years, they found Moida standing beside a table on which lay Master Eckart and Blessed Henry Suso’s Little Book of Eternal Wisdom, an empty bird-cage, and a tress of golden hair.
“She loved you truly,” spoke the girl, looking at Conrad through her tears. “She told me so; they were almost her last words to me.”
“Oh! I know it now, but, alas! too late. She is gone!” replied Conrad; and the word gone sounded through the room with long-drawn pathos. ’Twas as if his voice had passed the word on to other voices, who kept repeating: “Gone! gone! gone!”
Here Moida and Ulrich fell to weeping; and when by and by they uncovered their faces, they were surprised to find that Conrad had disappeared. He must indeed have glided away like a spirit, for neither of them had heard his footstep; and, to their further wonder, the sunshiny curl had vanished too.
* * * * *
“How strangely things turn out!” spoke Moida to her betrothed one evening, as they were seated side by side at the foot of Loewenstein tower, watching the sun go down.
“Strangely, strangely!” answered Ulrich.
“Poor Conrad!” went on Moida. “Had he come back only a few days sooner—and he came with the full intention of proposing again—if he had arrived even one day before the saddest of all the days I have known, Walburga might have lived.”
To this the youth made no response; he could not speak, and his tears set Moida weeping again; while old Caro, who perceived that his mistress was in sorrow, let droop his head, and his tail ceased to wag. Presently the sun disappeared. But still in the twilight the lovers remained thinking of the past.
By and by a voice was heard singing within the tower, and after listening a moment and sighing, “Poor, poor Conrad!” Moida rose up and peeped through the lowest of the grated windows. Ulrich did the same, and what did they behold? Wrapped in a long, flowing gown, and pacing round and round the room, was Conrad Seinsheim. Yet not everybody would have recognized him; for his hair, which now reached down to his shoulders, was turned quite gray, and so was his beard, and you might have taken him for an aged man.
The song he was singing was one full of tenderness and love; and ever and anon Conrad would pause and listen, and press to his lips a lock of sunny hair.
Then suddenly, like a person who hears an answering voice, his ghostlike visage would glow with rapture, and you might have fancied he had caught a vision of heaven.
“Really, I sometimes think Conrad is not mad at all,” observed Moida solemnly. “At this moment I do believe he sees dear Walburga. Look! look! He is beckoning!”
“It may be so,” returned Ulrich. “At any rate, he is infinitely happier, judging by his expression and his songs, than many a man who is not mad.”
“Well, I’ll not say ‘Poor Conrad!’ any more,” added Moida. “For I verily believe he knows Walburga is ever hovering near him; nay, that at times he actually sees her. There, look again! look! How he smiles! And his outstretched hands may indeed be clasping hers now, albeit they are invisible to you and me.”
Here there was a brief silence, after which Ulrich remarked, “I am very pleased, my love, that you keep the little lamp so nicely trimmed before the image of our Blessed Mother: for the image belonged to Walburga. See, now Conrad is praying before it.”
“Oh! ’tis not I who trims the light,” replied Moida. “Conrad takes entire charge of the shrine; I merely bring him oil and tapers.”
“But, darling,” continued Ulrich somewhat abruptly, and with a look of seriousness, “if Conrad’s mysterious condition last much longer ’twill plunge us into still greater difficulties; will it not? Why, already all your slender means have been swallowed up, as well as the few florins I had, in paying off the swarm of laborers who were employed upon this ruin. Now all work is stopped, and ’twill be a bitter cold place to spend the coming winter in. Yet what can we do? We must surely stay by Conrad, for he was extremely generous to you and me; and if we abandoned him in this dark hour ’twould be very cruel.”
“Ay, let us prove his stanch friends, now that he is unable to help himself,” answered the girl, brushing away a tear.
“Well, if he could only sleep he might grow better,” pursued Ulrich.
“Our kind friend hasn’t closed his eyes in ever so many nights,” said Moida. “Nor does he take enough nourishment to keep another person from starvation. In fact, his condition is exceedingly mysterious. An inward fire seems to be consuming him; you can see it shooting out of his eyes; but still on he lives—on and on; apparently happy, too, withered to a skeleton though he is.”
“Ay, what can keep good Conrad alive?” said Ulrich.
“Might it be that Walburga’s spirit feeds him?” spake Moida, in an awe-stricken whisper.
Here the subject of their remarks rose up from his knees and began again to sing:
“Und weil es nicht ist auszusagen, Weil’s Lieben ganz unendlich ist, So magst du meine Augen fragen, Wie lieb du mir in Herzen bist!”[108]
When the song, of which we have given but a stanza, was ended, Caro uttered a melancholy howl that awakened the echoes far up the mountain and set the owls in the ruin hooting; then following his mistress, who passed into the tower to make sure that Conrad’s door was properly fastened for the night, the old dog curled himself up on a rug and was soon asleep.
Moida, however, went out again to spend a half-hour more with her betrothed, watching the stars and wondering what fate was in store for herself and him.
“If these stones could only speak, what tales they’d tell!” observed Ulrich, after she had nestled down beside him and flung half her shawl about his shoulders, for the air was rather chilly.
“Yes, very interesting stories no doubt,” returned Moida. “They’d tell us of many a brave knight and fair lady, of many a pageant and tournament. But remember, dear boy, what I have often said to you: beware of dwelling on those dead and buried days. And I, too, must beware; for, do you know, since I am here I occasionally feel myself drifting into a dreamy state, and I might almost fancy this ruin is enchanted and that it has thrown a spell over me. But believe me, Ulrich, believe me, the past is past and can never, never come back. Whatever your forefathers were, however wealthy and noble and powerful—some of them even placed kings on the throne—you, at least, must toil to win your daily bread; and I mean to help you. Therefore be of stout heart and look only to the future. And even if we have to live like these owls we will marry some time or other; and happy days are in store for us yet.”
Moida had scarcely spoken these words when she and her betrothed were startled by a loud, wailful cry which seemed to proceed from Conrad’s chamber. Nor can we wonder that it made them both spring to their feet; for not once since poor Seinsheim had been confined had he wept a tear or uttered a single lamentation. Yet ’twas undoubtedly his voice they had just heard. But what could have wrought this sudden change in him?
In another moment they were within the tower. Then Moida with trembling hand turned the key of his door and entered, followed closely by Ulrich.
“O Moida! Moida!” cried Conrad, as she advanced toward him, “why did you wake me? Why did you not let me sleep on? ’Twas a celestial vision I had—oh! celestial. But, alas! now I am awake—stark awake; and now it all comes back to me—all, all. She is dead! dead! dead!”
Here he burst into a paroxysm of grief, and uttered anew the shriek of woe which had been heard a minute before.
“I do believe his reason is restored,” whispered the girl, turning to her betrothed.
“Oh! let us thank God,” answered Ulrich.
“Conrad, dear, good Conrad,” spoke Moida, now gently taking his hand in hers, “you have been living indeed in a vision for many days past; but now you appear to be yourself again. So do not mourn; rather kneel and pray, and I will pray with you, and so will Ulrich. Let us offer thanks to God for your happy recovery.”
“Well, yes, I will pray—pray to be taken where Walburga is,” answered Conrad, in a somewhat calmer tone, yet still weeping bitterly. “O Moida! if you only knew how happy I have been. Why, blessed Walburga was near me all the while; and every time I sang she responded in a strain such as only angel lips can breathe. But now—now her face has disappeared, her voice is silent—she is gone! O Moida! if my blissful vision was madness, then would to God I had stayed mad!”
“Well, dear friend, Walburga is no doubt in heaven, and I believe she does often hover round you; for she loves you, and knows that you love her; and I am confident nothing would so rejoice her soul as to have you pray—to see you back once more in the faith of your youth. On her dying bed this was her ardent hope. Oh! do, do.”
“I am what I used to be in my early years,” replied Conrad, a glad smile lighting up his wan face. “I am, indeed. Blessed Walburga led me back—and— But hark! She is calling me! Hark! Hark!”
Here Conrad sank slowly to his knees, while an expression came over him which filled the other two with alarm. Then Ulrich, without losing a moment, hastened with all speed to the monastery for a priest. The path down the mountain was a difficult one, especially at this hour. On the way back the good father and Ulrich might have gone astray and arrived too late, but for their meeting a man with a lantern, who offered to light them up the rugged ascent.
Nigh unto death as he was, Conrad’s soul lingered yet an hour in its mortal tenement—a long enough time for him to be shriven and to receive the last sacrament of the church; after which the man with the lantern—and who, by a happy providence, turned out to be the village notary—drew up in brief words Conrad’s will and testament, whereby Loewenstein Castle, and all his other property besides, was bequeathed to Ulrich.
“And now, ere I depart hence,” spoke Conrad in a voice barely loud enough to be heard, and placing Moida’s hand in the hand of her betrothed, “let me see you joined in matrimony. Ay, let the holy bond be made right here by my couch, and do thou, reverend father, pronounce them man and wife.”
Such a ceremony at such a time and place the latter had never yet performed. But so urgent was Conrad’s appeal to have it done on the spot, without an instant’s delay, that he overcame a little scruple.
Then, just as Conrad’s immortal part was winging its flight, Moida, the patient, faithful Moida, who had waited so long for this golden moment to arrive, found herself the bride of her own dear Ulrich; and like a bright rainbow illumining a rain-beaten landscape, a gleam of joy, great joy, shone through her tears, and never before was happiness so strangely blended with sorrow as here in this chamber of death.
Then, kneeling down side by side, Moida and Ulrich breathed a prayer for the repose of the soul of him who had been so very good to them. And may we not hope that near them at that solemn moment was the soul of Walburga, greeting the spirit of the one whom she loved, and ready to be his guide in the dark, dismal region which Conrad had still to pass through ere he came to the home of the blest?
END.
Footnote 107:
A building in the Munich cemetery to which all are taken immediately after death—no exception, save for the royal family.
Footnote 108:
Words by Jean Paul.
“And as ’tis not for tongue to tell, For love knows naught of time or space, So diving down my eyes’ deep well, Find graven on my heart thy face.”
DANTE’S PURGATORIO. TRANSLATED BY T. W. PARSONS. CANTO SEVENTEENTH.
Now, that thy mind with more expanded powers May conceive this, give me thy mind, nor shun To reap some harvest from this halt of ours.
Bethink thee, reader, if thou e’er hast been Among the Alps o’ertaken by a cloud, Through which all objects were as blindly seen As moles behold things through their visual shroud; How, as the vapors dank and thick begin To thin themselves, the solar sphere’s faint ray Scarce pierces them,—and readily may’st thou Conceive (when first I saw it) in what way To me the sun looked that was setting now. From such a cloud, and following as I went My master’s faithful steps with even pace, I came to where the day’s last rays were spent On the low border of the mountain’s base.
O gift imaginative! that dost so Of ourselves rob us, that oft-times a man Heeds not though round him thousand trumpets blow! If thee sense move not, whence the power that can? A light moves thee, Heaven-kindled, that doth flow By will divine directed, or its own. My fancy with her fury was engrossed Who took the shape of that sweet bird[109] well known To be of his own song enamored most; And here my mind was in itself so chained That it received no object from outside. Then into my high fantasy there rained The image of a person crucified,[110] Fierce in his aspect, with a face of hate,— And in this look despitefully he died. Round him there stood Ahasuerus great, Esther, his spouse, and Mordecai the true, Of whose just word just action still was mate. And, as this image from my mind withdrew, Of itself breaking, as a bubble does, Failing the water under which it grew, A damsel[111] weeping on my vision rose, Moaning aloud and crying: “Why, O queen! Hast thou through anger wished thyself undone? Not to lose thy Lavinia, thou hast ta’en Thy life and lost me! Mother, I am one Doomed to mourn thee before a husband slain!”
Even as our slumber, when a flash of light A sleeper’s eyes doth suddenly confront, Is broken, quivering ere it dieth quite; So fell my vision, as a beam past wont In its excess of splendor smote my sight. I turned to see where ’twas I had been brought, When a voice called to me: “Climb here the hill!” This put all other purpose from my thought, And gave such eagerness unto my will Of him who counselled thus to mark the mien, As rests not wholly satisfied until Face unto face the speaker may be seen. And, as one sees not the sun’s figure clear, Through light’s great superflux that blinds our gaze, So was my visual virtue wanting here. “This is a heavenly spirit” (Virgil says), “That with his splendor veils him from thine eye, And guides us our way up, nor waits for prayer. He does by us as men would be done by; For who sees need, and doth, till asked, forbear, Already seems ill-purposed to deny. Such invitation let our feet obey! Haste we to mount before the darkness grow, For then we could not till return of day.” So spake my leader: I beside him slow Pacing, we bended toward a stair our way; And, as my foot the first ascension pressed, I felt a movement near me as of wings Fanning my face, and then a voice said: “Blest Are the peacemakers! them no bad wrath stings.” Already overhead the sun’s last rays Were so uplifted, followed by the night, That round us many a star began to blaze. And, as I felt my body’s waning might, “Why dost thou fail me, O my strength?” I said: But having come now where we climbed no more, On the stair’s brink we ceased our toilsome tread, Fixed as a vessel that arrives at shore. I stopped awhile, and waited as to hear In this new circle aught perchance of sound; Then thus addressed my lord: “My Father dear! Say, what offence is punished in this round? Stay not thy speech although thy feet are stayed.” “The love of good,” thus Virgil me bespoke, “Wherein deficient here is perfect made; Here the slow oar receives amending stroke. But that thy mind with more expanded powers May conceive this, give me thy mind, nor shun To reap some harvest from this halt of ours.
“Never creator”[112] (he began), “my son, Was without love; nor anything create; Either love natural, or that nobler one Born of the mind; thou know’st the truth I state. Natural love ne’er takes erroneous course; Through ill-directed aim the other may, Or from excess, or from a want of force. While o’er its bent the Primal Good hath sway, While with due check it seeks the inferior good, It cannot be the source of wrong delight. But when it swerves to ill, or if it should Seek good with more or less zeal than is right, Against the maker doth his work rebel. Whence may’st thou[113] comprehend how love in you Must of all virtue be the seed, as well As of each action to which pain is due. Now since love must look ever towards its own Subjects’ well-being, things are from self-hate Saved; and since naught can be supposed alone To exist, from the First Being separate, Hatred of Him is also spared to men.[114] Remains (if rightly I divide, I say) The ill that’s loved must be a neighbor’s then, And in three modes this love springs in your clay. One, through the crushing of his fellow, fain Would come to eminence, with sole desire His greatness o’er that other’s to maintain. One at another’s rising feareth loss Of power, fame, favor, and his own good name; So sickens, joying in his neighbor’s cross. And there is one whom wrong so weighs with shame, That greed of vengeance doth his heart engross; And such must needs work evil for his brother. This threefold bad love those mourn here below: Now I would have thee learn about another, Which runs to good but doth no measure know. All vaguely apprehend a good wherein The soul may rest itself; and all men woo This imaged good, and seek its peace to win. To look thereon if languid love[115] draw you, Or ye be slow to seek it, such a sin, After meet penitence, on this round ye rue. There is another good,[116] but far from bliss! Nor makes man happy: it is not the true Essence, of all good fruit the root: To this The love which too much doth itself resign Is mourned for in three cornices above; But how tripartite[117] I will not define; Thou shalt, by seeing, learn about that love”.
Footnote 109:
“Who took the shape of that sweet bird.” Reference is here made to the story of Procne, wife of Tereus, King of Thrace, and sister of Philomela. To revenge herself on her husband, Procne murdered their child, Itys, cut him into pieces, and served up the flesh to the father. Tereus, discovering the truth, pursued and was on the point of overtaking her when, at her prayer, she was changed by the gods into a nightingale, and her sister Philomela into a swallow, according to Probus, Libanius, and Strabo.—Purg. ix. 15.
Footnote 110:
This is Haman, who was hanged upon the gallows that he had prepared for Mordecai, as we read in the Book of Esther; but Dante’s word is crocifisse.
Footnote 111:
“A damsel,” etc. This was Lavinia, daughter of King Latinus and Amata. Lavinia had been secretly promised in marriage by her mother to Turnus, King of the Rutuli. The marriage was displeasing to the gods, and the oracles declared that Lavinia should marry a foreign prince. The foreign prince was Æneas, who, on his arrival in Italy, became the friend and ally of Latinus, and won his favor as suitor to Lavinia. Turnus thereupon declared war against both, and was killed in battle by Æneas. Amata, having been informed prematurely of the death of Turnus, and enraged at being unable to prevent the marriage of Lavinia with Æneas, hanged herself in despair.
Footnote 112:
“Never Creator ...” In this passage Virgil explains to Dante the nature of love according to the mediæval philosophy, viz., God is love. “Deus caritas est,” and so are all created things, as derived from him. Love in man is natural or rational—that is, of the mind. Natural love, or the love towards all things necessary to one’s preservation, cannot err. Rational love can err in three ways: first, when directed to a bad aim—that is, to evil; secondly, when directed excessively to earthly pleasures; thirdly, when directed feebly to those things truly worthy of love, the celestial. As long as love turns to the Primal Good, the celestial, or seeks with due check the inferior, or terrestrial, it cannot be the source of wrong, or sin. “But when it swerves to ill,” ... etc.
Footnote 113:
“Whence may’st thou ...” Love is the source of good works, as of bad ones; thus, according to St. Augustine, “Boni aut mali mores sunt boni aut mali amores.”
Footnote 114:
“Hatred of Him ...” Love cannot turn against its subjects (viz., men cannot hate themselves); and as these subjects cannot exist separate from their First Being, they cannot therefore hate God. (Men may deny or blaspheme, but not hate, God.) It follows, therefore, that, as no bad love can be directed against one’s self or against God, that it can only be against one’s neighbor, and this can be in three forms: viz., by Pride, or the love of good to ourselves and of evil to others; by Envy, or the love of evil to others, without cause of good or evil to us; by Anger, or the love of evil to others on account of real or imaginary evil to us.
Footnote 115:
“... Languid love ...” Sloth; indolence to seek the true good, which is God.
Footnote 116:
“There is another good ...”—the love of this world and earthly pleasures.
Footnote 117:
“Tripartite ...”—three other bad loves: Avarice, Gluttony, Lust.
THE TRACTARIAN MOVEMENT IN ITS RELATION TO THE CHURCH.
A generation has passed away since the beginning of that which is commonly known as the Tractarian movement in the Church of England; the early leaders of the little band whose influence has been and still is felt throughout the length and breadth of the land have, with two exceptions, gone from among us; the names of Father Newman and Doctor Pusey are known to all our readers, the one as that of a devoted son of Holy Church, the other as that of an Anglican still firmly attached to the cause which he espoused in early life.
Which of these eminent men is to be taken as a fair example of the results of the movement? What is the tendency of the High-Church party? Do its doctrines and practices lead people to the Catholic Church or keep them out of it? Questions like these can hardly fail to occur to the mind of any intelligent observer of the state of religion in England in the present day, and on them must chiefly centre the interest of Catholics in the subject.
The different parties contained in the Church of England give contrary answers to the questions we have proposed. Low-Church or Evangelical Anglicans are unanimous in their denunciations of “Puseyism” and “Ritualism” as the high-road to Rome; some of them even go so far as to say that the Jesuits are the hidden but real promoters of what they look upon as a return to the errors and evils swept away by the Reformation. The High-Church portion of the Church of England is equally earnest and positive in the assertion that what it calls the revival of Catholic teaching and Catholic practice does not lead men to Rome, but keeps them, to use its own language, true to the faith of their baptism.
In face of these conflicting statements we turn to the testimony of Catholic priests engaged in the work of conversion, and to the personal experience of converts. We believe that every priest who has experience in conversions will unhesitatingly endorse the statement that most of the converts received into the Catholic Church come from the ranks of the High-Church or Tractarian section of the Anglican communion. Many of these converts, especially of those who were formerly Anglican clergymen, have felt it right to lay before the public the motives which determined them to take a step so serious in its nature and consequences. We have therefore a considerable number of published documents to refer to, and the testimony that they bear is in perfect accordance with that of our priests. The question, however, is not so easily settled. If you lay these facts before a Ritualist he will at once assure you that those who have left the Church of England were weak, or unstable, or impatient, or that they were driven from their position by the imprudence or fault of others, most probably by the errors of their bishops. They will, in fact, deny that conversions are the natural and legitimate result of High-Church teaching, and will treat them as exceptional cases, to be blamed, indeed, and deplored, but not to be viewed as indicating a general tendency.
It will therefore be interesting to examine a little into the work of the High-Church movement, and to judge for ourselves how it bears on the interests of the church.
We begin at once by admitting that the High-Church party is opposed to the Catholic Church—deliberately and actively opposed. The language in which it condemns converts is at least as strong as that in use among Evangelicals. The principle of private judgment, which furnishes the convert with an argument unanswerable in the case of his Low-Church opponent, is not recognized by the High-Churchman, although we do him no injustice in saying that it underlies his whole course of action. The High-Churchman’s belief in Anglican orders, coupled with his ignorance as to the meaning of jurisdiction, enables him to suppose that the Catholic Church in England is schismatical, and to denounce those who submit to her authority as guilty of grave, if not of unpardonable, sin.
If, then, the High-Church or Tractarian party does in any sense or to any degree promote the cause of conversion, or prepare the way for souls to return to God’s church, we must say that such work is done unconsciously and involuntarily.
The original principle of the High-Church movement was reverence for antiquity; it was, in the intention of its leaders, a return to the old paths. The past has ever had a charm for minds of a certain order; to those who have not realized the supernatural character of the church, who have not grasped the great fact that, in virtue of the promise of her divine Lord and of the power of his Spirit, she is ever the same, ever preserved from error, ever guided unto all truth, antiquity is a matter of primary importance. Ignorant of the existing Divine authority, the Protestant who believes that our Lord founded a church upon earth goes back to the earliest days of its history; he traces the stream to its source; he thinks that there it must needs be purest. It may be that the labor is great, that the study required is beyond the reach of many, and that, after all, the materials at his command are too often insufficient, and that he is ultimately compelled to fall back on the exercise of his private judgment; but in the absence of a living authority there is nothing that he deems more likely to guide him aright. The view, we must admit, is from his position perfectly reasonable, and we may bless God that the reverent and conscientious study of the past has brought many of the best and most gifted of the Anglican body to bow their heads in allegiance to the Vicar of Christ; they have found that the truth they sought is, to use the words of Moses, not above them nor far off from them, but very nigh unto them.
But the influence of this awakening of reverence for the past has told upon many who have not joined the Catholic Church; it has even left its mark on material things. The old churches which our Catholic forefathers built, wherein they worshipped and beneath whose shadow they rest, have been restored; through the length and breadth of the country they stand in their venerable beauty, and seem at once to bear testimony to the piety of former ages and to await England’s return to the faith.
We believe the High-Church section of the Anglican communion to be promoting the cause of conversion in several ways.
First, by the valid administration of baptism. High-Church clergymen know what is essential to the validity of baptism; they believe baptism to be a sacrament and necessary to salvation, and consequently they are very careful in instructing their people as to its importance and in giving it properly. In former days, and in the case of ministers who did not believe that baptism really affected the eternal salvation of an infant, there is reason to fear that there was an immense amount of neglect. By baptism, as we know, the habit of faith is implanted in the soul, and accordingly in converts from Anglicanism we often find a wonderful power of grasping the truths of the Catholic religion; as soon as a doctrine is presented to them the mind seems at once to respond to it; faith is there, as it is in the soul of the baptized child.
Most of the doctrines of the Catholic Church are preached and taught by the High-Church clergy with more or less distinctness; and here we must observe that in speaking of the High-Church or ritualistic body we are compelled to use terms whose signification is somewhat vague. The Church of England may be said to contain three different schools of opinion, High Church, Low Church, and Broad Church; but no one of these has any definite standard. Among those who are called, and who would call themselves, High-Churchmen there are many varieties and shades of opinion; the writings or sermons of one High-Church clergyman may, of course, be disavowed by another. Up to the present time Dr. Pusey, who more than any other man might seem to have been a leader, does not feel it necessary to adopt the ritual for which some of his disciples are so earnestly contending. All that we can, therefore, hope to do is to give a general idea of High-Church and ritualistic teaching, premising that on most points there is more or less divergence amongst the teachers.
It is not surprising that many of those who look back to the past for guidance and instruction should have come to view the so-called Reformation with regret. The ordinary Protestant boldly declares it to have been a necessity, but many High-Churchmen openly deplore it; they repudiate the name of Protestant, and, in defiance at once of history and of etymology, call themselves Catholics. There is something, however, in a name, and we may fairly believe that the disavowal of the epithet Protestant tends to educate people out of the idea of protesting; it is certainly true that if the Church of England ceases to be Protestant, she cuts the very ground from under her feet, and abolishes her only plausible raison d’être; but the English mind, with all its good qualities, is not, generally speaking, logical, and words are too often used without a very accurate idea of their derivation or import.
Those Catholic doctrines which have been most fiercely opposed and most grossly misrepresented in England are now openly and earnestly inculcated. We may almost say that the conflict is gradually being narrowed to the one subject of the authority of the Holy See and the questions immediately depending on it. For the High-Church Anglican believes that our Lord founded a church; he professes to take that church as his guide, though he strangely persuades himself that its authority is at present in abeyance. He would obey the voice of a general council, but in order to have a general council it is absolutely necessary that his bishops should take part in the deliberations; in the expectation of an impossible conjuncture of circumstances he practically disobeys every one who in the meantime claims his allegiance.
But a vast amount of Catholic teaching is, as we have said, finding its way into the minds and hearts of Englishmen; Catholic practices and devotions are being revived, the way is being prepared for the church. There is a wonderful connection between the different doctrines of our holy faith; the soul that earnestly and devoutly believes one truth is, if we may so speak, predisposed to believe the next that may be presented to it, and this not only from a reasonable perception of the beauty, the fitness, and the mutual relations of the different truths, but from the habit of mind which is produced and cultivated by acts of faith. Each act of faith contains or implies an act of homage to the truth of God; the soul that worships is on the way to receive fuller light.
We have in a former paper[118] dwelt at some length on the subject of confession in the Church of England; we have shown that it is habitually practised by a considerable number of earnest Anglicans, and that it is publicly urged upon people by some of the clergy as the ordinary remedy for post-baptismal sin. It is quite certain that confession is believed in very much more widely than it is practised. The most extreme of Anglicans cannot possibly maintain that the Church of England requires it of every one; to the majority of people, especially if early habit has not facilitated the practice, there can be no doubt that it is painful and difficult. We therefore often find persons who thoroughly believe that the English clergy possess the power of the keys, and yet never themselves seek for the benefit of absolution. The matter is left quite optional, or rather the penitent is to be judge in his own case, and to decide whether he does or does not require this special means of grace. The scanty utterances of the Book of Common Prayer seem to imply that peace of mind is the principal object to be attained by confession. If, therefore, an Anglican can “quiet his own conscience,” he is quite justified in doing so without any extraneous aid; and, indeed, in so doing he would seem to be carrying out the intention of the framers of the Prayer-Book.
The doctrine of the Real Presence is perhaps the one which has taken the deepest root in the mind of advanced Anglicans. We might multiply extracts from their books of devotion and instruction conveying the Catholic faith on this point in its completeness. Our prayer-books, especially the Golden Manual and the Garden of the Soul, are largely used. Many Catholic books of devotion have been translated for Anglicans, and, although most of the translations are more or less spoiled by a process of adaptation, in many of them the doctrine of the Holy Eucharist is unimpaired. The Lauda Sion, the Pange Lingua, and the Rythma of St. Thomas are preserved and faithfully translated. Nor is the teaching confined to words; the meaning of the ritual, of which we hear so much in the present day, is to be found in the belief in the Presence of our Lord which it expresses and inculcates. The so-called altars of many Anglican churches are decked with flowers; the crucifix stands upon them; lights are burned; the clergy wear vestments like those used in the church; celebrations of the communion are multiplied—it is made the central act of worship; fasting communion is insisted on; confession is recommended as the fitting preparation for communion. A confraternity has been founded with the name of the Confraternity of the Blessed Sacrament, and with the object of promoting the devotion which naturally flows from a belief in the Real Presence of our Lord. Attendance of non-communicants at the communion service is in many churches recommended and encouraged, and devotions for such worshippers have been published. Incense and music are employed in the service; chancels are richly adorned. In some chapels communion is reserved, and a rite, evidently imitated from the Catholic Benediction of the Blessed Sacrament, is practised.
Ritualists have also learned to invoke Our Lady and the saints. Fifty years ago Keble wrote:
“Ave Maria! Thou whose name All but adoring love may claim!”
and now the Angelus and the Memorare, the Little Office of the Blessed Virgin and the Rosary, are in use in the English Church. The saints are honored and their intercession is sought. Extreme Unction is considered to be a lesser sacrament, and sick persons are anointed. The dead are prayed for in the touching and beautiful words which holy church puts into the mouths of her children.
It is needless to say that the doctrine of apostolic succession is most firmly maintained by High-Churchmen. Not only are the Catholic doctrines which have furnished the chief mark for Protestant hostility and the principal subjects of misrepresentation now maintained and inculcated, but others which, without being formally contradicted, have been obscured and neglected are now brought forward with a clearness which leaves little to be desired. The Catholic devotions to the Sacred Heart, to the Holy Child, to the Incarnation, Passion, and Resurrection of our Lord, cannot fail to make those who use them enter more and more into the great mystery which lies at the very foundation of the Christian faith.
Moreover, the idea of duty, of conscience, of a work to be done in the sanctification of one’s own soul, is constantly kept before the mind. Daily self-examination is part of the rule of life. The fasts of the church are observed often, indeed, with a severity greater than that required by the church, but natural among those who have no guide save their own conscience for the details of their practice. Her sacred feasts are also kept, and thus our separated brethren have some share in the holy teaching which each season of the ecclesiastical year impresses on the heart. During the Holy Week which has just passed the Tenebræ were sung in many ritualistic churches. On Good Friday the Three Hours’ Agony was preached in several places, the Reproaches were sung, and a devotion somewhat resembling that of the Stations of the Cross was practised. On Easter day the communion was celebrated as early as five o’clock and repeated several times. The histories of the saints are being made familiar to people’s minds. The literature of Ritualism might of itself furnish the subject of an interesting study. The Imitation of Christ is one of the most familiar books of piety, and among the books adapted from Catholic sources are the Spiritual Combat, many of the works of Fénelon and Bossuet, Rodriguez, Courbon, Pinart, Avrillon, and other spiritual and ascetic writers. Faber’s hymns are constantly sung in churches. The Catechism of Christian Doctrine, with some variations, is in the hands of the children of Ritualists. The Catholic Breviary has furnished the material for the day and night Hours used in many of the religious houses, and the very prayers of the Mass have been interwoven in the Anglican Office for Communion. An ample supply of juvenile literature places the doctrines of which we have spoken in an attractive form before the minds of children. Catholic pictures are to be seen everywhere. Several newspapers and magazines are devoted to the publication and discussion of matters relating to the interests of the High-Church party.
A very important feature in the revival of the last thirty years is the foundation of religious houses in the Church of England. There are now upwards of thirty Anglican convents, in which women lead a life of seclusion and devote themselves to the practice of works of charity and piety; they are in many cases bound by vows and live in obedience to authority. A few communities of men also exist. These Anglican religious call themselves monks and nuns, and wear a dress unlike that of secular persons. They keep the canonical hours of prayer, they give up all earthly ties, and their rule is in some cases taken from one of those originally framed by a saint and sanctioned by the church.
Retreats and missions more or less resembling our own are given by some of the Anglican clergy. We have recently heard that in a place where the conversion of some of the clergy seemed likely to be followed by that of a considerable body of their congregation, a retreat has been given with the special object of settling the minds of the waverers in their allegiance to the Church of England.
After all that we have said it will not surprise our readers to hear that people are often received into the church who thoroughly believe every Catholic doctrine, and, on making their submission, have no difficulty to surmount and nothing new to learn.
Prejudices are being dispelled; an interest in that body which has ever held the doctrines now recovered by Anglicans has been awakened. On their own principles High-Church people who go abroad feel bound to attend Catholic churches; the Catholic religion is better understood than it used to be, our ceremonies are imitated, our works of charity and devotion appreciated.
A work, then, is being done by that party in the Church of England commonly known as the Tractarian or High-Church party. Its influence has reached many whom we could not have hoped to reach. It has put many in a position where they are accessible to conversion. It has taught many souls the need and the value of sacraments. It has awakened a hunger and thirst whose ultimate satisfaction is only to be found in the church. It has trained souls to habits of self-examination, of self-denial, of earnestness, of meditation, and of generosity. It has, we may trust, kept many from ever falling into grievous sin; and while we are of course unable to admit the validity of Anglican orders, and consequently of sacraments dependent on such orders, we rejoice to think that what the devout soul believes to be a sacramental communion may prove a spiritual communion and be a means of grace and blessing.
Can we, then, as Catholics hold out the right hand of fellowship to those Anglicans who believe so much of Catholic doctrine, and who would fain persuade us that they have a right to the name we bear? Can we bid them God-speed and wish them success? Alas! we cannot. Whilst we appreciate their self-denying labors, whilst we admire their devotion and believe that the grace of God is leading them on to better things, we are constantly and sadly reminded that as yet they are in schism, that they are defying or ignoring the authority which in the name of Christ claims their obedience.
The opposition to the church is a feature of the very advanced party which we cannot overlook; it is impossible to say how many souls its influence has kept out of God’s church. The means used to hinder the work of conversion are various and too often successful. We began by the statement that most of our converts come from the ranks of Ritualism, but we must in some degree qualify it by saying that to many it has only been the final stage; that they have passed through it on their way from dissent or Low-Church Protestantism into the church. Whether they would have come to their true home more speedily if they had not on the way been attracted by that which has so great a semblance of truth we cannot say. Conversion is of course a work of God’s grace; but we cannot help feeling that while High-Churchmen have got rid of many of the prejudices and misconceptions which keep other Protestants out of the church, they are themselves surrounded by influences hard to overcome. There is more to satisfy both taste and devotional feeling in Ritualism than in ordinary Protestantism; there is more to keep the mind back from honest inquiry. The ordinary Protestant is bound to “prove all things and hold fast that which is good.” If he has a doubt, on his own principles he ought to follow it up, to question, to examine, and reason till he arrives at conviction. The Ritualist is too often taught to put away a doubt or question as a sin. He is hedged in on every side. He is forbidden to inquire. If he be in perplexity he is recommended to devote himself to good works; he is told to avoid controversy.
The branch theory and the dream of corporate reunion are constantly brought forward to combat the convictions of those who are drawing near to the church, and to defend a position which is felt to be exceptional. The branch theory maintains that the church of Christ is divided into three distinct branches, the Roman, the Greek, and the Anglican; each one of these, according to its adherents, has preserved all the essentials of a church, and each one claims with equal authority the obedience of the faithful over whom it reigns. The Catholic Church, accordingly, is the teacher appointed by God for Christians who live in Italy or Spain; the Greek Church is in the same manner the guide of the inhabitants of Russia, and the Anglican Church of those in England and her dependencies. The divergence or contradiction that may be observed in the teaching of these three bodies is ignored, or it is asserted that they are one on all essential points. The church, according to this view, is more or less a national institution. St. Paul, indeed, declared that there was neither barbarian nor Scythian; but this theory boldly asserts the distinction between Englishmen and Romans, and again between Englishmen and Russians. Perhaps national vanity may find some satisfaction in the idea of a branch church specially for British subjects. Some curious consequences follow from the view we have explained. In the first place, a man is bound to change his religion as often as he crosses the Channel. The Anglican would, he is told, be guilty of an act of schism by worshipping in a Catholic church in England; as soon as he arrives at Calais, however, it becomes his bounden duty to attend Mass on all Sundays and days of obligation, and if he were to be present at any Protestant worship, even though conducted by one of his own ministers, he would commit an act of schism. Church and schism, in fact, change places.
No Protestant is stronger in his condemnation of those who become Catholics than are many of the clergy who hold the branch theory. It might, indeed, appear that if each of the three branches has an equal claim to be called a church there could be little objection to the change; and yet these teachers declare it to be in England a sin even to enter a church belonging to the “Roman branch,” and to become a Catholic is said to be risking one’s salvation.
Closely connected with this theory is what we must call the dream of corporate reunion. It is of course evident to all who have read our Lord’s words in his Gospel that all Christians ought to be one, and though people may persuade themselves of an invisible unity in essentials, few can feel that the present state of things is altogether as it should be.
The wish for union, coupled with an absolute confidence in the reality of Anglicanism, has led to the hope that terms may at some time be made with the Catholic Church. The duty of submission is thus evaded; people are told that they are bound to wait till common action can be taken. It is hoped that in some mysterious manner “Rome” will yet be induced to see her errors in regard to England. People who have a strong leading idea look at everything through a medium of their own. They grasp at straws; the kindly courtesy of some good priest, or the ignorant credulity of some poor peasant, is taken as a token of the coming amalgamation. The fact that the Catholic Church has in the strongest manner condemned the scheme of reunion is ignored, the insuperable obstacles which at once present themselves are unheeded, and for the sake of an unreal and unfounded dream those who would fain submit to God’s church are held back.
Besides the expression of these general principles there is a vast amount of special and personal action hostile to the church. It is not enough to assure the poor famishing soul that the Church of England supplies its every want, that it has never turned the graces already bestowed to sufficient account; it is also warned that it is a sin even to think of leaving its present position. The obedience claimed by and rendered to Anglican directors is such as would astonish Catholics. The Anglican director, generally speaking, has not learned to obey, and this may be the reason why his manner of ruling is so absolute. It is no uncommon thing to find people forbidden to enter a Catholic church, although the director himself believes our Lord to be present on its altar; conversation or correspondence with Catholic friends about the church is in some cases prohibited, as well as the reading of Catholic books. The director will sometimes promise to answer for the soul that blindly obeys him. Means such as these are used to bind the conscience, and it is probable that they keep back many who would bravely face persecution.
It is to be feared that the temper of mind prevalent among the ritualistic clergy is one little likely to lead to submission to the church; for we must receive the kingdom of God as little children, and nothing can seem less indicative of the childlike spirit than the tone of insubordination constantly to be met with. The authority of the crown is set at naught; that of their own bishops is defied; obedience is little known amongst them; nevertheless by God’s grace many a soul from among the clergy as well as from among the laity bursts the trammels that have bound it, and finds its true home and rest. It is said that the present year is bringing into the church a harvest greater than that of any year since the time of Father Newman’s conversion; and if it be so, we may well appeal to all Catholic hearts for the aid of their prayers.
We look towards these separated brethren with a longing sympathy. We feel that the grace of God is appealing to their hearts in a very special manner. We acknowledge that the difficulties which keep them back are of no common order. We admire their earnestness, their devotion and charity; we appreciate the courage and constancy with which they suffer for what they believe to be the truth; and if we are compelled at times to use language which has a tone of harshness or sternness, it is because we are solemnly bound to be faithful to God’s church, and because we know that we can do them no greater kindness than to convince them that they are spending their labor for that which cannot satisfy them, and to lead them on to the enjoyment of all the blessings which the Precious Blood has purchased for them.
We believe that the influence of the Tractarian movement has been felt even in America, and we hope that the sketch here given of its bearing on the great work of conversion may not be devoid of interest to those who would deem it a joy and a privilege to help a soul into God’s church—a work for which the power of sympathy and the intelligent comprehension of its position and difficulties are most important qualifications.
Footnote 118:
See THE CATHOLIC WORLD for February, 1878, “Confession in the Church of England,” by the Right Rev. Mgr. Capel, D.D.
THE NEWSPAPER PRESS OF NEW YORK.
One of the most remarkable features of this most remarkable century is the unparalleled growth of that branch of ephemeral literature known par excellence as the press. This increase has not been confined to any particular nation or locality, but is as observable in conservative Europe as in expansive America. Still, in this country, and particularly in New York, newspapers have multiplied during the last fifty years with a rapidity that has astonished not only the public but even their projectors and proprietors. It is within the memory of many now living when our city knew not the luxury of a daily journal, and its most inquisitive and anxious inhabitants were obliged to wait a whole week for current news and editorial comments thereon. Now we are so imbued with a craving for early information that few persons in active life are satisfied with a morning paper, but must have likewise two or three evening editions. The last generation were content to wait for an indefinite period for intelligence of what was going on in the Old World; to-day we are sadly disappointed if we cannot read over our toast and coffee of what has happened a few hours previously at the principal points of interest throughout Christendom. Business enterprise, competition, steam power, and the telegraph have been mainly instrumental in changing the character of journalism and creating wants hitherto unfelt; increase of population and a love of superficial reading, which, like jealousy, makes the food it feeds on, have done the rest.
Before proceeding to point out some of what seem to us to be the grave defects of the secular press, we freely and thankfully admit that its tone as regards the Catholic Church has greatly improved within the last few years. Those who remember the scoffs and sneers, the outrageous calumnies and downright falsehoods, which were usually associated with everything Catholic in so many New York journals a quarter of a century ago, now look with more than complacency on the comparative fairness which at present characterizes their reports, correspondence, and editorials. The manner in which the life and death of the late Pope, the venerable Pius IX., was treated and commented upon is a notable example of this growing spirit of liberality and good sense alike gratifying to their Catholic readers and honorable to themselves. Now and then, of course, we found expressions and sentiments opposed to our sense of historical truth and moral rectitude; but as a whole the non-Catholic press have expressed very just and impartial views of the multifarious labors and shining virtues which distinguished the career of the wonderful man who was lately called to his reward. The same may be said of their allusions to his successor, Leo XIII. Abandoning the senseless and mischievous course of their European contemporaries previous to the meeting of the conclave, they gave us a truthful and succinct account of the meeting of that august body, the result of its solemn deliberations, and excellent sketches of the life and services of the illustrious prelate selected to bear the burden laid down by Pius IX. For all this, considering how Catholic questions were formerly treated, we ought to be, and are, thankful. Again, looking nearer home, the services and ceremonies of the church are described with much more regard to their sanctity and less to the gratification of idle curiosity and insensate popular prejudice than formerly. Some of the press accounts of the nature and reason of fasts and feasts, abstinence, prayer, and good works, which are especially enjoined at particular periods, have been so precise and discriminating that the conviction is forced upon us of their having been written, or at least dictated, by persons fully in accord with Catholic teachings.
Yet while we cannot but admit this salutary change and admire the variety, system, and attention to details exhibited in the mechanical arrangement of news, and the extraordinary industry displayed in the general manufacture of our modern newspapers, it must be confessed with regret that in elevation of tone and honesty of purpose there has been little or no improvement on the slower and less attractive productions of our ancestors. We may take as an example the metropolitan press of New York, which in point of ability, influence, and circulation far surpasses that of any other city on the continent. Let any impartial person, after the careful perusal of any one of our five or six prominent daily newspapers which are supposed to control and lead public opinion, ask himself what there is in its pages to command the attention of the moralist, or to move the sceptical or thoughtless to a sense of his duty to God and his neighbor: what stern rebuke has been administered to the growing spirit of peculation and heathenism which is constantly gnawing at the vitals of society. How seldom do we find in the labored essays, the disjointed platitudes, the pretentious diatribes, the ornate editorials, or the epigrams which distinguish our prominent journals a sentiment or an argument based on sound views of morality and religion! With a constituency at least professedly Christian, they bandy with words and phrases, opinions and speculations, essentially anti-Christian. One sneers at the Catholic Church and everything we hold sacred; another patronizes us in a manner more insulting than complimentary; while the others, when not openly misrepresenting and maligning us, allude to our faith in a manner even more objectionable. All without exception, possibly without knowing it, are the advocates of the secret societies abroad, which are endeavoring to undermine the fabric of social order and Christian civilization, and the apologists for those home fanatics who seek to excite public prejudice against us, and oppose class to class and creed to creed for their own selfish and diabolical ends.
Of course we do not expect secular newspapers to become active exponents of the great truths of religion, nor should it even be required of them to give undue prominence to the publication of matters of a religious character. That is not their province. But appearing as they do in a Christian community, and being supposed to reflect in a great measure the feelings, views, and moral status of the people who support them, we have a right to demand that they adhere to the teachings of that moral law which ought to govern us all, and that when they treat of sacred things, and deal with questions affecting faith and religion, it shall be done with that serious reverence which persons are bound to observe in social life. Neither do we ask that they advocate the superior claims of Catholics, nor even enter upon our defence against the many unscrupulous enemies who are constantly rising up against us; but we do insist that we shall not be insulted, that our opinions be respected, and that the code of morals which all who profess to be Christians acknowledge be not constantly and persistently outraged.
The secret of this apparently unanimous anti-Catholic feeling which we lament in the New York daily press is to be found in the mental, not to say moral, inferiority of the editorial fraternity as a class. Since the death of Greeley and Raymond and the practical retirement of Bryant we have had no really able journalist among us; while, unlike Paris, Berlin, London, and other European cities, where the foremost statesmen and most profound thinkers scorn not to take up the editorial pen occasionally, we have no voluntary contributors above the level of mediocrity. A New York editor is usually a man paid to write something or anything on certain subjects, whether he be familiar with them or not. He writes not to express his own well-considered convictions, or to give the public the benefit of his study and experience of a particular topic, but simply to meet a special emergency, and to embody, more or less lamely, the half-formed notions of his employer, who is as likely as not an uncultured man himself. Hence the greater number of what are called leading articles which appear in our daily papers, instead of presenting clear views, sound reasoning, and reliable information artistically epitomized, are seldom other than a mass of hasty, crude, and shallow speculations on topics of the greatest importance. With the mass of casual readers, who are too busy to look beneath the surface, such productions pass for gospel truths, and therefore are likely to do more harm than more elaborate articles; but to the intelligent reader it soon becomes obvious either that the heads of the writers are astray or that their hearts are not in their work. The latter surmise, we are inclined to believe, is more generally correct. How can a Hebrew, for instance, write a eulogium on the glories of the Catholic Church; a Catholic, no matter how lukewarm, praise the Communists and applaud the Carbonari; or a follower of the stern precepts of Calvin glorify free love and exalt the doctrines of universalism? Yet such anomalies are frequently found in New York journalism, where every man seems to be in the wrong place. The well-known fact that the editorial staff of all our large dailies is principally made up of persons of diverse nationalities, creeds, and opinions accounts for the discordance noticeable in every one of their pages. They have no fixed principles. No matter what political party journals may support, and how emphatic they may be in their advocacy of this or that public measure, when they come to treat a great social question, or one of vital importance to the honor and reputation of the republic, one column of the same paper is usually found to contradict the other, and the principles advanced to-day are in imminent danger of being condemned to-morrow.
To this rule, however, there is an exception. It seems to be a canon of the press of this city, and we might add of the entire country, that Catholics can be abused, scoffed at, and misrepresented with impunity. Their religion is unfashionable; their social, commercial, and political influence small in comparison with their numbers; the world is not their friend, nor the world’s law, and therefore the generous and large-minded editors of our newspapers, when at a loss for something else to say, have always an arrow in their quiver for the “tyranny of Rome,” and the dangers to which their beloved country is exposed from the “machinations and encroachments of Romanism.” Vulgar nicknames and insulting epithets applied to the church and the religious orders, which have long since been banished from the vocabularies of other countries, are freely used with a coolness and a facility which show that the writers are either too ignorant to know when they are vulgar, or so barren of ideas and expressions that they are compelled to borrow those which have done service in the days of a bigoted and fanatical generation.
But turning from the editorial page to what constitutes the bulk of our journals, we find their dangerous character revealed. What mainly fills their capacious pages and constitutes their principal attraction for the generality of purchasers? Extended reports of divorce cases, criminal trials, matrimonial escapades, and the minutiæ of executions; “spicy” paragraphs and indecent anecdotes to which the ordinary and instructive news of the day is only an adjunct. The sensational style of reporting, the dressing-up of disgusting topics in romantic phraseology, though unknown a few years ago, or confined to a few disreputable weekly papers, is fast becoming a distinctive feature in New York journalism. It is a growing evil, as well as a most insidious one, and the keen competition which exists between proprietors of daily journals for popular patronage has a direct tendency to develop it still further. So much, indeed, do our papers, big and little, vie with each other in catering to the depraved taste of a certain portion of the people that it has become a matter of serious consideration with many persons whether they can safely introduce into their families the papers they are obliged to take for business purposes.
It is very safe to assert that too many of those who collect the city and suburban news for the daily press are as devoid of conscience in their method of communicating as they are often shameless in their manner of procuring their information. They seem to think that a reporter, in his official capacity, has no moral responsibility, and act consistently with the supposition. They fairly revel in scandal; consider vice only something to be elaborately depicted in their respective newspapers, and crime, no matter how heinous, a fitting theme for their nimble and facile pens. Their excuse for all this prostitution of ability which might be turned to some good account is that the public demand this highly-seasoned style of reporting, forgetting that they themselves have excited this prurient taste, and that if, repenting of their past misdeeds, they were to return to the old-fashioned method their present admirers would soon follow them.
It is certain that the degeneracy of the newspaper press in this respect is fast sapping the morals of the community, particularly the younger portion of it. Once familiarized with crime of every sort and degree through the florid descriptions of the reporters, our young men and women must necessarily become mentally debased. Their thoughts, unbidden, will stray to matters of which they have lately read, a dangerous curiosity will be excited, and from constant reflection they will begin to lose that horror of sin which is one of the safeguards of virtue, which every pure-minded youth should keep constantly before his eyes. The mind once disturbed, the imagination led astray, every defaulter and swindler, if he be a criminal on a large scale, is apt to appear to them as “a smart fellow”; the betrayer of female innocence, the faithless husband or disloyal wife, as one more sinned against than sinning; and even the murderer, whose sayings and doings are faithfully chronicled, and whose solemn exit from the world is made the occasion of a grand dramatic scene, becomes in some degree a hero and a victim of revengeful law.
Of course it is easier to point out the evils which disgrace the editorial profession, and so materially impair the usefulness of the press, than to suggest an adequate remedy for them. It is useless to appeal to the conductors of newspapers; for as long as Catholics can be abused with impunity, and the moral sense of the community be shocked by vile and obscene descriptions of crime and criminals with profit to themselves, they will heed neither advice nor remonstrance. The cure rests with the public who purchase and support such journals. As far as Catholics are concerned, the true course would be to establish a daily paper of their own, which would reflect their sentiments and opinions, and furnish them with reliable foreign and domestic news collated in unobjectionable style; but this, it seems, is impossible at present. The embarrassed financial condition of the country is opposed to the initiation of such an enterprise. Our only present resource, as long as so many of us must read daily papers, is to concentrate our patronage on that journal which presents the least objectionable features, and, by encouraging it to do better things, prove to its contemporaries by the strongest of all arguments to them—their decreased circulation—that the Catholics of this city and vicinity will no longer pay to be abused and calumniated. But there are many among us who from habit take daily papers with which we can well dispense. We advise them to discontinue their misdirected patronage and bestow it on our struggling weekly Catholic journals. They will thus administer a wholesome lesson to bigotry and immorality, and at the same time give encouragement and life to Catholic serial literature.
There are, however, other and more cogent reasons why the reading of daily papers, now so prevalent, should be discouraged, or at least confined within reasonable limits. There can be little doubt that their constant and persistent perusal is apt to create a distaste for more profound and healthful reading. Drawing our opinions mainly from the hastily composed contributions of overworked correspondents and editors, we are pretty sure to fall into the habit of reaching conclusions and entertaining views of life neither logical nor well considered. Like those who feast overmuch on sweets, we conceive a dislike for solids and as the body suffers in the one case, the mind naturally is impaired by indulgence in the light and meretricious literature of which newspapers are, if not the worst, certainly the most widespread and exemplary, types.
Americans, to paraphrase a well-known expression, are a newspaper-ridden people. We must have some sort of paper at breakfast, dinner, and supper. We are not even satisfied with one each day, but require two or three more every twenty-four hours. The time that should be devoted to the study of good books, wherein can be found solid instruction and food for reflection, is thus too often wasted on the lucubrations and speculations of half-informed men who are as incapable of emitting sound ideas as they are of appreciating the immoral drift of much that daily falls from their own pens. Hence inordinate readers of newspapers necessarily become shallow-minded, superficial thinkers; their intellectual tastes are vitiated, and their judgment is weakened and perverted. Like a shattered mirror, their minds are incapable of reflecting one entire well-defined image, but present only fragments of thought in forms indefinite and distorted. The higher aspirations of our nature, those sublime conceptions which lift us above the grosser things of earth, and, even in this life, bring us nearer and nearer to our Creator, can never be generated by ephemeral newspaper literature. While we may feel compelled by business considerations or a natural political curiosity to glance over the columns of our daily journals, we should not forget that the intellect receives neither health nor strength from prolonged indulgence in such enervating pursuits. Newspapers undoubtedly have their use and mission; they have become an important factor in our present system of civilization, and are capable of accomplishing much good in their own sphere; but their effect and scope are limited, and should be circumscribed so that they be not permitted to interfere with the reading of solid history, the works of our best writers, and the essential duties of life, among which must be considered the pursuit of Christian knowledge and the elevation and purification of the immortal part of our being.
MY FRIEND MR. PRICE. A STORY OF NEWPORT.
The summer was upon me, and with it the yearning for the dulcet plash of the salt sea wave.
“Whither?” became the vexed question of the hour, and Newport made reply to it.
To Newport I accordingly transported myself. I shall not say whether it was last season, or the season before, or even the season before that again. The readers of this narrative must determine the exact date. I refuse point-blank to do so.
Newport was in the height of the season when I entered my humble name, John V. Crosse, Lexington Avenue, New York, on the leaf of the register at the Ocean House.
It was a lovely evening in August, and the piazza of the hotel was crowded with high, mighty, and fashionable humanity. Dinner was a thing of the past, and the drive was looming in the near future. Ladies were chatting in parti-colored groups, men smoking in acrobatic postures. A delicious stillness prevailed—a warm, life-caressing glow. A wooing message from the sea, laden, as it sped upon its errand inland, with the perfume of a myriad glowing flowers, fanned the cheek. The sun shot bars of molten gold between the trellised branches of the slumbering trees, and the indolence of waking repose descended upon everything like a rosy cloud.
I went on the piazza, and, selecting an able-bodied wooden chair, flung myself into it, placing my feet on the iron railing in front of me, ere proceeding to light a cigar. When I had succeeded in emitting half a dozen puffs of my most excellent weed I looked right and left of me.
On my right sat a man of about thirty, or perhaps more, apparently tall, and slender to leanness. He was dark as a gipsy, with coal-black hair waving naturally but sparse upon the temples—he had removed his hat—which had a craggy look. His large eyes were deep-set, while his mouth wore an expression of superb self-complacency. He was clean-shaved, except for a fringe of long, silky black whisker far back upon the cheek, but both moustache and beard were clearly marked by the blue-black shade on his lip and jaw. The man was not ugly—just escaping ugliness by a very narrow margin. He was well dressed in a suit of light Scotch tweed that fitted him like “the paper on the wall,” whilst a certain je ne sais quoi bespoke the Englishman.
On my left lounged a handsome young fellow with clear blue eyes, a fair moustache, and one of the brightest smiles I have ever seen upon a human countenance. He twirled an unlighted cigar between his red lips, and as vehicle after vehicle dashed up to the “ladies’ entrance” fair dames and damosels gave him cheery and gracious salutation, cheerily and graciously responded to, accompanied by the flourish of a rakish little straw hat perched on the side of his superbly-set head.
With these two personages the narrative has much to do.
I sat smoking the one post-prandial cigar allowed me by my doctor, contemplating with indolent satisfaction the fragrant greenery in front of me, when my meditations apropos of nothing were brought up with a sudden jerk by the young fellow on my left asking to be permitted to light his cigar from mine.
Now, as a matter of fact, I have a very decided and deep-rooted objection to surrendering my cigar to anybody, rich or poor, gentle or simple; I like no one to handle it but myself; and therefore, instead of transferring the glowing weed to his expectant fingers, I dived into the breast-pocket of my coat, and producing a tin box containing wax matches, placed it, together with its contents, at his disposal.
“You are an Englishman,” he gaily exclaimed, extracting a vesta as he spoke.
“No, but very English on the subject of the handling of my baccy,” I laughed.
“You are not far astray. You should have seen the tramp that deprived me of a genuine Lopez this morning. I couldn’t refuse him, so I left him the weed.”
“I consider that the——”
“Per Bacco! there she goes,” he suddenly interposed, and, flinging my match-box into my lap, he vaulted over the railing into the carriage-drive beneath.
Two ladies seated in a pony-phaeton flashed past.
“I’m English,” exclaimed my right-hand man, tapping the ash from his cigar with a finger white and delicate as wax, “and I’m glad to find that one American sees the abomination of handing every cad his cigar who chooses to ask for it.”
Being very Starry and Stripey, I was about to defend the practice in vogue amongst my countrymen, although thoroughly against my convictions, when he asked:
“Do you know who that fellow is?”
“What fellow?”
“That long-eared, long-legged jackass who took that railing as if he was at school.”
“I never saw him before.”
“You’ll see him again. I lay seven to two. And I’ll take the odds that he tells you that he’s Grey Seymour, whatever that may be; that he’s over his long ears in love with a Miss Hattie Finche, whom he followed here from Martha’s Vineyard; and that she has five hundred thousand dollars.”
“I suppose that one of the ladies in the pony-carriage was Miss Hattie Finche?”
“The whip—yaas.”
“I wonder can she be a daughter of Wilson Finche, of New York?”
“The tallow-man, Beaver Street and Fifth Avenue?”
“Ay, and Chicago and ’Frisco,” I added.
“That’s the identical geranium.”
“And is Wilson Finche in Newport?”
“He has taken a cottage on the Ocean Drive for the season.”
“I must look him up.”
“Are you acquainted with him?” the languor of manner disappearing, and a vivid interest rushing to the front.
“Very well indeed.”
“And with his daughter?”
“Why, certainly.”
“Stop a minute!” fumbling in his breast coat-pocket. “You’ll introduce me.”
The coolness of this proposition actually staggered me. Introduce a man of whose name even I was in total ignorance!
“I could not venture to do such a thing,” I responded somewhat gruffly. I did not relish the idea of being treated in this off-hand way—of being openly and deliberately made a cat’s-paw.
“Oh! yes, you will. Here’s my card. Let’s have one of yours,” thrusting his pasteboard almost into my reluctant hand.
With very considerable deliberation I searched for my double eye-glass hidden away somewhere in the depths of my capacious waistcoat—I was fat, and fair, and fifty-five at that date—and, carefully wiping it with a scarlet silk handkerchief, adjusted it to my eyes and read:
_Mr. Herbert Price, Temple, London, E. C._
“Let’s have your card,” said Mr. Price, as though I were a tradesman with whom it pleased his high mightiness to have dealings.
“I am not in the habit of”—
“There, now, you’re going to put me aside. Where’s the use? Why wouldn’t you help a poor hungry, briefless English barrister to this piece of gilded gingerbread? You’re not going for her yourself?”
Oho! I inwardly chuckled.
“Not much. I have seen too many of my peers wrecked upon the rock-bound coast of matrimony to permit my argosy within those shallow and treacherous waters.”
“I guessed you were a bachelor,” observed Price facetiously.
“And might I ask, sir, how you were led to imagine this?” I felt curious to hear what the fellow would say.
“I’ll tell you, Mr. Smith.”
“I am not Mr. Smith.”
“Well, Mr. Jones.”
“I am not Jones.”
“Robinson.”
“Your pertinacity, sir, ought to make your fortune at the Old Bailey.”
“Well said, Thompson. Now, you wish me to tell you how I guessed you were a bachelor. Firstly,” putting up his finger and tapping it with his cigar, “your general complacency; secondly, your linen—no married man ever commands the linen of a bachelor; thirdly, your gaiters—such fit, such polish!—fourthly, your isolation; and, fifthly, the methodical way in which you do everything, from lighting a cigar to playing a fantasia on your handkerchief with your nasal organ.”
“I am not aware that I am more methodical than other men of my age and habits.”
“Are’n’t you? Then just watch yourself.”
“You are a very peculiar specimen of your country, Mr. Price.”
“I can return you the compliment; and as one good turn deserves another, you’ll introduce me to Miss Finche.”
“You must excuse me, Mr. Price.”
“But I won’t.”
“I beg to differ from you.”
“We shall see.”
“We shall.”
Mr. Price rose and quitted the piazza, returning after a brief absence.
“Now, Mr. John V. Crosse, of Lexington Avenue, New York, as you say in this queer country, I have posted myself. You are confoundedly rich, living on your dollars, and are not a half-bad sort of elderly gentleman.”
“May I ask to whom I am indebted for this portrait, sir?”
Somehow or other I couldn’t get up a feeling of anger. I tried, but it wouldn’t come.
“The clerk inside. I know you now, and you know me. I am the son of Sir Harvey Price, of Holten Moat, Sevenoaks, in Kent. The Moat is about one of the last of the Tudor residences in England. We have been in that one corner since the battle of Hastings, and the Moat has never run dry since Queen Bess visited us, when the waters were turned off and red wine turned on. I am the sixth son, and poor as a sixth son ought to be. I was sent to the bar because I had an uncle on the bench. My uncle died while I was keeping my terms. I am an honor-man of Oxford, and last year my brief-book showed one hundred and fifty pounds. About ten weeks ago my godmother died; she left me five hundred pounds. I paid my tailor just enough to maintain a doubtful confidence in me, my boot-maker ditto. Like an able general, who always prepares beforehand for a retreat—although Wellington, our best man, failed to do this at Waterloo, having the forest of Soignies at his back—I have paid for the rent of my chambers in advance. I have come here just to ascertain for myself if red Indians are to be met with on Broadway, and buffalos to be potted on Fifth Avenue. This is the story, and here is the man. Will you introduce me to Miss Finche now?”
I must confess that the story, brief though it was, and told in a short, sharp, jerky way, somewhat interested me. I had no reason to doubt it, and yet I was too old in the devious paths of the world to accept either the narrative or the man at sight. Surely, if he were so well connected, he should be able to obtain letters of introduction to some persons in society, and then it would be plain sailing enough for him.
“You won’t take me on trust?” he exclaimed after I had said as much to him.
“I have arrived at that time of life, Mr. Price, when I take nothing on trust. I must know my butcher, my baker, my wine merchant, my boot-maker, et hoc genus omne.”
“Never mind,” he gaily cried. “You’ll be sorry by and by, when you see me engaged to Miss Finche.”
“You seem to have a tolerably strong belief in your powers of—”
“Audacity. You are right. Toujours de l’audace. I am a man of a single idea; the idea at present on my groove of thought is the gold Finche. The lion in my path is Grey Seymour. If he were poor I wouldn’t have a chance; but he has millions, and money doesn’t fall in love with money. Your heiress always spoons on a pauper, while your aurati juvenes go in for penniless governesses. Ne c’est pas, mon vieux? Give us a match. I’ll go and take a swim; and you go and call on Wilson Finche. His direction is—stay; I’ll write it down for you. There!” he exclaimed, handing me a card: “‘Wilson Finche, Esquire, Sea View Cottage, The Cliff.’ You’ll find him at home now, Crosse, and in that beatific condition which is the outcome of a Château Lafitte of the ’54 vintage. Adios!”
Obeying the mandate of this very peculiar young man, I strolled down to The Cliff.
The wide sea heaved and plashed beneath me with a dull, dulcet murmur. Away out on its unruffled bosom lay great patches of purple, denoting the passage of some fleecy cloud onwards, ever onwards. White sails dotted the deep green sea like daisies on a dappled field. The shingle caressed by the wooing wavelets was red and brown, while the wave-kissed pebbles flashed in the sunlight. Boats like specks were drawn up on the beach, and sailors were busy with sails and cordage and the impedimenta of their craft.
Finche’s marine residence stood boldly prominent, all corners and gables like an old cocked hat. It was new and pert-looking, and wore the air of a coquette in a brand-new toilette from Worth’s. A ribbon border of glowing scarlet geraniums led from the lich-gate to the Queen Anne porch, whereon sat, or lay, or reclined—it was all three—my old friend, his body in one of those chairs which invalid passengers on ocean steamers much affect, to the envy of all who do not possess the luxury, his feet on a camp-stool, beside him a small marble-topped table, whereon stood a bottle of claret, a crystal glass of wafer-like thinness, and a box of cigars. Price had spoken wisely.
After the usual exclamations of greeting had dried up I complimented Finche on the beauty of the location.
“Yes, sir; it costs money, but what’s money if you don’t get value for it? Thompson—you know Thompson, of Brand & Thompson—that man, sir, has four millions, sir, and what value does he take out of it, sir? A back-room in Thirteenth Street; a breakfast at a foul-smelling restaurant, sir; a five-minute dinner at Cable’s; an unhealthy supper at another restaurant, and half a dozen of newspapers. That’s what he has for his four millions.”
“You are wiser in your generation, Finche.”
“I am wise in this way, sir”—Finche is very sententious, and his shirt-collar is always troubling him—“I must have value for my money. One hundred cents for my dollar is good enough for me. If, sir, I can get one hundred and fifty, so much the better; but, sir, I never take ninety, or ninety-five, sir, or ninety-and-nine, sir. Help yourself to that claret—it’s a Nat Johnson, sir; I paid twenty-five dollars a case for it in the year ’70. It’s value for the money, sir, I tell you.”
“You are here with your Lares and Penates,” I observed, after some further remarks upon the value of the surroundings.
“What do you mean, sir?” Finche is as ignorant as a chimpanzee.
“Your household gods.”
“Yes, sir. I am here with my daughter and my wife. My daughter gets value, sir, in the hops at the Ocean House, and the nice society she meets with—real bang-up swells, sir. My wife gets value out of the salt water, sir—health, sir, which improves her body and her temper, sir. She is a quick-tempered woman is Mrs. Finche, and when she’s ill, sir, she’s ugly.”
At this moment the pony phaeton which I had observed from the piazza of the hotel dashed up to the lich-gate.
“My daughter and her friend, Miss Neville, an English girl, sir, of a very high family, poor as cheap claret, sir, but proud as a coupon, sir. She’s on a visit to us, but we get value out of her. She sings lovely, sir; you shall hear her. It entertains our swell friends, and thus we strike a balance. The tall one is my daughter, sir.”
I saw a slim but well-proportioned figure, clad in a rich black silk dress, the cut of which, even to my masculine eyes, betrayed the hand of an artist; a face, though not beautiful by any means, earnest and interesting, surmounted by a profusion of little fair curls, arranged, as was the fashion, so as to conceal the forehead; a picturesque hat, a pair of diamond solitaire earrings, and upon the whole a person decidedly “fetching.” Her companion was petite, and constructed, as they say of saucy steamers, upon the most perfect lines. She was a clear brunette, and as she swept somewhat haughtily past the glowing ribbon borders I bethought me of Cleopatra, and the passage down the Cydnus of that boat which wrecked the fortunes of the luckless Antony.
Of course I gazed at the possessor of five hundred thousand dollars, as the “penniless lass wi’ a lang pedigree” counted for nothing.
“Hattie, this is my old friend, Mr. Crosse, of Noo York, who has come to Newport to take some value out of the summer-time.”
Miss Finche was very gracious, presenting me with a hand encased in a glove of many buttons, and flashing a row of magnificent teeth between each smile.
“Are you a ‘cottager,’ Mr. Crosse?”
“Unfortunately, no.”
“Are you at the Ocean or the Acquednuk?”
“The Ocean.”
“The other is quieter.”
“There is better value at the Ocean, Hattie,” observed her father.
“One sees everybody worth seeing there. Isn’t the piazza charming, Mr. Crosse?”
“Of its kind, yes; but I would prefer a little of this,” sweeping the horizon with my hand.
“It is very beautiful,” said a sweet, low voice by my side, a voice that “chimed” into my ear—I can use no other word. It was Miss Neville who spoke.
“There is great value to be got out of that view at sunset, sir—yellows and reds, sir, that would set up a painter, if he could only fetch up to the right color and give good value to the buyer.”
Miss Neville imperceptibly shrugged her shoulders, while I winced at this commercial view of marine painting. I wondered what Mr. Hook, R.A., or my rising young friend Mr. Quartly would have said to the man of tallow.
“Hattie, another bottle of this wine, although it’s a pity to drink it on a hot day; one doesn’t get the value out of it. Get into the house, girls; I want to have a talk with my friend Crosse here. What is Bullandust going to do in Lake Shores?” addressing me.
I protested.
“Finche,” I said, “I’ve come down here for sea, and sky, and trees, and dolce far niente.”
“What’s that, sir?”
“Well, loafing,” I laughed.
“There an’t no value to be got out of that.”
“Isn’t there, though? And I mean to drop Wall Street, and scrip, and shares, and every sort of business. I won’t even look at a newspaper till I choose to go back.”
“You an’t in earnest?” said my host, gazing at me in solemn astonishment.
“A fact, upon my honor.”
“Well, that—say, there’s some one saluting. It’s not me—I don’t know the man. It must be a friend of yours, sir.”
I adjusted my double glass and gazed towards the lich-gate.
A slight sense of shock vibrated through my system. Leaning upon the gate, and nodding at me like a Chinese mandarin, was Mr. Herbert Price, Temple, London, E. C.
“You seem to be having a good time there, my friend,” he gaily cried.
What could I say? What could I do?
“It’s awfully hot for walking.”
“Won’t you step in, sir?” said Finche.
I could not say, Don’t ask this man. Of course a gossip and a glass of wine, and a mere formal introduction to Finche, meant nothing.
“His name’s Price,” I hurriedly whispered—“stopping at Ocean House—London barrister—don’t know him.” Whether these last three words were lost upon Finche or not it is impossible to determine, inasmuch as he took no notice of them whatever.
“Glad to see you, Mr. Price. Any friend of my friend Mr. Crosse is welcome here, sir. Get a chair. Take that other one, sir, with the back to it; you’ll get more value out of it. That’s my principle—take value out of everything. A glass of wine, sir? It’s a Château Lafitte that cost me twenty-five dollars a case in ’70, sir. Touch that gong, sir!”
A servant appeared in obedience to the tocsin.
“Ask Miss Finche to send me another bottle of this wine, then take the empty bottle. Put it carefully by, Mary, as all the bottles have to go back after I have taken the value out of them, which I guess I do,” with a chuckle.
“Did you walk down, Mr. Crosse?” asked Price.
“Yes.” I was on the borderland of indignation. I felt foolish—checkmated.
“You had no difficulty in finding the place.”
“I can always find my friend’s house, Mr. Price.”
“You were dull enough about it on the piazza when we were speaking about Mr. Finche. What a glorious spot you have here! It reminds me of Devonshire. Ah! you American millionaires know how to live.”
“We try to get value out of the world.”
“And you succeed. Your good health, Mr. Finche. Ah!” smacking his lips, “that is wine. What a superb thing to sit beneath one’s vine or fig-tree, drink such nectar as this, and to be able to—pay for it!” with a light laugh.
“You are from London, sir, my friend Crosse tells me.”
I could have flung the contents of my glass into Finche’s face. Price would perhaps think I had been singing his praises.
“Yes, I hail from that little village on the Thames.”
“A lawyer?”
“One of the briefless. I did not choose the profession, I assure you. Like my first frock, it was chosen for me, and I was thrust into it bon gré mal gré. I’ll tell you who I am and what I am. I have told my friend Crosse already.” And he summed up the case, much in the same words as he had addressed to me.
Finche was impressed by the mention of the title, and deeply interested in a detailed description of the Moat.
“I am happy to meet you, sir, and should be glad to visit Sir Harvey Price at Holten Moat when I go to England next year, sir. Do you purpose taking much value out of this country, sir?”
Price actually winked at me, and that wink spoke the following words:
“I mean to take five hundred thousand dollars if I can.”
A bell sounded.
“Supper, gentlemen!” said Finche. “Let us get in. No ceremony here, Mr. Price. We have no Moats for three hundred years in our family, although we see them every day in our neighbor’s eye—ha! ha!”
It would never do to have this pickpocket, for aught I knew to the contrary, enter beneath my friend’s roof under the very peculiar circumstances of the case. Had he been an ordinary travelling acquaintance it would not have much mattered, but a penniless adventurer bent upon matrimonial designs—never!
“Mr. Price and I are going back to the Ocean House,” I said in my sternest tone, and in a manner so marked as to bear but the one interpretation.
“What do I hear, Mr. Crosse?” exclaimed Miss Finche, emerging from the interior, arrayed in a bewitching toilette of fleecy white and delicate lilac.
“My dear, this is—”
“I beg your pardon, Finche, but could I—” I burst in.
“This is Mr. Price, of London, a friend of—”
“Finche, I may as well”— But the pompous old ass would have his bray, and Price was conversing with Hattie Finche ere I could utter the words of explanation that were ready to spring from my lips.
“Gentlemen, you would like to wash your hands. Just step up to my sanctum. Tompkins” (to a servant), “show these gentlemen to my sanctum.”
When the door had closed upon us, “Mr. Price,” I said, “do you call this fair?”
“Everything is fair in love.”
“Bosh, sir! You find in me a man unwilling to wound the feelings of another. I have gained nothing by acting the part of a gentleman.”
“I deny that!” his coat off, his head deep in the marble basin. “You’ve made me your friend for life.”
“And who might you be?”
“I’ve told you. See, now,” his hands dripping, “here,” plunging one of them into the breast-pocket of his coat, which was lying on a bed—“here’s a ten-pound note; spend every shilling of it in cablegrams. You have my own, you have my father’s address. Wire him, wire anybody you like, you’ll have your reply to-morrow. My story will be corroborated in every particular. That ought to satisfy you.”
I shook my head.
“Time with me is money. This fellow, Grey Seymour, is to meet her to-morrow at a garden-party at Mrs. Dyke Howell’s. His millions will come into play, and such heavy artillery will sweep my rusty flint-locks into ash-barrels. A duel with artillery is all very well, but when the batteries are all on one side one side wins. My chances depend on what running I can make to-night. I can talk to women as few men can. It is my faculty. I know where to reach them, and how. It is nascitur non fit with me. I don’t go on Doctor Johnson’s idea of making an idiot of a girl’s understanding by flattery. That is false in theory, false in practice. Now, you are not half bad. Stand by me,” placing his hand on my shoulder, “and, by George! I’ll do something for you yet.”
He was thoroughly in earnest, and hang me if I could refuse him. I suppose it was my bounden duty to have done so. Common sense and common prudence nudged me ere I took his proffered hand, but, heedless of the whisperings of still, small voices, I permitted myself to go with the tide. It was treating my friend Finche badly; it was placing myself in a false, if not a worse, position; and yet—I could not utter that absurdly small word “no.”
The morrow would tell its own tale, for I had resolved upon telegraphing without the assistance of Mr. Price’s ten-pound note, and a few hours could do no possible harm. If Miss Finche were to lose her heart in the space of an evening, she would prove a very noteworthy exception to the great sisterhood to which she belonged.
The addition to her dinner table did not seem to please Mrs. Finche, an emaciated, waspish, red-nosed lady, whose thin lips had an unpleasant twitch in them, and whose bright, beady black eyes darted angrily hither and thither like a pair of beetles in search of prey.
I sat next to her; opposite to me Miss Neville; Finche was at the foot of the table; on his right my friend Price, on his left the heiress.
“What brings you to this fashionable place, Mr. Crosse?” asked mine hostess, the inference being “plain to the naked eye.”
“Well, I thought I’d like to take a peep at the gay goings-on.”
“Ah!” an icy chill in the monosyllable.
Mrs. Finche being very silent, and, if not silent, snappish, I directed my conversation to Miss Neville, whom I found to be absolutely charming. I had travelled a good deal, and, from the loneliness of my life, read about as much as ordinary men, and I discovered, to my most intense pleasure, that there was at least one young girl in the nineteenth century the possessor of ideas above the level of sweet things in sheathe-like costumes, or the latest methods for beautifying the human face divine.
Miss Neville was thoroughbred, and all unconsciously showed her lustrous lineage in every movement, every gesture, every word. Blood will tell, and it spoke its own emblazoned story in the winsome elegance of this “rare bit o’ womankind.”
Mr. Price laughed and talked, and narrated piquant anecdotes, and kept Miss Finche well in hand, causing the host “all the time” to indulge in a vast, expansive smile. Finche was getting the value of his mutton and his claret out of his friend’s friend. He was satisfied. After dinner the young ladies returned to the Queen Anne porch, while the waspish hostess proceeded to take forty wide-awake winks. We mankind talked generally, and, although pressed to remain at our wine, Price and I were glad to get from beyond the range of our host’s perpetual “values.”
As we were seated upon the wooden steps at the feet of the fair ones, gazing out across the wide, wide ocean, gilded with the expiring rays of the setting sun, and canopied by a sky of pale blue merging into delicate green, and again into white, the lich-gate swung back and Grey Seymour swung in.
“What a glorious evening! Are you for a walk on the cliff?” asked the new-comer, eyeing Price and myself as he spoke. “How do?” he added, addressing me.
“Mr. Seymour, Mr. Price,” said Miss Finche, while the two men nodded stiffly.
“A walk on the cliff, by all means; don’t you think so, Maude?” asked Miss Finche, addressing Miss Neville.
“Comme vous voulez.”
“Let’s go as we are.”
We sallied forth.
“What a nuisance, this fellow’s turning up!” whispered Price angrily. “I shall have to fall back.”
Seymour and Miss Finche led the way. I did the elderly and protecting party.
“I place them in your charge,” were the parting words of mine host. “The youngsters will take value out of one another; you take value out of the whole lot.”
I dropped behind, and proceeded to enjoy the glories of the night in my own way. Soon came that entrancing blue light which steals in between day and dark, and the stars began to throb in the great canopy, and that “hush” which Night sends as her envoy to earth was passing over hill and hollow, and land and sea.
I sat down in a little nook on the cliff—a corner that seemed almost clean out of the world, and as if the earth had suddenly ended there. I thought over many things, and in the bizarre reflections consequent upon the adventures of the day came a dreamy sensation of admiration for the fair young girl whom destiny had thrown beneath the roof-tree of my friend Wilson Finche. I felt strangely interested in her already. Why, I did not ask myself. She was a blaze of intelligence, a mine of intellectual wealth. I do not mean for one second to say that she was a genius, but there was a tone of high culture about her that shed itself like a fragrant perfume.
Miss Finche appeared to me to be a very nice, ladylike, ordinary class of girl—one of those patent-mannered, warranted-to-go-well sort of young ladies who rove at their sweet wild will in the garden of society; but beside Miss Neville she was absolutely colorless.
I sat thinking over the strange freaks of fortune, that give thousands of dollars to some girls, leaving others without a dime, when the sound of approaching voices scattered my reverie to the night breeze that gently fanned my pepper and salt—too much salt—whiskers. I was in a hollow beneath the cliff. The speakers were Grey Seymour and Hattie Finche.
Miss Finche’s tone was cold and resolute.
“I do not love you, Mr. Seymour. I never could. I will not hold out a particle of hope.”
“Don’t say that, Hattie—anything but that. Hope is all I have to live for,” he cried in a quivering, agonized way that made me sad to hear.
“I tell you fairly I can give you no hope.”
“Try and love me. I can make life a dream to you. Your every wish shall be gratified. My whole time shall be spent in anticipating your lightest fancy. O Hattie! do not drive me to despair, desperation.”
She was silent. They had stopped right opposite to where I sat concealed. I frankly confess I was too much interested to think of making my proximity known. It was a mean thing to remain where I was. I reproach myself while I write.
“I do not care for your money,” he raved on. “I have millions, ay, millions at my command, and those millions shall be spent to make your life an idyl.”
“Did I not tell you that I could not care for you last season? Did I not repeat it at Martha’s Vineyard two weeks ago? Now I repeat it again and for the last time. Let us be friends.”
“Friends!” he bitterly cried.
“Yes, friends, and good friends. Why not? In a short time you will wonder you ever were in love with me, and—”
“Never!” he burst in.
“Oh! yes, you will. And, what is more, you will fall in love with somebody else.”
“Do you wish to drive me mad?”
“On the contrary, I wish to bring you to your senses. Listen to me calmly.”
“I cannot.”
“But you must. This passion of yours is a boyish love.”
“It is my life.”